The Dead Wall
Where: Back east, on the
outskirts of a working neighborhood abandoned by a new interstate three miles
away.
who: Bar owner. Merrill Streep, lost Eddie, Clint Eastwood.
Story:
Location - A deteriorating turn
of the century bar located in the center of an abandoned working class
neighborhood. The façade reflects the fading glory days of automotive assembly
plants and union wages. An ignored place where prohibition was never
allowed to dock. If drinking stopped in this burg, so did the factories.
On this forgotten section of high river bank, one might expect to find
overwhelming poverty, pennies in the fuse sockets of abandoned electrical
meters, and ransacked decaying brick buildings; instead there is a vibrant
survival camp of misplaced workers and families hidden from the rest of the busy
world. When the factories closed and moved, the cast aside residents of
this small, working town simply crowed together and some how with each others
help, survived. The center of attention was the small family style
bar that has seen it all. Lived to tell the tale and home to all who
stayed for the fight! Two large plate glass windows supported by brick planters which now
serve as trash bins and ash trays. Faded green moldings with peeling paint, rust
stains running from sixty year old real American nails. Clint entered through
two swinging glass paneled doors, and paused; someone else might be awed at the
sight of massive brick walls rising fourteen feet to support an ornate ceiling
made of tin; it was home to Clint. As a private investigator, he’s spent more
than his fair share of time sitting in old bars and sipping wine. Having never
entered this bar before, he was impressed. On his right, and as if the heavens
opened up and commanded it, bright, multi-colored beams of sunlight forced their
way in to this cavernous eatery through period stained glass and lead panels
high on the west wall. The colored beams of light warmed the highly polished fir
flooring. Irregular spots of color dared him to step in. The soft whirring of
antique electric ceiling fans greeted the ancient detective as he stepped
forward to the bar. He looked across the bar to sixty feet of massive leaded
mirrors protecting his back. Anyone sitting at the bar was treated to a
panoramic view of the excitement behind them. Wired oak halfback chairs circled
all twenty of the large, round mahogany tables evenly spaced in the center of
the room. He learned long ago, if you don’t sit, you’re a curiosity, not a
patron. Besides, who can tell until you speak what the hell you’re there for? He
turned and left the bar only to slip into one of the old chairs, he’s reminded
of his age while listening to the creaking and feeling the movement in the arms
of the antique. He mused, ‘when he started drinking’, the wires didn’t need to
be tightened to pull the joints together. The detective was surprised by the
nice fit; once seated, flexible joints allowed his chair to conform to his stiff
frame. He spent a moment staring off, soaking up the character of the place,
when he detected something stirring behind him. Protecting the clue, he didn’t
turn his head. And because he was listening; trying to make out the sounds, he
continued displaying an interest in turn of the century architecture. His hand
was slowly moving towards the revolver, just inside his cotton jacket. As his
hand tightened around an old friend, he could hear soft footsteps approaching
quickly from behind. They’re covering the seventy foot length of the bar very
quickly, almost running! Just as he started to turn and rise, to face the
assailant, a sharp, woman's voice broke the silence. Out of breath, Merrill the
owner, was now standing next to his chair. Trying to appear calm while pushing
back her hair and straightening her dress, the flushed widow, with an air of
reserve, asked him to accept her apologies. Her cheeks were still aglow as she
tried to smile and appear professional; “won’t you please accept my apologies, I
didn’t hear you come in.” Truth be, she watched him from the dark shadows in the
rear of the bar. Sizing him up, a bill collector, a guest, a friend of a friend,
the list goes on. It was only out of boredom she came to his rescue, figuring
he’d get up and leave. Reality pulled Clint back from his imagination, and for
now, the envisioned raucous sounds of a centuries old, Cambridge, Massachusetts
bar and shoot-outs would have to wait. A tall slender woman stood between him
and the bright sunlight reflected from the polished floor. She had delicate
ankles and her thin Italian sandals defined her small feet. The bright sunlight
in his eyes was cooled by a see through dress of yellow, blue, and pink pastels.
Planned or not, her summer dress reminded him of his youth. He thought she was
breathtaking as she stood within inches of his chair. He could hear her
breathing as she caught her breath. A nothing scent of jasmine intermingled with
perspiration soon filled his nostrils. She was smiling at him, but he didn’t
know it. He was mesmerized as he watched the warm sunlight make the shear fabric
of her homemade summer dress disappear. The silhouette of her thighs and hour
glass figure left him speechless. Not realizing she was acting like pheromone,
the pretty, fiftyish woman moved to the opposite side of the table, and asked
again, “well, do you?”. As Clint struggled to gain his composure, she broke out
laughing, and said “do you forgive me?, whereas, she continued laughing and
smiling in his direction. Clint finally got it, and trying to appear in charge
of something “well, now that you put it that way, of course I do”. Merrill's
eyes lit up as she realized he was as full of shit as the next guy, replied
back.. “good, we’ll be best friends”. And with that, “Would you like to see a
menu, or just a drink?” Still stumbling, but trying to be coy and sound sharp,
Clint replies “what’s good here?” With that she showed him her back, saying “let
me know when you decide what you want”. The ceiling fans doused him with her
body fragrance as she left him to his own devices in the middle of the room. He
was fixated by the way her perspiration had soaked the back of her dress, and
how the fine fabric clung to the outline of her hips and buttocks as she walked
away. He was awe struck as she ignored him, and started cleaning behind the bar.
All smiles, he finally got up and walked to the bar...Ok, I give up, “how about
a cold beer and a tuna sandwich….?” She smiled to herself, as she thought how
much she instantly liked him...and what an asshole to order a tuna
sandwich...who orders a tuna sandwich? She didn’t miss a beat as she turned and
smiled back. It shocked the hell out of him that someone still served tuna
sandwiches, and he tried to look nonchalant as he looked away. She knew the
mirrors much better than he and watched the act from the other end of the bar.
“I’ll be right with you” as she darted into the kitchen.
The ‘vision’ was quick to return with a cold beer and the tuna sandwich. She
would never tell him, tuna was her favorite, and she had some made in the refer.
To the outside world this bar is obscure and of no consequence. To those who
have called this place home, the bar is all consequence, all significant. One
can’t but help notice an array of thirty, equally spaced and sized, framed
pictures of different people adorning one of the long brick walls. Searching for
an ’opener’ the big guy feigned curiosity and asked for an explanation. She
watched him eat as she also nibbled at a half sandwich, being courteous and not
wanting to go through the awkwardness of watching him to eat alone. She was
surprised when he asked “ can you tell me about those pictures, motioning to the
far wall? Trying to keep that all important ‘happy’ face on for the first
customer of the day, Merrill turns to face the wall. Oh that, that’s my dead
wall. Your dead wall? Yes. Pausing for a moment to decide if it’s worth it; and
if she wants to get involved, she replies with a sigh, “those are photos of dear
friends of mine who have gone ahead without me. One by one, they all have left.
You sir, are talking to the last in a long line of history makers. Everyone
makes history just by living; and these are some of the ones who included me in
their plans.” With that, she gave him a smile. “The pictures are of people who
throughout many years, with as many reasons, had made this old bar their home.
Some are as old as 100 years, and my great grandfather told me about them, told
me their stories so they can be carried on. The picture you are referring to is
Sal. Sal’s history making days ended yesterday. I wasn’t open yesterday. I was
the only one at his funeral. Looking into Clint’s eyes, she searched for a clue
defining his character, “ funny sounding, isn’t it “his history stopped
yesterday.” She got her reaction; he feigned a smile to hide the seriousness of
the question. She smiled back and went on; it’s a wall with pictures of people
who have died, and who I loved dearly. They are the culture of this bar. Gently,
and hoping to lighten up the tone, the detective asks, “who is that one, can you
tell me something about that one? (pointing to a smiling gent on the wall). Oh,
you mean Dabney? He was a son-of-a-bitch, and we loved him for it! She throws
down the bar rag, and bends over to get a cold beer glass from the reach-in
behind the bar. He didn’t miss a thing, and smiles as she steps up to the
draught handles. She looks in his direction, “how about something special?”
Sure...and with that she pulls one of the long handles toward her and watches
the cool nectar fill his icy glass. She brings it over to where he’s been
sitting and after putting another coaster in front of him, she sets the frothy
liquid down. “I’ll be back in a bit with some chips.....and the story
continues...RJ
1. This story is a mosaic of excerpts and short stories depicting the lives and
tribulations, to the best of her memory about the people on the wall.
Interesting quips, and quotes, fun times, sad times, serious times. This is a
story of the life of a bar, and those actors who lived there. The bar was a
microcosm of life and death in the United States. In a small, obscure corner of
our country, life was intense for the players. As Merrill explains to her only
customer, “Although forgotten by time, the life of this bar has worth.” “And a
very important part of that ’worth’ is the character of the people who made this
bar home.” This is a story of passing on, letting go, and passing the torch of
love, compassion, family, and a culture only those times permitted. This is a
story of need. The need to pass on a livelihood and the life history of so many
nobodies so one person can live. Merrill, being the only living survivor can
also die with peace of mind knowing their lives meant something. For the last
bartender, this bar is the culmination of many lives and she needs to fulfill a
promise to them. She carries in her memories the stories of all who came into
the bar. She needs to prove to herself, and all she meets, their lives were
important too. Until she passes it on, she remains part of that history; and as
such, she has no future. She is riddled with guilt and can’t move on with her
life!
A bartender and an old turn of the century, Massachusetts bar are slowly dieing.
Merrill the last bartender, is terribly lonely, and all who she has loved, are
gone. There is one last thing to do. One last service for her beloved customers;
find the last family member alive and give the bar to them. So the bar and the
lives of those who patronized it won’t die with her. Unbeknownst to her dear
friends, and last customers, she found out her handsome boyfriend had an affair
on her. She never said anything to him, nor let anyone know. The story starts
when She hires a detective to find the young girl who was born out of that
affair. She finds out the young woman who also loved her boyfriend had died, but
the woman’s daughter lives in Seattle, Washington. The investigator finds the
young girl (Jennifer) destitute and about to be evicted from a roach infested
tenement building in Pioneer Square, next to the waterfront. Jenny is who enters
the bar in the beginning of this story. Sandy has never seen Jenny. She has no
idea Jenny has come to see her. The detective told Merrill he (Clint) did not
know if anyone actually received the letter he slipped under the door. Jenny
does not tell Sandy right off. The story progresses with Jenny getting hired by
Merrill for the season. The two of them sharing stories about the bar. Becoming
great friends and the bar being re-discovered with the help of Jenny and her
desire to do the right thing. As time wares on, Merrill is convinced Jenny is
not coming. She becomes despondent and distant. Finally, and to Merrill’s
amazement, Jenny tells her who she is. The two of them become great family
friends and run the place together.
Two endings: 1. Sandy eventually dies, and the bar goes on with a new, younger
neighborhood crowd and becomes a hot spot just like in the old days. Complete
with bands/music, sadness, happiness, weddings, drunks, boyfriends, husbands,
girlfriends, etc.
2. Sandy does not die, but is caught up in Jennies enthusiasm and joins her in
propelling the little bar into a mega-stop for bands and trends. They both
continue to do exceedingly well and Sandy realizes her life is not over yet. She
has many things to still do. Movie ends with her riding in a cab towards Central
Park in N.Y. Excitement and crowds abound!
does she keep Clint?
to be continued....RJ