Snow Dream

March 7, 2015
Alcedo Cristata

Somewhere in the tropics. A bar, quiet, sweating, air so heavy the ceiling fans can hardly move it. The skinny bartender in a wife-beater leans on his elbow, back to the room, looking up to where a screen might be; but there’s no screen. Two men, side-by-side but a stool in between. Both in hoarse tropical shirts – parrots, toucans, hornbills, kingfishers plash through yellow skies – colorless cargo pants, sandals. Half-eaten beer in front of one – thick gray hair, bristling mustache, tan and almost fit; pastel white fizz in front of the other – bald, glasses, pale, quiet.

     But it’s the quiet one talking, if only a buzz above a whisper: “What I don’t get . . . .” He sips his drink. “Maybe I don’t want to get it.” Puts it down. “It’s  interesting though . . . .” Another sip.  “You’re right,” the other guy says.  “Look at us.”