Charlie’s felt like it was in perpetual motion. From the two large rotating ceiling fans to the mirrored walls, the four televisions above the bar, throw in the garishly kitsch retro interior with pizza joint fake stained glass hanging lamps, and you got a whirling dervish of a beer joint. Kumar and I had made the quick two-minute walk from Grendel’s, basically a stumble from one doorstep to the next, and had found two open seats at the bar. Jim was still back at the Den.
“So that’s over, huh,” Kumar asked as we surveyed the tap lines. It looked like they had about sixteen, a Chimay, Wailing Wench, and BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale notable among them. I nodded to Kumar in response.
“Well, ok, so that’s that then,” he looked at me briefly, “I won’t ask about it ever again,” subject closed and he raised his hand at the barkeep. We both ordered the BBC and waters, and I scanned the bottles up against the back of the full bar and large mirror. There were a number of bottles, chief among them Duvel and the Chimay lineup. Good enough stuff. And some decent glassware too. Our beers arrived quickly, poured perfectly by the ink-festooned bartender, the nationality of whom was difficult to discern. I could see Kumar sizing her up out of the corner of my eye. I pointed at our water glasses. They were white opaque cafeteria-style plastic cups, large.
“Nice,” Kumar said and dipped his napkin in his. He wrung out the extra water behind the bar while the bartender wasn’t looking, and started to wipe his hands carefully. I swiveled around on my bar stool to take in the rest of the place. Immediately as you entered on the right was a large lobster tank, some crustaceans scuttling about inside, but hard to fully detect as the tank was a bit hazy. The bar ran down the right side of the long main room with about sixteen fixed swivel stools. Booths flanked the length of the left side and there were some tables in the back. There was also an extra area upstairs, as well as a beer garden out back which looked like it was being absolutely roasted in the late afternoon sun. Brewery crap and neon seemed to be the leit motif of the place, though somehow in a manner that didn’t overwhelm the senses. Indoors was where we wanted to be, close to the tap lines.
“Damn, these stools are uncomfortable,” Kumar complained and adjusted himself on his seat. It was true, the bar stools left a little to be desired in the comfort department, but their taps more than made up for this minor annoyance. I scanned the rest of the bar proper and noticed that most of the stools seemed to be taken up by blue collar workers, although the hipster douchbags were starting to trickle in from their afternoon naps, while those at the booths had the stuffy white shirts on. No doubt some Harvard geek could write a sociology paper on it. Just then we heard some yelling, or rather one voice, from outside.
“Oh shit,” groaned Kumar. I tried to sink as far down on my stool as I could. The voice was growing nearer.
“Their’s but to do and die!”
“This is not good,” Kumar noted. The entrance door to our right slammed open and in strode Jim, a huge grin on his face, spittle adorning his lower lip. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth then raised both arms above his head, as if signaling a touchdown.
“Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred, bitches,” Jim yelled and sauntered over to us. Most of the bar patrons stared at us, not knowing what to make of Jim. We would never grow used to Jim’s public displays of arrogant lunacy, nor would we ever attempt to explain or apologize for his lunatic arrogane. He nodded and said a “Hey” to a few of the T workers on our left, they raising their heads back.
“Nice Tennyson,” Kumar said to Jim, draining his pint.
“The fuck you talking about,” Jim asked.
“Those lines you were saying?”
“Whatever,” Jim said and raised his eyes as if Kumar were crazy. “So, you fucks are paying for my bill here since I took care of things back at Grendel’s,” Jim stated. Fair enough. “And hell, one of you should give up your seats for me; that skeskie back at Grendel’s wanted to come and spend some time with you, Kumar, but I told her you were already spoken for, you know, almost a member of my family, if you,” and Kumar stood up from his stool, cutting Jim off.
“By all means, have my seat,” Kumar swept his arm down, pointing at his now vacant seat.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jim said. He eyed the tap lines as he settled in, spied the 23 oz. Sam Adams for $4.75 and ordered one of those. He moved back and forth on the stool, testing his weight, and scrabbled a bit with his feet on the floor. Kumar was starting to chuckle quietly behind us.
“The fuck is up with these stools, they’re like frigging torture devices,” Jim yelled at the bartender. We didn’t stay too much longer after that.