malodorous

It seems like I helped him clean his brother’s bar for years. He would wake me with roughly a half hour to dress and prepare myself before we would drive out to the next town. The sun was still on the other side of the globe. I wouldn’t see it for another few hours. At first I was too young to care much about being tired and as I grew older I would sacrifice the lack of sleep for some quality time while he erased the exploits of the alcohol-enriched patrons of the night before.

The drive there never took long, but was longer after the years caught up to him and he drove far slower than the marked limits. Memories from the mornings, spanning the years, blend together in a puddle of fond experiences. The mornings at the bar may have helped shape my affinity for small, local bars over chain drink-dealers and crowded clubs. Later, I would meet someone who frequented the bar and remembered my great uncle, the owner, as the man that chewed glasses for the entertainment value.

I never witnessed the spectacle of such an event. In the early mornings, the only remnants of the night before were the mud-caked linoleum and the smell. The odor hit me as soon as the door swung open. Now I can equate it to the morning after a raucous house party, but at the time there was no smell quite like the one wafting from within. The cloud of stale beer, body odor, smoke, spilled liquor, and over-used bathrooms was enough to tickle the gag reflex, but within moments sensory adaptation would take hold.

In the early years, I’d barely help. I couldn’t reach the bar, wasn’t strong enough to mop, and wasn’t allowed to use the powerful chemicals necessary to battle the bathroom. I would wander from the shuffleboard bowling table, brushing the silica around with my fingers, to the dartboard, tossing the plastic projectiles with no hope of accuracy, and to the pool table where I could roll the balls into pockets for most of our time there.

Once I was able, I’d wipe and polish the bar, sink, and stools. I’d run rags over the pool table, dart machine, and the few tables to clear them of dried beer and food crumbs. I’d help wipe down the bathroom and restock the paper. I’d bag the aluminum cans, even with the concentrated smell, and bring them around back.

No matter how much I helped, I’d always find an inexplicably large amount of coin money throughout the piles of dust. Various denominations littered the floor and bar. The bar, the size of a large living room, would somehow produce a few dollars. First, I thought people were far more irresponsible with their money than even I. Over the years, I came to realize it was more likely that he was dropping the coins as he cleaned ahead of me. He never admitted as much, though.

Just before mopping, after which the morning cleanse would be complete, he’d walk behind the bar and purchase a few pull-tabs. He considered it my compensation for helping him through the last couple hours. I would sit on the stool, like any self-respecting adult, and slowly pull away the cardboard strips to reveal the financial windfall that I was sure awaited me. I never won more than twenty dollars, but the experience was an exclamation point to the experience.

I grew into my teens, and into the selfish absorption that comes with them. I was too cool, too old, too tired, too anything to avoid the fetid, stale air and menial labor. My cousins took over assisting him rinse, mop, and polish.

Now he’s unable to clean the bar, doesn’t drive, and barely walks. It’s been over a decade since I last walked into the cloud of stink that is my great uncle’s bar. Still, sometimes when the smell of stale beer crosses my nose or I wake in darkness, I’m nine again. I’m wiping the pool table, spinning on the stool, or mopping the floors. I’m talking with him about things I don’t remember. I’m surrounded by the stench of smoke, beer, and any number of cleansers. In those split seconds, when I’m back in time at the corner bar, I’m reassured.