Abe’s on Lincoln

Hi there. 

The decor is genius. Nothing dresses-up a dive bar quite as effectively as cheap art. Let alone cocktail napkin art outsourced to patrons. Above us is the art of Abes. Dancing on the ceiling. Hundreds of Abes. Abe as far as the eye can see. The blue ink illustrations of Abraham Lincoln on the white napkins reflect soft interior light to create eery blue-moony or red-marsy glows. The result is an unexpectedly peaceful setting for this godforsook hour. All the top hat glory with none of the Ford Theater anxiety. 

Emerging from the backdoor is Goose. His tall head walks through the draping Abe napkins as if passing through a car wash. Gustaf Odinson is a big handsome goofball. It’s like having a golden retriever as a friend who is a professional race car driver and hobbyist nuclear engineer. He walks inside the bar and heads my way with his trademark midwestern grin. I can tell Goose is sitting on an egg he’s giddy-as-shit to hatch. 

Vic!, he says, we need to move to the nicotine garden out back. There’s a blonde out there you need to meet. I know your type and yes, she is breathing. 

I am not looking for a blonde, I tell Goose. Explaining in an impromptu song, I sing, I am waiting on a lady. Josie will be here any minute, I say to remind him.

Mentioning her name flashes the idea of Josie across Goose’s interior short-term memory screen. We met her an hour ago. Maybe six. Drinking a spicy kiwi margarita at Treylor Park. Josie said to me, “peaches ain’t cheap in happy-town.” Yes!, I agreed with her. In theory. But I wonder about the return on investment.  

Josie…?, ha!, Goose says with a chortle and the raised eyebrows of incredulousness. Josie is coming to Abe’s to see me!, he says with an index finger pointing at his chin in case I thought he was someone else. C’mon, Vic. What are you drinking? Let’s get a few beers and I will introduce you to the booger-eaters out back, he says. Well, I say to Goose, presently, I am drinking a tall glass of waiting on a lay-daaay. But I will double-fist the pale ale if you’re buying. 

Out the back door and into the cool of after-midnight we find scattered picnic tables where the claustrophobes exhale and the smokers suck. The Goose-Chaser, standing at that six-foot-something height, spots a squirrel and hurries to the fence facing the street. Hey!, he yells at a train of women passing by. These ladies are inebriated and in good spirits. Their leader is arm-in-arm with a woman in a bridal veil. Yeah!?, they holler across the street at the golden retriever. Hey!, Goose yells again. Are y’all a bachelorette party?, he asks. Yes!, they cheerfully respond in chorus, expecting a reward. Okay, Goose says before casually turning away. That makes seven bachelorette parties, he says to me. 

We have a bet. Over/Under 9 bachelorette parties seen tonight.

You didn’t invite them inside?, I ask. They might keep you company while I jukebox with Josie, I say. Nah, Goose says. They’re not Abe’s material. They’re tourist-trappy lost girls. Desperation spray-tanned onto their face. More your type, Vic. Me & Abe, though, we got standards. 

There is an added sense of dread & dare-I-say despair in Savannah this weekend. Nothing to scare the bachelor parties away and certainly nothing that would frighten the ghost tours gathered at each & every corner. Nothing that spooky, but dread & dare-I-say-despair nevertheless. While everyone in the street is amidst bouts of revelry, many are refugees from Florida or North Carolina (depending on which climate disaster they are fleeing from). The refugees are drinking to forget. The rest of us are drinking out of survivor’s guilt. It’s a disturbing vibe.

But the show must go on. 

Or, as Goose says, more bad life choices must be made. Sooner the better. 

Tomorrow are the weiner dog races, Goose tells me. We can put a little money on that too, he says. I nod as I consider the gamble. How does one anticipate the velocity of a weiner?, I ask the race car driver. Size isn’t everything, Goose says. Weiner girth is deceiving. You’d think a chonky weiner isn’t a weiner built for speed, but it may be built for power. You see, Vic, there’s a difference between a swift weiner and a strong weiner and it really comes down to stride & propulsion. It’s hard to judge a weiner until you’ve seen it in action. Hmm, I ponder the risk. I think I will pass. 

A redhead with dark-rimmed glasses, fishnets & a vape pen approaches, asking if we have a light. We don’t smoke, so, no. Truth or Dare she says to Goose. Dare!, he declares confidently. Go get me some tacos, she says. He laughs and she turns to me. Truth or dare, she says. Truth, I say with a shrug. What’s your fucking deal?, she asks.

Oof. Good question. 

What is your fucking deal, Vic?, Goose asks me. Why won’t you bet on the weiners?

Oh!, the redhead says, I either walked-in on the wrong conversation or the absolute right one.

It’s a game of chance, I say, to bet on the speed of a rat-hound. I’m not lucky in games of chance, which is fine, because my luck manifests itself elsewhere. 

Ha!, Goose laughs. What luck?, he asks. Tell me where – exactly! – you have been lucky in life, Vic. You’re not wealthy. Maybe lucky in hair. But you’re not lucky in health, he says, your heart is a loose cannon. You’re not lucky in love, he says, again! – because your heart is a loose cannon.  

Ouch, says the redhead. She pinches Goose’s sleeve and says, this long stretch of bacon’s got some sizzle. 

So where is it?, Goose continues to inquire, you find your luck manifesting, Vic?

Well, I say, I was going to say luck in friends, but now I’ve got my doubts.

“Hannah”, the redhead interrupts us to say, with two “h”s. Huh?, Goose and I ask. Oh!, Hannah says, I figured you were going to get around to introductions eventually. 

“Hannah”?, I ask. Yes?, she says. With with two “h”s?, I ask. Yes, she says. Your name is the perfect palindrome, I say. What kind of drone?, she asks. Tacocat, I say. Spelled the same forward and backwards. There are very few names which are palindromes. Bob is the rare one. Nan. Just the other day I was wondering what the best palindrome name was and the best I came up with was the possessive of Sara. H-less Sara. “Sara’s”. I didn’t think about Hannah with two “h”s. It’s perfect. 

Vic!, what?, Goose says while holding up his hands and shaking his head. He asks, have you never spoken to a woman before?

Shut-it stretch!, Hannah-with-2-Hs says to Goose. It’s actually the best compliment I’ve heard all day, she says. So who are you guys? I’m Vic, I tell her, and this is my sidekick Gus. Sidekick!, Goose rejects the title. He’s my getaway driver, I say to Hannah. No, Goose says, I’m no sidekick. If anything you are just the dude who holds my beer when I feel inspired to do something ridiculous. 

Are you local to Savannah?, I ask Hannah. She says, yeah, for now. But I am thinking about getting out of the south. I want to move to Chicago. I am just worried about the winters. Chicago!, I say, you must. Chicago is worth the winters. The trick is all about exposure, I advise. No!, Goose says sternly. The trick, he says, is not living in fucking Chicago. I’ve lived in Minnesota, he says. You can un-expose all you want. Winter will still kill you. Kill your soul, if not your body, he says. Yeah, I say, but that’s Minnesota. I have lived in Chicago and believe it worthwhile. Hey, maybe in a few years global warming will provide milder winters. Those lakeshore beaches are underrated in my opinion. 

Vic, don’t you think you should be checking on Josie?, Goose asks me. 

Huh?, who?, I ask.

Josie, he says, you said she’s meeting you here tonight. Maybe you should go inside and reserve elbow room at the jukebox. Ahh, I say. Goose is boxing me out. His eyes shimmer with mischief as he cleverly rids himself of competition. 

Yes, of course. Josie. 

With a wave to Hannah-with-2-Hs, I turn to part ways. That fucker. Goose. I leave the nicotine garden to return under the roof of Abe’s. I mean…, it’s not that I have suddenly lost interest in Josie, but it is clear Hannah-with-2-Hs and I have an incredible chemistry. Chemistry which has now been sabotaged by the deviously crafty Goose-Chaser. 

Back at the bar, I mumble curses as I scan the room. I think Josie may be standing me up. I order another pale ale. Jukebox selection here sucks anyway. Too much U2 and not enough INXS. 

The front door opens and six women stumble across the threshold. They’re dancing to an unsung tune, flapping like flags in the breeze. The one in front has a white veil over her face and I realize these are Goose’s lost girls. You can see the spray-tan dripping down their necks. One asks, how do you get outside? Ha!, I laugh. They’ve come looking for the backyard golden retriever, I realize. 

Are you all a bachelorette party?, I ask. Yes!, they admit. Let me buy you a round of shots, I say. Whatever you like. Bartender, put it on my tab. Gustaf Odinson. O-din-son as in oh damn son. Yep, that’s me. And ladies, you will find the door to the nicotine garden around the corner of the bar. To your left. 

After a round of lemon drops, the gaggle of bachelorettes flock towards the back door. Pleased with myself, I ask the bartender for a napkin and a pen. I’m going to draw a Dachshund with a top hat.