Ice flows and bald eagles on the Mississippi River.
Jack Thompson and his friend Duff were on their usual barstools at the Shotgun Shack Bar and Grill watching out the window as chunks of ice slowly floated past on the Mississippi River. It was a Saturday afternoon, and they were both indoor bound, neither man venturing out on the river very much during the winter months. Each had run out of stories of what they intended to do once spring arrived, so they both noticeably perked up when the uniformed postal delivery woman came through the front door with an armful of mail, including the weekly Waterford Observer newspaper.
“Here you go,” she said without eye contact, handing the whole stack of mail to Donal Hayes, the Shotgun’s owner and bartender.
“Thanks,” replied Donal, as he silently watched the short, stocky woman turn abruptly and head toward the exit.
“Not much of a talker, is she?” said Duff.
“No,” said Donal. “I don’t even know her name. Well, some folks are private, and that’s their right.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Duff. “Hey Donnie, can I see that there newspaper?”
“Well hell Duff, I ain’t even seen the funnies yet, and it’s my paper!”
“Don’t worry Donal,” said Jack. “He can’t even read, so you’ll have your paper back pretty quick.” Duff looked a bit hurt as the two men enjoyed a belly laugh.
“Whaddya mean Jack? I can read.”
“I know. I know. Just kidding. We know you’re smart,” said Jack as he gently patted Duff on the shoulder.
“Just for that, you’re buying the next round.”
“Fair enough.”
“Well looky here,” said Duff. “The Palm Tree Inn is closin’ already. Not even in business for a year.”
“I knew they wouldn’t make it,” said Jack, “even with all the fancy decorating to make you feel like you’re near the ocean. What could they have been thinking? This isn’t Florida or Honolulu. ‘The Palm Tree Inn!’ Jesus!”
“It was pretty high dollar too,” said Duff. “Helen made me take her there once, and the bill was like seventy-five dollars. For only two people.”
“Well, if you didn’t have ten beers, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.” Donal was at the other end of the bar, but his smile at that comment was unmistakable.
“Yeah well…anyway. What they shoulda done is focus on the river right in front of their damn faces and play up on that.”
“Isn’t that what the Shotgun is doing?” asked Jack, as he motioned toward the mounted channel catfish on the opposite wall, a fishing net hanging from the ceiling, and sets of old ores flanking both restroom doors.
“Yeah, kinda,” said Duff. “But what I’m talkin’ about is called a theme. You know what a theme is?”
“Yeah, I know what a theme is. You’ve been reading again, haven’t you?”
After pausing in silence with closed eyes in response to Jack’s snarky question, Duff finally said, “Look, what’s the one thing the river has more of than anything else?”
“Good ole’ boys with big ideas that never get off the barstool?”
“I’m bein’ serious now. Think…alright, it’s mud. It’s called the muddy Mississippi after all, ain’t it. So my idea is—and I been thinkin’ about this for a while now—a place called The Mud Bar. It would be billed as ‘The dirtiest bar and grill in the US.’ Above the entrance door is a sign that says ‘Please don’t wipe your feet!’ And on the food menu, there’s items like driftwood fries and the mudburger. It’s a hamburger, but with dark gravy to make it look like mud, and the American cheese is dyed black. Get it? It looks like mud. Mississippi River mud.”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going with it. But isn’t that kind of a turnoff as far as being appetizing? What does Helen think?”
“For one thing, she thinks the Health Department would never approve. Helen wasn’t enthusiastic.”
“I guess that doesn’t surprise me. You think any woman would want to eat in, and I quote, ‘the dirtiest restaurant in the country.’ Would you even have toilets in the restroom, or just pee in the corner.” Jack couldn’t help laughing at his own joke.
“First of all, it’s ‘dirtiest bar and grill,’ not ‘restaurant.’ Look, I’m just tryin’ to do what she wanted. She keeps sayin’ I need to do more with my life than stock shelves part-time at the grocery, hunt n’ fish, and sit on my fat ass at this bar the rest of the time. Well, this is my idea. Excuse me.”
“You ready for another beer?”
“Sure.”
Jack placed his empty mug at the inner edge of the bar as a signal to Donal that he wanted a refill and said, “Anything else good in the paper?”
“Nah. Matt Morrison’s arrested again for poaching.”
“Look,” said Jack, “it was an interesting idea, I’ll give you that. Keep thinking though.”
“Well, some of us was made to think and some of us was made to drink. Where’s Donnie and them beers anyway?”