I was a lone biology undergrad from a college uptown who skipped most classes and read a bunch of junk. And I frequented this place.
“Adios, amigo.”
The engineer-at -large ambled out of the pub after having finished her last shot. “See you around.”
White noise echoed across the pub—the hum and chatter of the television and the people inside the bar seemingly attempting to outdo each other. The volume had been turned up, the loudest the idiot box glued to the walls would allow it to be, and the final leg of the Federation Cup was on for all to see.
The players were in top form. They had played undersized passes and ended with a few goals to count. “Yes!” cheered the crowd. “They played well. They missed a lot o passes though. And this was enough for us to avenge that year’s shameful defeat,” said one fan. “Both of them played defensively; dwarf passes and all. They brought this all the way from the pitches of the pitches of España, diga y despedida,” said another.
The tough chap sitting opposite my table ended up saying, “I can’t take this; acting like first year college kids when they’re playing professional ball! I lost 500, plus time.”
“Pass me a beer,” he said after a while. “Pass me the lighter too.” Pass me this and that; this seemed to be how the tough guy went.
A grumpy old guy on the counter opened his mouth displaying his caffeine-tainted teeth. He recalled a historic match that had taken place between the Brits and the Argentineans against the backdrop of the Falkland war. “It was then that Maradona had scored the Hand of God goal,” with a sugar-coated voice.
“Shut up, will you? I can’t hear myself think,” said a guy from one of the other groups in the bar. His comment created silence, a ‘pin drop’ silence one might add, in a place that was buzzing with noise only a moment ago. This silence was challenged by pooches barking at backpackers outside on the street. Another football buff suddenly stood up, opened the door with a thrust, stepped outside and slammed it hard. The night was growing older, like the old man on the counter. The fans now moved out, lighting their cigarettes, leaving behind only a few strangers.
The pub stood by one of midtown’s few engineering colleges. It was the kind that served the regular supply of liquor, fags, teas and in-betweens.
