The Perfect Game: #16 on the Tour

The Bar: The Perfect Game

The Address 64 Water Street

The price 7 dollars. This was my mistake, because I got boondoggled a wee bit. She asked me what kind of gin I wanted, do I want Tanqueray? And I said, whatever, it doesn’t matter. That was not the right answer. I should have said, no, not that effete over wrought spirit, I will have what is kept in the Purgatory of the Well. But I got Tanqueray, and a very pricey drink..

Did they ask me if I wanted a lime: Miracle of miracles, I just got one without her asking.

What was the type of gin: It was Tanqueray. Like I said. Tanqueray, despite myself.

What was the gin and tonic like: It was fine. Flavor, not too much ice, right amount of tonic. But, as I will say later, I drank faster than I should have. Drink faster, Dante, drink faster.

The Joint: This is a sports bar, with a capital bahhhhh. It has brick walls, a big bar, tvs all over the joint. There is a second room for diners, but everyone, about ten or so, were at the bar, which is a U shaped model. I have a thing for brick wall, former factory sites, and I skew  favorable to places like this more than I should, but there you go.

General Impressions: I was here for seven minutes, only because I could not drink fast enough. The first couple of minutes. these were that honeymoon period, that blessed moment.

It was a nice night, six o’clock on a June Sunday. There were a few tables outside on the sidewalk, getting that Worcester Elan vibe. The tables were empty except for one old guy with a wine glass that he was slowly working at. After a few minutes he got up and slowly, slowly, almost painfully got to his feet and navigated the task of reaching out his hand and grasping his wine glass. He then slowly slowly turned and slouched shuffle stepped to the bar area. We were all watching the progress. A youngish guy at the bar smiled teeth and said “Hey, you finish the marathon the other day?” He laughed hard at what he said. The old man just kept shuffling to an open stool. “You finish the marathon?” the youngish guy asked again and brayed laughter.  The old sat next to an old woman eating a sandwich and fries. “He doesn’t know what you’re saying,” she said quietly. The youngish guy said, “Hey, you finish the marathon?” The old guy looked confused. Not drunk confused, but suffering through years of dementia confused. He said, “I won it.” This got the youngish guy and others to laugh hard.

I found myself in the middle of a long story. I am not a regular, so I am in the sixth or seventh chapter in a long tale that I have not read. I don’t know what I am watching, but the laughter being emitted was not a kind type. The youngish guy repeated how great it was that he finished the race and laughed and laughed. The old woman said, “He doesn’t remember the story he told. He doesn’t remember.” The youngish guy laughed at this as well. The bartender nodded and said in a slightly uncomfortable fashion, “It was a funny story.”

I don’t know what the story the old dementia man said, and the thing I could tell, is that he doesn’t know the story either. There was more laughter, more comments on the guy who didn’t know he was being laughed at. He sat blankly sipping at his wine.

I drank my gin and tonic like I was desperate for it, I needed to leave. It is amazing to think that I saw this happy mocking of the old man in just three minutes of me sitting there. Was I just lucky to see this, or is that how the bar at Perfect Game is? I don’t know. I don’t care. I was gone before I could even consider the question.

Will I come back: No. The fries looked good, but no. No.


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