II. Barnaby

“A man walks into a bar…” – The beginning of countless, often repeated, jokes.

Every society has traditions, ideals, and histories that form their culture. Unless you’re a Pooka. Pookai are ideas. They are the living embodiment of something like justice, hope, creativity, fruit, love, tree-hugging, an ideal incarnate. They usually appear as brightly colored seven-foot tall anthropomorphized rabbits. To Pookai the word “Bunny” is the most vulgar of slurs.

Barnaby appeared one day after a man in the Roman empire prayed to the goddess Fortuna through their ever-growing mythology. The man had had a bad run of late and thought his best friend and trusted Advisor Brutus was mad at him, so he prayed for his fortune, and he got to the place through unusual means. Then, later that same day, Brutus and several others stabbed him repeatedly in the back.

That was the first time Barnaby came into being and he realized his purpose. He would listen to someone’s woes, judge them, and give them their fortune. So now all he needed was a job in which to fulfill his place and continue to exist. He deliberated on being a lawyer, but he would get stuck in the events of right and wrong instead of the details of fortunate and unfortunate endings. He considered being a doctor, but then he got stuck in the details of life and death. He was a Pooka, not a Grim Reaper. So after law and medicine he took the obvious step toward bartending.

For Barnaby, being a bartender was easy. He didn’t perform those weird tricks, shallow and often vulgar displays of spatial cognition and hand-eye coordination, to stir and shake the drinks together instead of merely stirring and shaking them. He was a bartender, not a juggler. Being a bartender meant having the encyclopedic brain of a lawyer and the slick hands of a surgeon, and executing these attributes by pouring another shot of whiskey into a glass and lending a good ear to the patron’s daily woes. That was all he needed.

The Yankee’s Throne was located between a desperate hope about to leave a noble soul and a flickering mischievous idea in the hearts of scoundrels, but the place could also be found on a corner street in Boston from time to time. He established, “The Yankee’s Throne”, sometime between 1995 and the end of time, but the place would get customers from B.C. and other time zones and dimensional rifts.

Barnaby served all kinds in his establishment: accountants, elves, lawyers, dwarves, cowboys, vampires, time-travelers, pick-pockets, fairies, dragons, spies, writers, talking animals, athletes, knights, ghosts, lock-smiths, giants, minor gods, stock brokers, and even other Pookai like Barnaby himself, though the Pookai weren’t much for drinking. His kin usually just nibbled at the pretzel bowl and talked about basketball.

“Last call,” Barnaby yelled, but it was always last call here. Barnaby still yelled the words every now and then to see what happens.

The only customers he had in were some regulars and a new guy. Lancelot, Mark Twain, Achilles, and Elvis sat in a corner booth and drank whatever Barnaby had on his magical tap. Lancelot drank mead, Mark drank a glass of ice-water, Achilles drank beer, and Elvis drank a cool glass of Pepsi, but all the beverages looked like the same golden liquid. Granted if they wanted anything else they could just order that from the bar.

Barnaby listened to the party of four as he cleaned the counter.

“How long’s it been since last we met?” Lancelot asked.

Elvis shook his head. “I can never tell in this place.”

“True,” Mark agreed. “A year for you might’ve been a week for me, but as long as the drinks flow, does it matter?”

Three cheered, and Achilles nodded. This was the Grecian demigod’s first time at The Yankee’s Throne and he seemed grim next to his new drinking buddies. Barnaby knew why, but it wasn’t his story to share. If Mark Twain couldn’t get the man to smile, no one could.

The small crowd was alone in the bar. Tonight, was lady’s night, but not a single damsel, princess, diva, or lady-like figure loomed about. Elvis may dress fabulously, but Barnaby would usually see Marilyn Monroe, Freya, Rosa Parks, or at least Joan of Arc. She’s always up for a drink, Barnaby thought.

A slow night was a bad omen in bar tending and bad omens have an extra meaning in places like The Yankee’s Throne. If he closed now, Barnaby, could go upstairs to his apartment and catch up on the most recent season of Once Upon a Time, see who killed Snow White from last episode’s cliffhanger, but then the door opened.

THANKS FOR READING, HOPE YOU LIKED ALL MEN DRINK PART 2. ANY THOUGHTS, ADVICE, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS.