Saturday Night

As I get up from the table to walk back to the bar, I say to Cathy, "You finally got me to feel your leg. I'll have to write about that."

Cathy laughs. "You're going to write about it?"

But wait, I'm starting this story at the end. Flashback—

Saturday night, 9:45. Bridgette and Terry are working the bar, though Terry is going to be cut at 10. I order a beer and a sandwich. I talk to Bridgette; time passes. I'm starting my second beer when Terry walks up. We talk for about 10 minutes and eventually it occurs to me that while I am sitting comfortably at the bar (I'm quick that way), Terry is standing beside me holding her drink (employees are not allowed to sit and drink at the bar). Though she says she doesn't mind standing, I do, and I suggest we grab a table. We move the conversation to one of the tall round tables beside the bar. Immediately one of the guys at the bar comes over and joins the conversation. It's a little like he's crashing my party, but I'm not exactly on a date here, so there's not much I can say. Eventually he leaves and Terry and I talk for about one minute and then Melanie sits down. Terry and Melanie get into a conversation about work, and a few minutes later Cathy joins us.

Melanie is usually pretty quiet, but Cathy is a clam. In the years I've been a customer, I've heard her say maybe three words. Tonight she opens up and talks about her childhood. I sit and listen to the ladies talk. The topic of this conversation spins on various injuries they experienced as kids and teenagers—the time Terry got belted in the face by a drug-crazed teenage girl who was so whacked out on drugs that it took six bouncers to restrain her—the time Cathy broke her nose practicing martial arts with a friend—the time Terry slipped on ice and lay there 45 minutes with a broken ankle, with only a thin layer of pantyhose between her flesh and the ice—the time Cathy cracked both shins by running into a hay baler on the farm where she grew up.

"It took years for the bruises to go away," Cathy says, "and there's still a lump there on both legs." She walks around the table and puts her bare leg on the chair beside me. "Feel that," she says, pointing. I see a faint scar on her shin. I put my finger on the scar and rub it gently. There is a slight bump. The wounds of childhood—we all carry them. Some scars are visible, some are hidden. The physical scars, at least, eventually fade into insignificance.

As if by an invisible signal, everyone at the table decides to be somewhere else. I return to my seat at the bar.

"Another beer?" Bridgette asks.

"Yeah, a small one. But only if you'll stay and talk to me. If you don't want to do that, screw this place, I'm going someplace else!"

Bridgette laughs. But she stays, and we talk.