TAILGUNNER ON A BARSTOOL
ACT 1
SCENE 1
Hortense Maude Cheever was wiping down her mahogany bar one more time that day, for the one hundred and seventh time. At least. She made one more check over the customers in her tavern to see if they needed another of whatever they were drinking; and to see if they were still alive or comatose. She snorted to herself as she wondered for the ten thousand, two hundred and seventy ninth time if it was worth it. Babysitting drunks that is.
“What the hell else would I do with my time” she said to herself. “I can’t see myself sitting in a quilting bee.” Just as she was shaking her head at that thought, the door banged open and the bright outside light backlit a young man standing in the doorway, blinking his eyes, trying to make them adjust to the dim light of the tavern. “Come in and shut the damned door, it’s too bright out there. Hurry up!” Hortense growled at the figure in the doorway.
Stumbling into the room, the young man did his best to follow her orders. “It’s dark in here” he said.
“That’s just way we like it, don’t we Tommy?” she looked over her shoulder at an old, thin, weather-beaten man at the end of the bar, then turned back to look at the newcomer. Immediately she knows that he is too young to be in there, “That’s far enough sonny, this isn’t the school yard, out…get out now!”
He stammers, “W…W…Wait a minute, my name’s not sonny.” Hortense gets a hard look on her face, and starts to walk around the end of the bar. The young man reaches into his rear pocket and produces his wallet.
“My name is Don, see right here on the ID.”
“Let me see that” she reaches for the wallet and snatches it from his shaking hand. “Well…” she asks.
Don stammers, “Uhhh…I’m not 21, but…”
“But nothing, OUT, GET OUT! I’m not in the soda pop business, little boy, no bubble gum here.” Hortense bellows at him, trying to intimidate him out the door. She really didn’t like whackin’ these youngsters with pool cue to get them out before the law caught them in here. But she would if she had to.
Don held up his hand, “Wait, I just want to celebrate my news! I gotta tell somebody!” This last was drawn out and a bit whiny.
She interrupts him, “Go tell your mommy, despite popular opinion,” waving at the staring customers, “I’m not a psychiatrist. And they,” waving again, “ain’t priests to hear your confession, so…take it out of here bub. I ain’t losing my liquor license for you or anybody…so hit the road!”
Don takes a folded envelope out of his pocket and straightens it and pulls the letter from inside and begins to read it, “UHH…Greetings and Salutations! It is our pleasure to notify you on behalf of the United States of America, that the Selective Service Lottery Number assigned to you has been activated. It is now your duty to report for Induction Processing on the 3rd of October…blah, blah, blah.”
Hortense lowers her gaze, her face reddens a bit, and she opens her mouth about to begin speaking.
Don jumps in, “Don’t you think I’m old enough now?” His challenge lays out there; he almost dares her to toss him out now.
She caves in, many years and many young men on their way to war have passed through this tavern. Hortense can’t let this one go without a taste of a normal life at home, before he is thrust into the Hell of war.
“Just keep a low profile, and if you act like you’re drunk, it’s out you go. Hold on, I’ll get you a beer.”
Don tries to push a little more, “A beer? How about a shot of whiskey on the side?”
“How about you don’t press your luck junior!” she continues to the beer cooler.
“OK, OK, then a Coors longneck’ll do.” Don orders something that he has seen in a magazine. Hortense is drawn up short.
With an amused snort, she says, “Comin’ right up bigshot!
Michael D. LeFevre ãCopyright 2002 (Adapted from a short play of the same name)
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