Hank and Ralph's

by Sarah Frankfurth

“Hey, is your name Marianne?  You remind me of my daughter.  Her name’s Marianne.  She’s tall, too.  And she dresses like that.  Like a slob.  She’s a hippie.  Marianne.”

The old man next to me took a swig out of his mini bottle of Budweiser and sized me up over the rim of his tiny red tinted glasses.  Everything about him was small and elfish.

“A slob?!”  I said, “these are my nice pants, what do you mean – a slob?”

“Aw, it’s awright.  I love my daughter, Marianne.  She’s just a slob.”

He swiveled around on his barstool, his compact body still bearing signs of a life spent in the Marines.  I laughed and his bleary eyes squinted into a smile.  The bartender wandered over, sipping on a shot he had just poured himself and lisped through the gaping hole where his front teeth used to be, “That’s enough about yer daughter, Thomas.  I know where yer goin’.   That’s enough.” 

“I wasn’t saying nothing wrong.  I love my daughter.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know about your daughter, I’m just saying that’s enough.”

Thomas grunted and motioned for another beer.  He had my attention now and was enjoying it. 

“I was in the service my whole life.  Now I’m 76 years old.  I’m retired but I still do things for them.  And I make them pay me because I won’t work for nothin’.  So they pay me a dollar a year.  That’s what I’ve been making for the last 14 years.  A dollar a year, ‘cuz I won’t work for nothin’.  And I still park my car up there at Fort Marley.  They say ‘Whadda’ ya’ doin’?  You’re not supposed to park your car here.’  But I don’t listen, I still do things for them.  I got my Lincoln Continental up there.  It’s alright.  I worked for them my whole life, I can park my car there.”

He paused and took a swallow. 

“Your name’s not Marianne is it?  You sure remind me of my daughter.  Marianne, she never did listen to nothing.”

“No my name’s Sarah.”

“Sarah.” The bartender said, “that’s my third favorite name.  Marianne’s my favorite ‘cuz that’s my lady friend’s name.  Then Kathleen.”

Thomas stuck the arm of his glasses into his bottle of beer and hopped off his barstool.

“Watch those glasses for me, ok?”

“Sure.”  I said.

“You know why I put those there?”  He giggled, “So when I get back they’ll recognize me.” and marched off to the bathroom.

The jukebox plunked out honky tonk tunes against the far wall.  A mangy looking man hollered at the baseball game on the tv that hung in the corner.  Suddenly the music changed and Dylan’s voice began to whine from behind us, “Well, they’ll stone ya’ when you’re trying to be so good…”  The bartender’s face lit up as he rushed to the end of the bar and turned up the volume.  “See, I said I’d crank the music when ya’ played my song!” he hollered to me and began to sing along, a goofy grin on his toothless face.

“I didn’t play it.  That girl over there put it on.”

“What?”  he hollered, between verses.  “Didn’t I give you money to put this song on?”

“They’ll stone ya’ when you’re walkin’ on the floor.  They’ll stone ya’ when you’re ya ya ya ya ya….” he belted out.

“You gave me money, but I didn’t put this song on.  You didn’t tell me to.  That girl over there put it on.” 

“Oh.  Well, ya’ know sometimes I drink a little….heh heh heh  Yeah, sometimes I drink a little…”

“It’s ok.” I said, “We all look the same.”

“On that side a’ the bar  ya’ do.  heh heh heh….” 

He refilled his large shot glass and took another drink.

“Well, I would not feel so all alone.  Everybody must get stoned…”