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A Study In Pastel
“For the love of God, Linda, turn down that damn jukebox! I like Pearl Jam as much as the next guy, but enough is enough… Jee-zuz…”
Linda stopped washing glasses long enough to stare at the forty-ish man in the simple dark jacket over pastel blue button-down shirt. The guy had been coming in every day for the past week or so, and she couldn’t remember him ever before having spoken to anyone, other than to order his Glenfiddich double-malt-- straight-up… never with ice or a splash of water. Doesn’t he have any other clothes? He always wears the same thing…
The cute blonde bartender adjusted the band holding her ponytail in place and sashayed over to the volume control knob directly behind the cash register. A quick counter-clockwise twist bathed the area in total silence as she silently sauntered to the stranger’s position at the bar.
All eyes were on Linda now. “I’m going to keep this real simple, Ace, because I know you’re a simple guy… this is a neighborhood bar. Look around you… all the people in here want to have a good time. Some of them are good people; others, like that fat loser, Cecil, sitting at the other end, are real assholes… but they all have two things in common. Know what those are, Ace?”
“Ace” cocked his head and pushed his hand out, palm up. Shrugging his shoulders, he quipped, “Oh, I don’t know, let me guess… abominable taste in clothing and music, perhaps?”
Linda broke eye contact with the man and looked around at the others sitting at the bar. Every person in the place was suppressing a grin, and several had to look away. “Okay, let me rephrase the question…”
Spontaneous laughter filled the room as people began to vacillate toward Ace’s seat. Suddenly aware that she’d been beaten at her own game, Linda took a five dollar bill from her tip jar and placed it in front of the man. “Here… go play some music.”
For the next few hours, the bar more correctly resembled a homecoming than a casual group of acquaintances, as new friends told eclectic stories and laughed in counterpoint to the Irish Rovers, always led by Ace’s singing and dancing.
Sometime after midnight, a small forty-ish man wearing a plain dark jacket over pastel blue button-down shirt checked in at the Avis desk and surrendered the keys to his rental. It was a quick walk to the ticket counter at Grand Central Station, and shortly past one a.m., he sat down in his window seat, looking out into the blackness. Very soon, his brief interlude completed, he would be en route to the real world.
Michael Patrick Flannery lay his head against the rest and closed his eyes. When he awoke, Father Michael Patrick Flannery would be greeted by the Abbot and once again enter his world of silence.
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