A Scene from The Neighborhood Bar by Don Robishaw

All for conduct unbecoming an officer (and a gentleman?)

Seven steps below street level is a forty-foot mahogany bar in a dim narrow room — tight fit for its legal capacity of thirty-three. A glorious history, dating back to World War Two. Over the years, offbeat and diverse patrons have more than added to the colorful ambience. 

    There’s Sheridan over there, one of those offbeat patrons. In his usual stance, stooped over the bar, big black boot on a brass rail. He says, “It’s the last rodeo.” Pub’s closing its doors for good. Gentrifiers and wheatgrass juicers buying up the neighborhood.

Eyes open wide, “Can anything be done?” asks Jessie. 

“Lease expired. Building owner got an offer he couldn't refuse. Pub lawyers, just about exhausted every avenue available. They fought the good fight, bro!” That they did.

    “Hey, what are we gonna do?”

    Being one of those offbeats, Sheridan says, “Find a place to park. Drinks, would be nice.” On the strange side, even sober. Cups his mouth and yells, “ICE!” Three red-headed lads, stow-a-ways from Dublin, drink up and beat feet toward Boston Hahbah. Known Immigration enforcement agents stop by on occasion. Nice fellas.

    Two sailors, out of uniform, squat on stools and order Newcastle drafts. Furious bartender says, “How many times I told you not to do that? You know how much I’ve lost, ya bastard?”

    “Good to see you too, bro.” To change the topic, Sheridan points his thumb left. “Remember Jessie James?”

      “You still an Admiral, kid?”

    “Conan, I was never a fuckin’ Admiral. They wanted to can my ass. At the court martial my JAG Lawyer made a deal. Here I am, on board The Destiny for another year, stripped of my officer’s commission, and reduced in rank from O-1 to E-1.” 

    “Sorry, didn’t hear about that.” Conan’s pissed off and says, “What — the fuck — did you do this time?” That’s a great question. Sounds like he killed someone.

    Jessie Shakes, “Give me a second. Let me get there. . . A couple of mild indiscretions. Long story short, tried to smuggle my Bonny Anne aboard the icebreaker. You remember her?” A real pip, that one.

    Pointing above the bar to a 5x8 color glossy beside the 2020 rugby league trophy, “Performed the wedding service for her and Sheryl last week.” That’s a bit of a shocker.

     Jessie’s mouth drops, *Cough* Tears fall. “Coast Guard moved in a rescue mission a snowball toss, South of the North Pole, to get her. It was so frigid, only non-frozen liquid aboard was vodka.”

     Conan asks, “How cold was it?”

    “How cold you ask? Wicked fuckin’ cold! The helicopter dispatched to pick her up damn near stalled in mid-air.”

    “Don’t they use saltpeter in the chow anymore? Why in my day—”

    “Shit, didn’t work on me, brother.” 

    The trio laughs loudly. Sheridan sets up shots of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the well known and well-worn original mahogany bar. 

    Conan, from behind the bar, raises his shot glass to his younger brother. “Here’s, to conduct unbecoming an officer.”

    Raising his shot, “Salute.” 

    Oldest brother Conan, long time proprietor of The Neighborhood Bar, with a tear in his eye nods, “It ain’t over til it’s over, boys.” Quietly, the trio throws back the first of many. 

    Together again for the first time since Jessie returned from the sea. Ryan boys, catching up on old times, are just getting started. And drinks keep coming and Friday becomes Saturday and Saturday becomes Sunday. . .

Don Robishaw’s collection of five FF tales found in, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest.

Don’s short story entitled,’Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat 2018 Chapbook Contest.

His work has also recently appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Drunk Monkeys, Literary Orphans, Crack-the-Spine, FFM, O’ Dark Thirty, among other venues.

Many of the characters he developed have been homeless, served for periods of time in the military, or are based upon archetypes or stereotypes he's met while on the road. He likes to write poetry, satire, tragedies, and gritty fictional tales — of men and women from various backgrounds — that may have sprouted from a seed, from his past.

Before he stopped working to write he ran educational programs for homeless shelters. Don's also well-traveled, using various ways and means: Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, hitchhiker, world traveler, college professor, and circus roustabout.