A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

     Jason Caswell’s life was a model of regularity -- up at six every morning, at work at eight, lunch from one to one-thirty, and at home at six. His only period of “flextime” was between seven and eleven in the evening.  If at home, he would read, do some chores, listen to recordings, or have some friends over. In that case, his day ended around ten. Should he go out to a movie, concert, or play, he might not get to bed until eleven.  Weekends differed in activities, but not in schedule. He was single and had no wife or children to bend his time to their needs or wants.  In some quarters, his life might have been viewed as dull and flat, but Jason loved his work and was largely content. He would readily admit, however, that he was definitely risk averse. It is no wonder then that his job was as an actuary.

     One day, he thought about what it must be like to be up and out late at night and into the early morning. Did 2 a.m. faces look any different from 2 p.m. faces?  What was it like to hear the words “Last call” from a bartender? Did ham and eggs taste different in a diner at three in the morning than they did at seven? He’d never taken a vacation, so he decided to give himself one by becoming a late-niter for a night. In his mind, the word “nite” had a different connotation from the word “night.”

     He would need to take his vacation on a Friday night and Saturday morning. He checked the weather forecast to insure that his vacation would not get rained out. Business attire would obviously not work. Weekend casual would make him look like a tourist. He went to his favorite menswear store and asked one of the clerks what might be appropriate. “Mr. Caswell, I would think that for a man your age, khaki pants, a dressier t-shirt or sweatshirt of some sort, and a bomber jacket would do the trick. Unfortunately, we don’t sell any of those items here.” So, he went to a department store and asked a clerk in the men’s department who looked to be about his age if he could make some suggestions. The clerk came up with something for him. He learned what the previous clerk had meant by “dressier sweatshirt.”

     When he returned home from work on the Friday he had chosen, he took a nap, or at least rested his eyes. He put on his new “late-nite” outfit. As he got in his car to head downtown, his body registered instantly that something was “off.” There was a resistance, some inner force, urging him to reconsider. Even the car didn’t want to behave. He put all of his resolve into overcoming these apparent warnings.

     He found himself in one of the hipper areas of downtown at around eleven. It was buzzing with life. Unfortunately, the life it was buzzing with seemed to be almost entirely an under-thirty crowd, perhaps even under-twenty. Although he was only forty-two, he felt like a grandfather as he made his way through the maze of fake-i.d.’d post-adolescents. He walked around for a while, and then decided he needed to reinforce himself with some coffee. He saw a diner. It was packed, but he found a seat at the counter. he coffee was thick and acrid, so after three desperate sips he paid his bill and found himself on the street again. 

     He’d never smoked in his life, but decided that at least having a cigarette in his mouth might make him “fit in” more. He thought it ironic that teenagers begin smoking to appear older, while he was doing so to appear younger. He stopped at a store and purchased a pack.  After recovering from the “sticker shock” of the cigarettes, he opened the pack and removed one. He feigned “smoothness” as he attempted first to strike the match from the matchbook and then light his cigarette.  He recalled all the movies he had seen that were made in the 1950s, and tried to duplicate the finesse of Bogart or Gable, down to the way they would put out the match with their fingers. He sucked enough on the white tube to keep it lit, and exaggerated the waft of smoke coming from his mouth, but never his nose. He was experiencing the sensation of being suave and stupid looking at the same time.

    He stood in front of a rock club.  As he cared nothing for rock music, he decided to give it a pass. He asked an older couple if they knew of a jazz club in the area. They told him of one, so he decided that might suit him better. He entered the club, found a seat at a table and ordered a drink. Now, this was just like the movies,he thought. While he hardly expected to hear Dixieland, the slow, languid music that came from the stage was quite depressing. He glanced around at the small group in the audience. They all looked as though they were waiting for death but had missed the train. A singer came on stage and proved that you could even give the blues the blues. After it became clear that things weren’t about to liven up, he paid his check, once again experiencing sticker shock, and left. He glanced at his cellphone to check the time. He expected it might be around two in the morning or so. It was twelve-thirty.  

     At last,the first bright spot of the evening came upon him.The air felt different. here was a cool moistness about it that could not be found at any other time. He becamet rejuvenated and also a bit hungry, so once again, he headed for a diner. The crowd at this different diner was a bit sparser and a bit older. He fit in better here. He ordered a sandwich and a glass of water. He read the menu from front to back and back to front four times before his order came. His server was about as attentive as a gardener in a cactus farm. He had to wave her down at least four times before she got the hint and brought him the bill. Again, sticker shock. Perhaps it was the “grilled” in grilled cheese that raised the price, or perhaps because it was prefaced by the words “ye olde.”

     He glanced once more at his cellphone.Thanks to the protracted time spent at the diner, t it was now almost one-thirty. The nite was speeding by like a turtle crossing a road. He might be able to find a bar that closed at two so that he could hear those magical words, “Last call.” The streets were definitely thinning out as he conducted his search. He finally found a bar with a 2 a.m. closing time. He entered and went to the bar. Should he order an overpriced beer, or get a more,overpriced drink? He was on vacation, so he ordered a drink. Soon, a woman came up to the bar and cozied up to him. She smiled, and he smiled back. She placed a hand close to his and uttered the refreshingly original phrase, “Buy a girl a drink?” Jason quickly moved his hand away from hers and quietly responded that he was just about to leave, and that he knew a woman of her obvious quality wouldn’t want to drink alone. In one fell swoop, Jason broke three of the ten late-nite commandments – “Thou shalt not decline to ‘buy a girl a drink,’” “Thou shalt not leave a bar unaccompanied,” and "Thou SHALT bare false witness.” The third violation was only partial however, since she was obviously “a woman of obvious quality,” though he was genuinely trying to say something nice to her. The woman’s “come hither” look quickly evaporated, and she abruptly moved to another part of the bar.     

     After nursing his drink for what seemed to be thirty minutes, he finally heard the words “Last call.”  The phrase was so much less dramatic and affecting than it seemed on the movies. If he had been a director, he would have demanded another take, one with more “grit and world-weariness.”The bartender asked Jason if he’d like another. Jason told him to go ahead and pour him another one, words he’d never spoken before, and  would liklely never speak again. After another five minutes, the bartender came by and asked Jason to settle up his tab. He was settling up a tab--another new experience. The bartender  sarcastically asked Jason if he could call him a cab, as if he were an inebriated sot. (The second drink he had ordered sat on the bar barely tasted.) Jason didn’t get the sarcasm and thanked the bartender for his concern. He then paid for his drinks and left what he thought was a generous tip. The bartender gave him a menacing look and grabbed the money.  Jason almost felt that the man was about to throw the money back at him saying, “You probably need this more than I do. Drinks on the house.” But he didn’t. He just gave Jason a look.There was a hardness to late-nite that Jason didn’t care for.

   Jason left the bar and walked along now practically empty streets. The festive atmosphere of an earlier time had long since departed and the landscape had taken on a sinister air.

    Once more, Jason searched for a diner. He hoped to find an empty, but open, one so that he could place himself in an Edward Hopper painting. He smiled as he found one, but then remembered that people in Hopper paintings rarely smile. He sat at the end of the bar, drank his decaf coffee, and ate his ham and eggs. The coffee was actually good, and the ham and eggs did taste different at three than at seven. He savored his Hopper moment, paid the bill, leaving an extra-large tip. (After all, the diner was staying open just for him, and the cook, who doubled as server, probably only made enough to pay part of his monthly water bill that night.)

     It was now almost 4:00 on a Saturday morning. The streets were now vacant. He walked toward his car, glancing left and right as if muggers and drug dealers were lurking in every dark corner. Every sound was amplified by the quiet. He jumped at the least noise. A patrolman pounding his beat was a welcome sight. He made it to his car and drove home.

     When he arrived home, he barely recognized his house. The neighborhood was so quiet and still.. Only streetlights dimly broke the darkness. He was startled when he got to his front stoop and the door light automatically came on. He felt a bit like a stranger for some reason. As he placed the key in the lock, he hoped it would work. It did. He turned on the light in the living room, wondering if any neighbor might be looking out to see what was going on at Jason Caswell’s house. He half expected a police car to pull up any minute. He locked the front door and looked out the front window. There was no sign of a police car.

     Taking off his bomber jacket, he remembered the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. He removed the full pack, minus the two cigarettes he had “smoked,” from one of the pockets. He, the prodigal, late-nite sinner, wondered how he might redeem himself a little by recycling the cigarettes, but then decided just to toss them carelessly into the garbage bin.  He was still on vacation, after all.