Velda Brotherton

The Smoking Bar
My story begins innocently enough, in a dark little bar on Dickson Street in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Yeah, I’ll bet you didn’t know there were any dark little bars in this small college town in the Ozarks, where, if you aren’t a Hog’s fan, you might as well hide out in the woods. Permanently. But there are only a couple murders a year, if that.
But, hey, let’s back up. Murders don’t have anything to do with this, though when looking back, I almost caused one. Mine. You see, there’s this new law in town, in the entire state in fact. I think it’s become the law everywhere in the world except perhaps France and Italy. You’ve seen the hoopla, and the signs. The big circle with a smoking cigarette in the center marked off with a bold line from upper left to lower right.
It appeared first in hospitals, which sort of makes sense, then it moved on to department stores and malls, then restaurants and finally No Smoking in the city limits of any town, except for establishments classed as bars. And that makes sense too. Who ever heard of taking a long pull of draft beer without a cigarette to go along with it? There’s talk they’re going to write tickets to drivers smoking in their car. Where it might go from there was anybody’s guess, until one Saturday evening when I found out.
So, that takes us back to the dark little bar in Fayetteville.
Big Bartender Ed greets me with less than his usual enthusiasm when I pop in for my weekly Saturday night visit. There’s hardly anyone in the place, which is odd right off. It means something is wrong, but I decide to let it slide until I’m served.
“What’ll you have?” Ed growls the question. I’ve heard of someone growling, but never actually witnessed it.
Have to say it makes me a tad nervous, but I order anyway.
“Ale. Some of that dark German stuff.”
With a scowl, he nods. What the heck’s wrong with him I can’t figure. He’s used to me trying different ales, and I’ve been following the European route. He knows it’s time for the good stuff. Who makes better beer than Germans? So what’s wrong with Ed?
Without growling more, he fiddles around under the bar a while, comes up with a beer glass filled with something so black I can’t see through it and a three-inch head that’s sort of yellow.

Yummy. You’ve got to remember, I was partaking of Czechoslovakian beer last week. After that,

anything looks good. Man, the place is quiet. It’s usually jumping by now. Even the jukebox is

silent. That’s downright creepy.