Writings: Witness

“Look familiar,” I asked, pushing the mug shot across the bar in front of me.

The barkeep looked at the photo, her hands wiping down a glass with a towel. The bar itself was nothing special, a largish room with a couple of pool tables in the corner, booths and tables, dim lighting. A corner stage was raised inches off the floor, and a couple of guys in jeans and t-shirts were assembling a drum kit. A blonde woman sat at the far end of the bar, steadfastly ignoring the guy in the cowboy boots who was trying to talk to her. The bar, stretched along one wall, was a solid piece of dark, oiled wood.

It was one of those places that cater to the blue-collar crowd. Beer, country music, pool. A place of peace and friendship, a refuge from the strain of a hard day’s work and the stress of a home life of barely getting by. I’m sure the barkeep knew the names of everyone who’d come in here more than twice. Good people, mostly solid members of society who just want to work, drive their trucks, and provide for their families. People like that tend to keep to themselves when strangers come by.

Which usually makes my job harder than it should be.

 “No,” she replied, her eyes barely flicking over the mug shot before turning back to wiping the glass.

I took a pull on my beer. The walls were covered with pictures, images of the barkeep with several famous musicians.  Even someone uncultured like me recognized many of them. Each photo showed the barkeep, usually smiling, the musician’s arm around her shoulder. Each one was signed, dated, neatly framed, and bolted to the wall.

She looked almost the same in each photo – hair a constant light blond, sparkling blue eyes, the older photos had fewer wrinkles. There was always someone on the other side of the musician. A man, about the same age as the barkeep with a square jaw and a neutral expression. He projected a certain solidity. Someone you could trust.

The recent photos only had the barkeep and the musician. The man wasn’t in them.

I pointed to one of the photos – one with a famous country star with a beard that reached to his belt - with the beer bottle. “Who’s that in the pics? With you and all the people?”

She didn’t look at me, but answered, her hands still occupied with wiping down that glass. “Roy, my husband. We bought this place – lordy – musta been thirty years ago. We ran it together.”

“What happened to him?”

“Killed crossing the street out front a couple of years ago. Hit and run. Cops say it was probably a drunk driver.” She kept cleaning that same damned glass, not looking up, her voice barely loud enough to hear over the honky-tonk song coming from the jukebox.

“That sucks,” I mumbled.  I stool, tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you see this guy.” I picked up the photo and turned to go.

“What did he do?” I looked back, saw her staring at me with those blue eyes.  The same eyes as in the earlier photos, but lacking that sparkle, lacking that smile.

“He jumped bail. He was arrested for getting drunk and running over an eight-year old kid.”

I waited, silently, meeting her gaze.

“Lemme see that photo again,” she said. “I think I might recognize him.”