VI. One More Drink

“For a friend with an understanding heart is worth no less than a brother” – Homer, The Odyssey.

In the beginning, The Yankee’s Throne, was just an idea, like Barnaby. But in the end that idea became a reality, devil or no devil. That reality was a place, and like all places the bar had a personality. The Yankee’s Throne was where the patron needed the bar to be. At the entrance to Queen Guinevere’s bed chamber, the draft room for the U.S. military, or even a place in Boston where everybody knows your name. The Yankee’s Throne was Barnaby’s friend, even if the Pooka couldn’t see the bar as more than a means to an end.

“Last call,” Barnaby yelled again.

Mark was the first to leave. He said, “So long Barnaby.”

Lancelot was the second. He said, “Better go see what her majesty wants.” And laughed on his way out.

Then Elvis left, jiggling his hips on the way. He said. “Later alligator.” To which Barnaby said. “In a while, crocodile.”

Then Achilles stood to leave, but Barnaby motioned him over to have one last drink.

“It tastes like my mother used to make,” Achilles said.

Barnaby smiled. “Well I’m no Thetis, but if you like the stuff I must be doing something right.”

Achilles gave a solemn smirk. “What is this place called?”

“It’s your first time,” Barnaby remembered. “She’s called the Yankee’s Throne?”

“She?”

“Anything worth living with for an eternity is a she,” Barnaby explained.

Achilles nodded. “What’s a Yankee?”

Barnaby thought about that. “Well to some it’s a slur to others a title, but if you ask me every word’s like that sometimes.”

“Oh,” Achilles looked toward the door. “I better head back.”

“Before that,” Barnaby put his arm on Achilles shoulder. “You wanna talk about it?”

Then Achilles, the hero of Greece, slayer of Hector, and a hero doomed by an otherwise impressive heel, nodded and began to cry. He told Barnaby of his cousin, Patroclus, who had died in a fight that Achilles refused to accept. His closest friend and family was dead and he could’ve saved him. Barnaby didn’t know what to do as the demigod sobbed, drank, and Barnaby kept pouring and he listened.

No one remembered Barnaby after they left the bar until they returned, if they returned. He didn’t need to be remembered though, he only needed the bar and the patron’s fortune. Barnaby didn’t have to be their friend or their enemy. He was just the guy that gambled on the patrons. When Caesar got drunk on power Barnaby kicked him out. When Mark Twain couldn’t decide what to write next he introduced him to Lancelot. When that same knight couldn’t find the holy grail, Barnaby decided to keep the old clay thing on his shelf so Lancelot could drink from the blood of Christ and continue his search already fulfilled. When Elvis’s daughter marries Michael Jackson, Barnaby will make Peanut butter and banana sandwiches for the two of them. These were kind deeds, but Barnaby didn’t do them out of kindness. He might have done them out of boredom.

Barnaby’s met Kings, movie stars, taxidermists, Duchesses, killers, artists, lovers, but not one of them would remember the tall green rabbit that served them drinks or the quaint little bar between time and space. Once he gives them their fortunes that’s final. The patrons would leave either happy or sad or indifferent, but all left with closure. They didn’t need to remember because this Pooka was more than a gambler, he was a bartender, and all men drink.

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