A square bar ringed with booths -- soft light, no mirrors and heavy dark brown wood. It’s also silent. It’s like a cave. The perfect place to go have coffee and breakfast when you don’t want to go home. See, going home between 5AM and 7AM is tricky because there are all these monks walking around accepting gifts of food from businesses and people who live in whatever neighborhood you happen to be in. Who knows why but I am terrified of monks. So Lone Star is a sort of sanctuary and also an excellent excuse to stay out. Unfortunately this is how you wake up confused in a short-time hotel on Christmas Eve day sometimes but that’s okay for today. Plus they like me in there, I know it.
More about the bar: every time I’ve been there, the owner, who is 83 years old and has to -- has to -- weigh 400lbs, is either starting or ending his day in the first booth, gasping for breath and getting a vigorous back massage from one of the three girls working. The patrons start to trickle in around 7:00. These are old men. In fact I'm pretty sure a big reason the girls working there like having me around is that I don’t talk to them about stool samples.
The last time I was there (my third time in 4 months or so) I finally spoke to the owner guy. I had to, basically because it’s just me, the girls serving drinks and him sitting around, and if the girls all remember my name he must at least remember that I have been in before. It’s not like I’ve seen anyone else in there before 6. So to be polite I said, “How ya doin’? I love your bar. It may be my favorite bar in the whole city.” And he says, “Ahhh….I’m a sick bastard.” This is while this girl Yun is giving him the back rub, she’s actually standing in the booth as he sits on the edge of the seat because he can’t fit into it. He’s enormous. I say, “Yeah, well … that‘s okay. It’s Bangkok. So how long have you owned this place?”
“Forty three years”
“Wow. And what part of the states are you from?”
“Cleveland but it’s been years since I been there.” He lets out a long sigh, “I’m a sick, sick bastard.”
Now really awful images are crowding my mind, I mean he keeps saying what a sick bastard he is. And he obviously feels some need to confess to me. I say, “Hey we’re all sick man, don’t be so hard on yourself.” But in my mind, really, the worst images.
We fall silent again. I order some chili. As I’m eating it, a customer comes in, a guy with white hair and a newspaper in his hand. He says hello to George (the owner as I learn his name) – “How are ya today, George?” and George hisses for a minute and finally says, “My stomach … pain … I’m a sick bastard.” The customer goes, “Oh Jesus, are you all right? Do you need to go to the hospital?” and George says, “Yeah, get me a driver.”
The last thing that happened, after George went off to the hospital, was this brawny old Russian guy came in. He looked normal but after saying about three things to me he decided he wanted me to fight him over the lack of napkins at the bar or something. I was like, “Huh? Um …it’s like 7AM, isn’t it? You’re 70 and I haven’t been in a fight since the first grade.” Then the driver-getter came out of the bathroom, saw the Russian guy and screamed, “Jesus Christ! Derek! You know you’re not allowed in here! If George saw you he’d kill us all now get the hell out!” and the guy practically vanished into thin air he was gone so fast. Then somebody asked me a question about politics so I got the hell out of there myself.
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