In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,76
another discharge at the same moment you watch, marveling, the sun illuminating another rainbow.
In dealing with the rain, there is no planning or waiting things out or consulting the weather report. You just live with the downpour, surrender to it, cavort in it. And forget umbrellas—here they are mauled by the rain, outflanked by it.
As awe-inspiring as the rains have been, they’ve only slightly resembled the legendary rain-forest torrents of my mind’s eye. When I say this to Ocean Fallsers, they chuckle. But then, in a more sober, ominous tone, they inform me that, yes, I have seen nothing yet.
In Ocean Falls, one of the smallest communities in Canada—a place tucked into the back of a maritime cul-de-sac no one’s ever heard of, and condemned to crushing isolation as if in a dress rehearsal for the apocalypse—there is a bar. Or it is what one might be tempted to call a bar—but is, by name, a saloon.
Saggo’s Saloon, Rob and Corrina tell me, is like no other drinking establishment on the planet. For one, it’s open only on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings—and from only four o’clock to seven o’clock at that. Unless, of course, its owner, thirty-six-year-old Bartender Bob, the youngest person in Ocean Falls, is having a bad day and decides to kick everyone out. Or unless the place runs out of beer, in which case everyone will still have to leave. The saloon’s burgundy shag rug, from the age of disco, wafts the aroma of cigarette smoke—as smoking is still unofficially permitted there.
The day after my conversation with Darellbear I find the no-frills watering hole—an old brown wooden bungalow located down the road from the lodge. Apart from a small, hard-to-read sign beside the door, there is no indication that the former Standard Oil fuel station is now Ocean Falls’ reluctant tavern.
Inside, the place looks and feels like an unmaintained legionnaire’s hall from the seventies. Several people, a mix of older men and women, sit at roadhouse-style chairs and tables, the kind you often see in bar brawls in movies.
I find Rob Darke sitting at the bar, which is manned by an uncomfortable-looking man who, I conclude, is the owner, Bartender Bob. The portly and somewhat swarthy gentleman is hunched over the bar, sipping from a straw in a tumbler glass. “Black Magic Woman” plays from an old television set behind him, tuned to one of those cable TV stations that run generic music round the clock. A few old and nearly empty bottles of liquor line the shelf behind him. A shredded dartboard, a sickly pair of mounted antlers, and a derelict billiards table complete the tableau.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Rob says.
I take a seat at the bar beside Rob and make eye contact with the bartender, who’s wearing a wide smirk on his face: a smile tinged with cynicism and something bordering on contempt. Rob introduces me to Bartender Bob and tells me it’s Bob’s birthday. I shake the barman’s hand, wishing him well.
“Thanks,” he says. “Want a beer?” He reaches below the counter and extracts a generic-looking can, placing it on the countertop with a loud thud. The label reads “Lucky Lager.” I notice that everyone else in the bar is drinking it. “Five bucks,” Bartender Bob says.
“Just put it on my bill,” Rob says, and Bartender Bob gives me another questionable look and marks the sale in his notebook.
Saggo’s owner remains uneasy and slightly combative with everyone, until a few other locals come into the saloon bearing mood-altering birthday gifts: potato salad, sausage rolls, cashews, and those small liquor bottles you get on airplanes. As the loot accumulates, Bob’s temper changes for the better.
An older man with a black eye patch stumbles in. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt, ripped around his stomach, with “Christos Glass” written on it.
“How long till last call today, Bob?” the man asks.
“It’s my birthday, Tim, so I’ll probably keep her open for an extra half hour today.”
“Bullshit! Gimme three of whatever you got,” he says to Bob, before noticing me and approaching, coming to within inches of my face.
“I know I got an eye patch on right now and it looks like I’m blind,” he says, pointing at his patch. “But I’m just getting my eye fixed.” With that, he grabs his three cans of Lucky in a fat choke hold and carries them over to a table, where a barnacled old man greets him with a yellow-toothed smile. The old man snatches one of the beers and