The Tavern Keeper's Tale

 This is an excerpt from a work in progress called Livewire Voodoo.

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The Tavern Keeper's Tale 

"The Veins are bathed in liquor of such power" – Chaucer

 June 29th, 1959

Buehler suffered his first coronary at sixty-one. The Lucky Strikes struck with a vengeance.

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   Buehler awoke, his head still groggy but putting things together proved easy: nurses, a doctor, white walls, stretchers, and machines. Hospital, no doubt. Emergency room. He cleared his parched throat and fished out a cigarette before seeing the 'No Smoking' sign. Dejected, he slumped into the bed and put the smokes away. He could wait.

   As his head cleared, he remembered what had happened. They had wheeled him in on a gurney after what, in retrospect, had been a heart attack. Buehler remembered snapping awake and going under several times during the trip from the bar to the hospital. And the burning pain in his shoulder.

   At first shaky, he stood up and watched the young doctor massage his heart. The panicked guy – young, late twenties, probably an intern – called for this drug or that as Buehler viewed the scene, including his body, as if in a dream. 

   He drifted around the gurney. Nurses and doctors swarmed about the slab that had been him. Buehler's spirit rose, unnoticed by the nurses and doctors whose activity absorbed him, and he needed water and a smoke in the worst way. But as a force pulled him skyward, the emergency room drama's allure loosened its grip. The higher he rose, the less acute his cottonmouth and nic-fit grew, until they vanished.

   An older doctor rushed in, yanking off his sportscoat and tossing it over a chair. In the jacket's front pocket, Buehler had the bankroll he had just collected from Freddy Reed, a delinquent gambler. Buehler trusted the doctors and nurses with the money, so he floated skywards, towards a warm, pulsing light. 

   And then, the Buehler's pulse raced, his jaw set and his brow knit. Jacket's breast pocket.  

   He ceased rising and remembered...

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   ...being at his pub, before happy hour – maybe two? He was alone, ledger out on a booth, when Freddy knocked on the window, flashing his roll. Buehler grinned and shuffled to let the wiry man in. Buehler took the huge roll – fives, tens, a few twenties and a shit-load of ones – that Buehler assumed Freddy had mooched off friends and family. After counting, Buehler grunted, "Square," and then placed the roll in his breast pocket. A pain twanged along his left side.

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   The disembodied Buehler drifted downwards, towards his jacket, remembering...

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   ... Buehler ignored the pain, and buttoned his jacket over the bankroll. But the pain built, and Buehler winced – though he smiled, glad to get his money. He pounded his chest, and the pain ebbed away.

   Relieved, he said at Freddy, "Heartburn. Need a water. Want a draft? On the house."

   Never one to turn down a freebie, Freddie said yes, and Buehler walked behind the bar, pouring Freddy a draft, lit a cigarette, noticing that pain was gone. After a few minutes of small talk, Buehler looked at his watch and told Freddy "Drink up. I gotta finish the books before my staff arrives."