textfiles/politics/lib

THE LIBERTY TREE PUB AND GRILLE
  by D. M. Hanna

  I know a place where the steaks are aged green with envy and 
the cook boils the potatoes in pure, salted butter. Not only that, 
both the whiskey and the beer are specialties of the house, served 
in generous steins, and sold at '76 prices. The clients of this 
establishment are wondrously uninhibited in their talk and song, and 
will encourage you to join their throng for some of both. Perhaps it 
sounds too amazing to be true, but you have my word on it; this place 
actually exists, and they call it the Liberty Tree Pub and Grille.

  The storefront doesn't look like a meetinghouse from the street, 
largely because there is no posted sign to draw the attention of 
passers-by. I am told an over zealous patron so dearly loved the place 
that he removed its placard a very long time ago and hid it in the 
atticroom. 

  The regulars were unaware of this fact until his last will and 
testament was found, where they read of the deception and learned of 
his last request. Feeling duty bound that his last wish be indulged, 
they fashioned the lid of his coffin with that very board. Imagine! 
This lovely old sot requested that he face that weather worn old 
plank and its faded pigments into eternity! 

  (Some believe that to be his penitence for a selfish act, but others 
consider it to have been his way of remaining near the glorious old 
tavern and friends. And a very few others wish they had thought of it 
first, and toast his memory quite often.)        

  Of course, they insist that the story is true, and have even offered 
to accompany me to the graveyard to exhume his plot, that I may add my 
initials to the lid and share witness. They tell me that it isn't 
necessary to dig the old coot up, but only to expose the top side of 
his box, as the sign was painted in the same fashion on both its sides. 
I have not yet consented to visiting the grave, but I, none-the-less, 
have faith in their account and believe them all to be trustworthy of 
their vouch.

  This and many other subjects are raised for discussion in that dear 
place, and I openly admit a growing fondness for its spirit and those 
who frequent there. Most of them have nearly taken up residence behind 
its seasoned oak doors, and even receive mail through its auspices 
almost daily. More than mere persons or acquaintances, these who 
welcome the newcomer with plenteous platters of hearty food, a 
bottomless mug, and an over-flowing passion for good talk and randy 
song have counted me as their friend, and have sworn me to their one 
and only rule: that admission into those rooms is by invitation only, 
and that such inclusion be for life.

  Keeping of this regulation is no hardship for me, as I have taken 
them all to my heart and cannot betray the spirit which abides there.

  Do not become downhearted, or regret reading this account with envy or 
longing. When I tell you of my own invitation to sup and song, you may 
well appreciate the whole of this experience and be better prepared to 
answer the call when that turn is yours.

  Know this also: what I tell you here is not a breech of privacy, or 
a treacherous act. These friends of mine are a patriotic bunch, and they 
do not fear the common man's approach, nor the tyranny of various human 
governments. As you continue to interpret the words written here, you 
will develop an understanding of the pub's immunity to such trivial 
matters, and you may well desire its protections all the more!

                            * * *
   
   My own inclusion began in this way:

  Nearly a full week's weather had remained so hot and muggy that a sane 
man could not find rest from its torment by night or day. I tell you 
honestly, that the daylight seared the early summer lawns brown despite 
the village gardener's best efforts, and the people's crops wilted for 
want of relief. Even in the darkness of middle night, the unbearable heat 
hung on like the breath of an iron forge freshly stoked. Day after 
blinding day and night after torturous night, the damning weather refused 
to give way to a cooler climate.
	
  Four cycles of this damnation caused my spouse and I to raise voices 
and utter foul words at one another -- just one too many times -- and I 
took my leave of home. Though the evening hour was late, I hoped to 
return some time later and avoid the bed, so as to escape a repeat of the 
scene. So out into the night I strode, like a proud cock with ruffled 
feathers and spurs sharpened for battle.
	
  Mind you, I was not looking to brawl, or locate another confrontation 
with anyone; I simply was of no mood to be targeted or succumb to a like 
challenge. 
	
  After some good many pavements had been sufficiently scuffed by my boots 
and my ire had been spent, the heat of the night reminded me that argument 
parches the throat, and I began searching for a parlor in which to quench 
my thirst. Much to my dismay, most all of them were closed at such a late 
hour, or not a welcome place for the likes of me. (Those of you who visit 
bars know that, though you may be served, you may not be welcome. The 
experience of straying into a closed fellowship can sour the palate and 
make the best of liquors far from satisfying.)
	
  Feeling quite dejected in my quest, I happened upon a public fountain 
which gushed up a ready stream of luke-warm water when I applied the tap. 
Though it was little compensation to my intent, I sipped enough to rinse 
and swallow, then cupped a small amount in one hand and splashed it in 
my face.
	
  And it was while I stood there, with water dripping from my face, that 
I was approached by the deliberate stranger in black cloak and hat. "I 
find that spring to be too brackish," he said, offering his handkerchief; 
"and you would look to be a man, who finds no pleasure from such a meager 
refreshment."
	
  "Thank you," I said, handing back the dampened cloth to its owner. "I 
admit, I found short comfort from the fount, but one does with what 
one finds."
	
  "Then your coming here was not an expressed intent, I take it," he 
muttered strolling away.
	
  Without hesitation, I walked beside him and matched his pace. "The 
truth be known, I was in search of stronger drink before I happened 
there. Unfortunate to my wants, I found no roadhouse to be open for me 
at this hour, so I accepted what was available." 
	
  Stopping under the next streetlamp, he turned and looked me full in 
the face, and I found his to be an appearance both cheerful and fatherly. 
"Are you sated, or would you require a stronger libation?"
	
  Here it was then: a solicitation from a gent altogether strange to me. 
A blend of fortune and fear washed over me while the chancer inside 
decided my fate.

  Being human presents us with these conflicting prompts so often that 
we should expect them, but it remains that we rarely do. Even when we 
may anticipate, or even secretly wish an invitation, committing to 
action can sicken the stomach. 

  Distrusting others more often means we suspect our own intentions, and 
all of us would find a better world for mankind if confidence were tender, 
rather than a game.

  "The stronger the better," I replied with a sheepish grin.
	
  "Splendid!" he returned, heartily clapping my shoulder. "I promise you 
a great recompense for your faith, my friend. Come with me, and I promise 
you a good stay."
	
  Walking together a number of streets and alleys, we exchanged common 
names and comments about the recent weather, but nothing more. When at 
last  we stopped just outside the storefront, it appeared to be abandoned 
and as silent as a pauper's grave. Fishing a key from his pocket, the man 
presented it to my attention much as a conjurer displays a coin prior to 
its disappearance. Without a word, he applied it to the doors lock, pulled 
it out again, and pushed the door open bidding me to enter before him.
	
  A better illusion I defy the best parlor magician to produce.

  Once inside the establishment, it was plain to see that the premises 
were far from deserted. For here were people engaged in a flurry of 
activities and imbibing in all manners of spirit. As we threaded our way 
through the room, I found myself glancing from face to face of people who 
seemed strangely familiar . Most of the patrons took no notice of us as 
my companion led me to a table in the back, and bid me to sit there while 
he spoke to the bartender.
	
  Sitting in the back of that room gave me a voyeurous vantage point of 
my surroundings, and I tried very hard to take it all in. Among those in 
attendance, only a very few were, it seemed, in quiet contemplation, and 
I noticed that their solitude was uninterrupted by the others. 
	
  Those others were engaged in conversations ranging from subdued to 
raucous, playing  games of chance and skill, or involved in entertainments 
that I could not well make out. One group in particular had enjoined a 
certain patron to accompany their song with music from a piano near the 
bar. Though I did not recognize the composition or recognize the lyrics, 
I found their spirituous rendering lent to the animation of the place. 
Before my associate returned with two sloshing mugs of frothy brew, I 
had surrendered myself over to the collective atmosphere of the Liberty 
Tree, and was glad for the experience.
	
  "Now then, my friend, a toast," he said, setting a stein before me 
and sitting himself at the table. "To our little vessel plying this sea 
of uncertainty; may your joining bring new wind to its sails, and bring 
our friendship safely to port."
	
  With smiles and a clink of cups, we sealed the thought and both drew 
long quaffs of the cold, dark contents. Much to my pleasure, I regarded 
the quality of that lager to be, perhaps, the best I have ever sampled. 
Unlike the bottled varieties commonly consumed, this brew contained an 
exceptional blend of barley and hops well malted, and a hint of oak.
	
  "Again, I find myself thanking you, Ben. For both the brew and the 
view."

  "The pleasure is mine, William."
	
  "A pleasure shared," I muttered after another sip. Quickly glancing 
around the room then back to my host I added, "This place is charming! 
I can't recall ever encountering quite the same atmosphere in a pub 
before."
	
  "So tell me Wil," he began; and while carefully rebalancing the 
bifocals on his nose, "how is it that you took to wandering the streets 
this night? Have you not a home?"
	
  "Oh, I'm not homeless, Ben," I stammered. "I was looking for a bar 
that would serve me." 
       
  "So you say," he whispered, leaning in close. "But is that all you 
were searching for?"
  
  A blush colored my cheeks and brought be sudden discomfort, before I 
replied, "I guess not."
	
  Ben sat back in his chair and eyed me closely, obviously yielding the 
forum to my use. A true introvert would have found the pause painful, 
but the talker foolishly takes center stage when invited.
	
  "The wife and I were disputing just before I left," I mumbled ashamedly. 
"For the life of me, I can't clearly remember how it began."
	
  "Do not be downhearted, Wil; that same thing happens to many each and 
every day," he replied in a soothing tone. "The beginnings of marital 
spats rarely matter. It's quite likely that a little thing disturbed you, 
and she reacted, as she thought best."
  
  "I didn't start it!" I shot back curtly, "I was miserable for the heat, 
and she could see it plainly!"
  
  Ben sat there quietly and waited for the realization to hit me. Just as 
he had said, she had known my distress and prompted me to `cool off,' as 
it were. A long, awkward moment passed while my embarrassment played out 
and I collected my wits. Before I continued, I finished off the last 
dregs of my beer.
  
  "Please excuse my outburst," I said sheepishly, "I apologize for not 
presenting myself in a good light."
  
  "No apologies are necessary," he chuckled, gently patting my arm. "I 
understand these things -- are you ready for another?"
  
  Realizing he meant another beer, I quickly offered to buy a round.
  
  "Your money is no good in here," he replied matter-of-factly, while 
signaling a barmaid with a wink and a nod. "I dare say, it is of 
questionable value outside these doors."
  
  As she threaded her way through the room, Ben once again leaned in 
close and said in confidential tones, "This dear lass' name is Eva, 
and I warn you now to not avoid her advances."
  
  An unintelligent blurt of, "What?" passed my lips before he quipped, 
"Listen and learn."
  
  Once at the table, she quickly set the tray on its top and plopped 
down in Ben's lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around his neck. 
"You nasty old man," she said with a grin. "How is it that your master 
turned loose your leash this night?" (All the while, I could not help 
but notice that his hand had strayed to cup the breast of her frock, 
and that her right hand now reached to his lap under the table.)

  "Never you mind girl," he chortled, turning her to face me. "I have 
the pleasure of introducing you to William, a newcomer in the home. 
William, I present to you the saucy wench of the Tree, Missy Eva."
  
  In an instant, she was out of his lap and into mine. (In much the 
same way as with Ben; in interest of modesty, dear reader, I will 
not elaborate further on the matter.) Finding myself in such an intimate 
position, I fought down the urge to react adversely and caressed her 
posterior in exchange.
  
  "And who's pet are you?" she giggled, leaning in deliciously close 
and cooing. "Give us a kiss."
  
  I implore the reader to understand that it is not my practice, nor 
my intent, to seek out the affections of women other than my wife. But 
when confronted by the likes of Eva, this beautiful and vibrant soul, 
I admit to succumbing to that private urge every man secretly holds, 
and letting that thought power my greeting.

  Thereafter, she remained in my lap and leaned on the tabletop with 
her elbows.  The scent of her lilac perfume filled the air around me, 
and the taste of her mint flavored mouth danced on my tongue. Addressing 
my companion, she said, "Would you do us a favor old man? Had you 
noticed poor Jack over there, starring glumly in his beer? Mind you, 
now, I welcomed him this evening, but I think the misses and he have 
been at it again. Would you be a dear and draw him into your company?"
  
  "I'll do what I can," Ben said sincerely with a wink and a smile. 
"You just tell the old bastard to come meet Wil, or he and his foul 
funk will be out on the street."
  
  Like a shot, she popped out of my lap, kissed him affectionately, and 
deposited the pitcher of beer on the table. "You're a dear old fart," 
she chirped at him, then turned to me. "Sweet William, are you hungry? 
I can cook for you, and it would be a pleasure," she said with a wink.
  
  Raising the pitcher to pour, I told her no thank you, and she went 
to replenishing our mugs, with Ben's being filled first. Much as her 
approach, her leave was -- well . . . an event.
  
  "Well done," Ben muttered with a sly grin. "Though she presents 
herself much as a bawdy streetwalker, you'll come to know that it's 
just her nature. Many a man has thought that her advances were leading 
upstairs, but she has yet to slake that thirst in any man I know."
  
  "I met her sister-in-kind in my school years," I mused while setting 
down the pitcher and taking up my stein. With brief description, I told 
Ben about Lynne, and how I relished her sweet kisses and caresses in the 
privacy of the cloakroom so many years ago. Speaking of her was like 
composing a sonnet, and old Ben listened intently as I rambled on. When 
at last I returned from my indulgence, I found that our number had 
increased by not one, but two, and felt chagrin for my lapse in control.
  
  "*She* is a wonder," said the first, offering me his hand to shake. 
"I'm James to the collectors, and Jim to friends. Though I was not 
formally invited to join you, I hope you'll accept my company."

  His handshake was intriguing, and showed the influence of a 
`brotherhood'. Still, he made no covert signal to the others at my 
fumbling response at its finish, so I felt well received. Quickly I 
gave him my name and turned my attention back to Ben.
  
  "And this sullen old shit is John, called Jack. Jack! Show your better 
nature and welcome Wil to our fold."
  
  A hasty glance, the flash of a smile, and a mumbled, "Howd-a-do," was 
all the offer he made before returning to the depths of his mug. 
  
  "What was it this time, friend Jack," muttered Jim, putting his arm 
around John's shoulders, "insult or assault?"

  John turned and glared (and I think he may have growled), and Jim 
pulled his arm back in mock defense.

  "Come now, Jacko," chuckled Ben, "you abuse the privilege of the house 
when courting a mood like this. Remember Richard's blunder in these 
hallowed halls? I doubt you are ready to turn in your key."  Then he 
leaned in close and whispered something that I couldn't make out, but 
I'm sure John did. Because suddenly -- without a word in return -- John 
was up out of his chair and heading for the door.

  When he went out it, both Jim and Ben were laughing, and I was alone 
in my confusion.

  I'm sure it showed, because Ben looked at me as if to say `boo' 
then spoke in a loud, boisterous tone. "Curious of my advice to him 
concerning the wife, my man? For if you are, I can give you much the 
same."
  
  "Ask him . . . Willie, ask him!" urged Jim with a devil's gleam in 
his eyes. "There can be no doubt that he's right, and old John knows 
it! Truly, Wil, Ben's known more ladyfriends than any ten men you'll 
know, and that's because he knows a surefire truth in dealings of we 
two breeds."
  
  Hesitating to ask, made the table's silence near unbearable for me, 
as it was obvious that these two wanted so desperately to let the cat 
out of the bag. I'm sure they would have remained near bursting their 
shirt buttons waiting for curiosity to gut me, an so, to release the 
tension, I asked.
  
  "Go home and apologize," was all Ben answered in a proud, sure voice.

  Jim burst into laughter and fell to the floor.

  "I don't get it," I whined in return. "I don't understand any of 
it! That's all you said? `Go home and apologize?' It doesn't make any 
sense! That poor man storms out, mad as blazes at that? And you're 
proud? And you!" I called to Jim, who was just now pulling himself 
back up from below and laughing just a trifle less. "What's so funny? 
I am sorry, gentlemen, but I fail to see the humor, or the pride to be 
had, OR the value of the so called *advice*!"
  
  And now I found them both laughing at me, (at ME); and I felt confusion 
laced with frustration fill-out to ire intent -- towards them both! 
Included out and vexed, I teetered on the verge of walking out myself!

  "Calm down now, William, and open your mind! Surely you cannot think 
we to be sadists at your or Jack's expense! Drink up!" he called, as 
Jim replenished my mug, then Ben's and his own. "You're young, just as 
was Jim when he first heard the same sad song from me, and if he could 
keep from laughing, I'm sure he'd tell you the same explanation. Drink-
up, and I will make you understand."
  
  Before he continued, the mood of our table became quite secure, as 
if he were about to impart some sacred wisdom to the initiates. In 
retrospect, I imagine it was Jim's abrupt sobriety which caused me to 
relax enough to listen.

  "Now listen, young man, and I will justify the advice you scoffed 
off -- and you best heed it in your own affairs, so that you'll find 
Jim's release, and not Jack's crotchety glum! `Go home and apologize' 
is the only answer that will matter to a caring spouse, whether it be 
husband or wife." 
  
  "Look at your own dire straits, lad. Do you recall how you happened 
to be walking these streets this night? Same matter as John's, was it 
not? Of course it was! And can you remember what first got your dander 
up? Can you?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And what was it?"
  
  "You told me I started the argument," I replied.
  
  "No! I told you that what started the spat didn't matter! And I also 
told you she paid you a kindness by sending you on your way. Don't you 
see? I can tell the dear sweet girl loves you, or she couldn't have let 
you go out and change your mind -- or to make it up, whichever." 

  Ben paused to swig his beer, then went on, "Wil, you told me yourself 
that the weather had got you irked, and she saw she could do precious 
little to soothe or please. You took her advice and went out into the 
night; a bit of a walk to vent excess energy, a nip of spirits to sweat 
out the ire -- and she may well suspect you to be discussing it with the 
likes of me." Again he paused to quaff his beer. "Preaching is a thirsty 
business!" (He took one more swig for good measure.) "William, I can tell 
you this: When you get home, with the stench of fine ale on your breath 
and the scent of another woman on your clothing, you'll have plenty to 
remind you why you're sorry."
  
  The sudden realization that Eva had pressed her luscious perfumed self 
square in the middle of my clothing hit me like a lightning bolt, and 
I'm sure that it showed, because Jim started laughing once again.
  
  "Oh, now son, don't be afraid! We haven't set you up for a fall, and 
the misses won't kill you straight off! Ask Jim here about my advice; 
he'll tell you of its worth."
  
  "It's true," he chortled with a great grin. "Women are wiser than men 
because they know less and understand more -- it's a fact! She will know 
that you feel like a fool, and if you admit it, you'll be home free!" 
(I first looked at him, and then at Ben, then looked once again to Jim 
as if to say, `promise?') "Trust us, Wil-boy! This man knows his women."
  
  "But, I still don't understand why John left in such a huff -- or why 
you were hysterical!"        
  
  "John hates to admit when he's wrong," resigned Jim.
  
  "As he often is," added Ben, "and we know his dear Dolly dearly loves 
to be reminded of her right action in his care."
  
  "It drives him to lunacy!" Jim exclaimed as he began laughing once again.
  
  "And Jimmy's laughter should tell you that the same matter still causes 
him distress. Laughter is a release, my boy! We men-folk are taught to 
avoid sobbing in public, where a lady's tears are well accepted. And the 
ladies learn quite the opposite -- it's a queer, simple difference between 
the two! But don't muddy the waters, or you'll pay a damning price!"
  
  "Muddy the waters? How?"
  
  Ben reached into his pocket and drew out the key to the front door and 
slid it across the table to me. "Go home and apologize for your ill 
temper, and remember that penitence is good for the soul. If you feel 
remorseful of your devilish fury and it aches your stomach, let your 
tears sog her frock; and accept it that she does her best for you. Tell 
her you've been foolish, and ask her how she knew -- and thank the lovely 
girl whether she tells you her intuitions or not!"
  
  "Just one other thing," Jim toned, devoid of snigger or smile, "don't 
laugh. You have my word on that!"
  
  Ben seemed just as sober, and added nothing but a nod. I stood up, 
pocketed the key, downed the last of my brew, and bid them ado.

                            * * *
  
  All the way home that night, I thought about it. I considered giving 
her reasons, but thought better of them because none could serve as 
more than a feeble excuse. 
  
  Stepping in the door, I found her sitting by the window, swaying in 
her rocking chair and looking worried. Straight off, I found myself 
apologizing for being such a bastard and taking out my bad temper on 
her. I confessed that I was childish, and that I didn't know what was 
best for me. And all during my admissions, I had the gnawing childish 
monster of shame, and fear, and foolish pride struggling to claw his 
way up and out of my belly. And when, at last, he found release, bled 
from my eyes in a great torrent of tears, she was careful to wipe his 
ugliness and misery well off my cheeks, and rock me in her arms until 
he was gone.
  
  I had forgotten when first my lover saw me crying, but I remembered 
it just now . . . and I think our closest moments have been when we 
both shared a cry . . . .

  Laughter among friends can serve to entertain and convey jitters, but 
tears shared among loved ones wash away the grief we carry in our souls
. . . women know this almost instinctively, but we little boys have to 
learn it over and over again till . . . .

  As to the pub, I can only tell you this: if she detected the telltale 
signs of drink or debauchery, she never mentioned them, and we both lost 
track of time that night. Upon the next day's dawning, I seriously 
doubted that the place even existed -- that is, until the key fell from 
my pocket and onto the floor.
  
  Looking much like a fob, I have attached it to my pocketwatch for 
safe keeping, and will visit there again . . . that next night, when 
the master sends the boy in me out to play.   

                             # # #
             
Copyright 1994 D. M. Hanna
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Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on
witing for his soul income. He enjoys writing both SF as well as main-
stream short stories. He has a novel in progress, and when taking a break, 
works on his shorts. You will see more of his work in RUNE'S RAG.
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