putterings 347 < 348 > 349 index
Most bartenders, Fin reflects, are in perpetual motion, ever busy
“What about confronting him?” he asks. “Unstunting him?”
“No way. Not open. Locked into his ways of doing things . . . I think we’re both concluding that maybe it was a mistake.”
Fin’s wincing eyebrows confine his sight to his drink, which he savors with an extended sip, until his gaze wanders over to the bartender, leaning perfectly still over the bar, staring out at the snow. Most bartenders, Fin reflects, are in perpetual motion, ever busy — no end of puttering — a way, he supposes, of dealing with being ever on display. But this one, God bless him, is bent upon his elbow, Russian mustache drooping, staring out, lost in reverie, his inky hair as lightless as a crypt. Y-van, Fin nearly calls. “You know, Sam, though it’s from a distance, I like Peter.”
ex Huck Fairman, Tales of the City : St. Mary’s Bar and Slipshod Watchman (2007) : 68 : link
Fairman is a novelist, writer, poet (and environmentalist) : huckfairman.com