Color of Blood(21)

He kept walking, noticing the unusual odors of a foreign city—even the auto exhaust had a stronger diesel odor about it. He kept a steady, almost heady pace with the few commuters he encountered.

Crossing the street turned out to be dangerous for Dennis; twice he forced cars to swerve around him as he looked left instead of right as he crossed.

After a while, he found himself across the street from an ornate brick building; it was lit up spectacularly like a night launch at Cape Canaveral. At the top of the three-story, corner building was a Victorian cupola with the word Hotel lit up. He could see people inside a pub on the ground floor, and he made his way toward it.

He found an open spot at the bar, ordered one of the beers he saw on tap, and glanced down the bar. Some men were alone, savoring every sip of their ice-cold beers before they headed home for dinner with the family. A few old-timers hunkered expertly over their beers, elbows planted firmly on the mahogany, looking like they were just starting a long evening of imbibing.

Groups of young men and women did what they did in bars everywhere: laugh, flirt, and drink very fast.

Dennis moved quickly through his first drink, taking in the surroundings and feeling vague amusement at the energy level of the pub. Most traditional businessmen’s bars he haunted around Northern Virginia and DC were glum, quiet places for settling in for a night of CNN or meaningless sporting events on the TV above the bar.

This pub had some serious drinkers, he could see, but also a smattering of young people giving it a celebratory feel.

“You a Yank?” the man to his right asked.

Dennis turned to see a tall, smiling, leather-faced man in his late sixties.

“Yeah,” Dennis said. “How can you tell?”

“Your accent, mate.”

“Ha. I barely said anything.”

“Doesn’t take much.” The man smiled. “Name’s Rusty.”

Dennis reached out and introduced himself, conflicted about whether he was up for company. Sometimes Dennis simply wanted to sit at a bar by himself, nurse his drink in near-isolation, and go home. Other times, he could talk for hours with a stranger about the most arcane subjects except, of course, politics and religion. Those two subjects are verboten to public drinkers everywhere.

“Here on business or pleasure?” Rusty asked.

“Definitely business. Always business; I never travel for pleasure.”

“Ah, then, you’ve come to the right place,” he said. “In Perth you can work and enjoy yourself at the same time. It’s a bonza place: one of the best cities in the Western world. It’s our best kept secret, Dennis, and we’d just as well keep it that way.”

“Well, if I could get used to the cars driving on the other side of the street, I might actually survive this trip,” Dennis said. “I think I was almost hit three times coming here.”

“Ah, right. Every now and then a tourist is struck crossing the street. Bloody unfortunate, I’d say.”

Dennis found himself drawn into an entirely pleasant conversation with Rusty, who displayed the proper bar etiquette that made for engaging, noncontroversial discourse. Besides, Rusty started using Dennis’s name immediately, making him feel even more comfortable. He was the perfect, distanced companion for Dennis.

Perhaps it was his strange mood, or maybe it was Rusty’s gentle, welcoming behavior, but Dennis soon found himself acting very un-Dennis-like. He blurted out the litany of his travails, from his wife’s death to his depression, and even his problems with his boss.

Rusty was very attentive and commiserated with Dennis.

“Ah well, Dennis,” he said, “a death in the family is a real tough one. But you’re still tickin’, mate! You know, my wife passed away three years ago. It’s been a tough few years, but I feel like I’m coming out of my shell now.”

“What helped you get through it?” Dennis asked.

“Well, my religion helped some,” Rusty said. “I was raised Catholic. It’s the only religion I know. Just going to Mass every Sunday, sitting there and contemplating life’s challenges—about our miniscule little lives in this great universe—well, it helped.”

“I don’t go to church,” Dennis said. “Hell, maybe I should start.”

“And my family was helpful. My three grown children were very attentive and kept me busy. And there’s nothing like playing with your grandchildren to take your mind off your own problems and be reminded that life continues.”

“I don’t have much of a family,” Dennis said. “Just a daughter, and we’re not really close.”

“Well, get close, then,” Rusty said effusively. “What are you waiting for?”

“I mean, it’d be kind of weird for me to suddenly start acting like we’ve been so tight all these years,” he said. “I mean, how do you just do that?”

“Nonsense,” Rusty said. “You just do it. There’s no bloody book on how to do these things; you just do it, mate. The worst thing you can do is not try.”

Dennis looked at his bar mate. “Rusty, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m retired. Been retired for years.”

“What did you do when you did work?”

“I was an upholsterer.”

“What did you upholster?” Dennis asked.