Neale’s Bar

My friend, Kev, and I decided to open a bar in the dusty basement of my parents’ house, Neale’s Bar, named after my new home street. My family had just moved there from Cleveland, and the previous owners had left behind dozens of square cardboard coasters that read “Ballantine Ale,” and though we liked the green bottles with three Xs on their bellies, we hardly knew the purpose of the cardboard shapes; we nailed them to the wall around the room. We drew up a menu, including all the things we thought a good bar should serve: potato chips, soda, butterscotch candies, tuna fish sandwiches, jawbreakers, and my mother’s noodle ring, although we’d need our allowances and a lift to the supermarket to buy all that stuff, and we’d need my mother to cook the noodle ring. I printed, and Kev decorated, about twenty or thirty advertisements, highlighting the opening date, hours, and offerings of Neale’s Bar. “Spread the news,” they declared. “A great time for all.” Before we delivered them, however, we thought it best to collect money for a sweepstakes, too. So, on a rain-dark Sunday afternoon, we set out in our slickers to deliver advertisements and collect $5 entry fees. We had a large neighborhood, and hardly knew anybody in it, so we chose people our parents chatted with or houses whose porch lights glowed. “We serve Ballantine’s Ale,” we sang, and the men and women smiled. Many gave us $5, to our surprise, and we handed over homemade raffle tickets as a receipt. “We’ll let you know if you’re a winner,” we shouted, as we ran home from the last stop on our route. Since most people had given us singles, we had quite a wad of money, and could not contain our giggling and whispering on the way to my room, where I locked the door. We counted over $100. “Let’s pick a winner,” said Kev. “Winner?” I said. “Why should there be a winner? We’ve got more than $100!” We agreed to stash the money in my room, in one of my drawers, but my mother found it while replacing my underwear. I tried one excuse, “Chores, around town,” and when that didn’t work, I tried another, better one, but the mere presence of two excuses elicited, from my mother, the fist of bills shaken in my face. She forced me either to hold the sweepstakes or return all the money. I decided to hold the sweepstakes, awarding a $50 prize, a $25 prize, and three $10 prizes. My mother supervised me and Kev awarding the $50 prize to a skeptical homeowner, but fell in gossiping with neighbors as we awarded the $25 prize. We awarded one $10 prize, but kept the last $20 for ourselves, exchanging it for dimes and quarters, bit by bit, down at the gas station over several weeks, until we’d guzzled much grape soda and eaten many peanut chews. On the day we’d slated for the bar to open, Kev and I savored the last of our sweepstakes candy and soda in front of the television, watching the Redskins lose a close game to the 49ers. Meantime, Mrs. Carver, a small gray woman from across the street, whose daughter, a failed doctor, still lived with her, rang the bell. My mother told us that Mrs. Carver had come for the opening of Neale’s Bar. Kev and I ran downstairs and folded up the ping pong table, threw all my toys into cabinets, pulled a few barstools to the bar, and bade her to join us. She climbed up, barely, onto a barstool, and ordered potato chips, soda, and a tuna fish sandwich. I ran upstairs while Kev listened to her complaining about her back. My mother made a face but obliged, although we didn’t have potato chips. We brought her crackers instead, and Mrs. Carver stayed for several hours, paying the prices on the menu, and tipping, before climbing the staircase, slowly, one hand on the base of her spine.