RevMatt wrote:What a great story from Patterson.
I liked what he wrote about being frustrated with playing red neck bars...
So, I would say that as a forty-something guy Patterson might find the people in those divey little bars refreshing. We grow up wanting to get the hell out of Buttholeville at all costs. But we learn that Buttholeville is just a state of mind. If we learn to accept people on their own terms we don't have any problems.
So it was Halloween night in 1999 and I'd gone to New Orleans to meet friends at a party. My flight was late in so I drove around and barhopped all night and later checked into a motel full of Widespread Panic fans, got up, had breakfast, and later on, puked bacon, egg, and coffee into the cruise controls of my rented car. How the hell did that happen?
I am good with numbers--that's how I know when I'm high enough--and around five in the morning, after my sixth drink, I decided to make one more stop and then find someplace to stay. I was cruising Airport Boulevard, out in Jimmy Swaggart territory, saw an open bar, and turned in. It was one of those bars which doesn't have a door, but instead has strips of plastic hanging down in the doorway, keeping the cool air in. I parked and went inside up to the bar and ordered a Jack on the rocks. I took a sip and then took stock of my surroundings. A biker bar, which is okay by me, but then I noticed that behind the bar, hanging from the mirror, was a negro in a noose.
Okay, I thought, let's drink this one quickly--wasting alcohol is a sin--and get the hell out of here.
I worked on my drink as a dude pulled in on his bike, through the plastic strips, through the main room and into the back. I kept my eyes mostly front, having decided there wasn't anyone in there I wanted to know better. One guy, very ragged looking, tried to make eye contact, several times. Finally, he came up to the bar next to me, and I figured, Okay, now I'm going to get my ass kicked, or something like it. I turned to him, figuring I'd make the best of it, go down with the ship, all that, and he said:
"Are you familiar with the songs of Leonard Cohen?"
Why, yes. Yes, I was. So slowed down on my drink and we proceeded to have a most wonderful conversation about the songs of Leonard Cohen. The guy wasn't a reader--he'd never read the poetry, though he knew it existed, and he had no idea Cohen had written novels--but he knew those songs really well, a lot better than I did. It was a great talk.
When I finished my drink, I said my goodbyes and got the hell out of there.