A Girl Walks Into A Bar

May 24, 2017
Lion’s Head Pub
Guinness
(Arguably, the finest pour in Hamilton.)

The bar across the street from the bus depot is the place to see it all. The buses come and go and the world streams through the city’s arteries. You see them on foot, on bikes, pushing grocery carts full of a lifetime; the goth chick, the sketched out guy, the hipster, the gangster, the soccer mom. Every race, creed and colour pass by this window, but the real story? Well that’s right behind me, barside, and I imagine it could be something like this:

“Ah, Jesus, Lyle. Don’t start singin; yer fuckin terrible at it.”

“Fuck you, Boyd! I’ll sing twice as loud, now you go sayin shit like that.” He takes another pull off his beer, leans into the rail, rolls a shoulder and grins up at Monica.

“Hey Mon! Hey, hey Mon you tell him. You tell this simple fucker what a awesome singer I am!”

“Sure Lyle, sure. You’re like Tony fuckin Bennett but older. And not as handsome.”

The crew applauds Monica with laughter.

“Aw Jesus, I thought we was friends,” says Lyle.

Boyd high-fives her across the bar.

“Good one, Mon. Yer a funny fuckin broad. But we all know you’re not old enough to know who Tony Bennett is. He’s old as balls and yer what, like, twenty-five?” Boyd winks.

“That’s why I love you, man.” Monica winks back.

Suddenly the conversation stops. Dead. Flat.

Then, collectively, “Holy Fuck! Did you see that?”

Right there in front of the window, right there on the sidewalk in broad daylight, in front of God and seven bus drivers, a nun punches a bum in the face.

“Are you fuckin kidding me?”

“Did I just see that?”

“What in the actual fuck just happened there?”

The questions fly; everyone stares, slack-jawed and stunned, as a very small, very old nun-full habit and crucifix, the whole nine yards-crosses herself, spits on the bum’s shoes and throws her arms up, palms skyward. She is yelling, but no one can catch her words. The bum cowers, laughs open-mouthed showing off about three yellowed teeth, flips the Sister the bird and shuffle-runs, north bound on John Street.

The nun, her wrinkled face reddening, nostrils flared, tiny knotted hands waving madly, throws a few more confession booth-worthy epithets, turns on her sensible black shoes and steams away, southbound.

The window show goes back to its regularly scheduled broadcast of life in the ambitious city. Turbans, pigtails, hijabs, man buns, shaved heads, mohawks, brushcuts, dreadlocks, and at least one very excellent mullet, parade past the plate glass.

The conversation bar-side shakes itself out and returns to the ’72 Canada Russia series and the time Joey actually met Phil Esposito when his papa took him to his very first hockey game.

To the time Sylvia saw the Stones and Brian Jones was still alive. “You guys wouldn’t even believe how young and beautiful I was. I wouldna even talked to fuckers like you then! Hahaha!”

“Yer right!”

“Fuck you, Boyd!”