Pigs at a Bar

Isma’il sat down at the bar. A man behind the bar approached him. The bartender seemed slightly frightened by Isma’il for reasons he could not explain. It could have had something to do with his race, being that he was from the Middle East, or it could have been because of how Isma’il looked with his hair covering his face and his tattered clothing hanging on his body uncomfortably. Isma’il did not recognize the fear coming from the bartender. Often in America he was discriminated against, so a small dose of fear from a bartender was nothing to him.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” The Bartender asked.

Looking up from the counter top, Isma’il spoke slowly. “A glass of water would be
fine, thank you.”

Reassured by his kindness, the bartender smiled and poured Isma’il a glass of water and placed it on the counter in front him. Isma’il took a small sip. The bartender pulled a chair behind the bar and took a seat in front of Isma’il. Taking another sip, Isma’il stared questioningly at the bartender.

“Do not take such a strong interest in me,” Isma’il said, through his thick
accent. “I am no terrorist. Just a simple man Turkey.”

“You don’t look simple to me, sir. In fact, you look like someone who has lived a truly full life.”

Isma’il did not understand what the bartender meant. He knew English as if it were his native language, but he did not understand some of the idioms that Americans often used. The credit of this misfortune goes to Isma’il’s English teacher who taught him 15th century British.

“Could you rephrase that please? I did not fully understand what you were trying to
say.”

“You look like an interesting man. Someone who could tell stories about his life or something. I guess you just look like a man with an intriguing history.”

“You’ve got that right,” Isma’il said taking another sip from his glass.

Closing his eyes, Isma’il pictured himself back home before he set off on his quest for a new life. He was standing outside his house in a small town outside of Istanbul. Being so close to such a great city usually meant a great deal of tourists. On the particular day Isma’il was picturing, there were no tourists. All that was around him was
the sound of busy men at work.

“Hey,” the bartender said. “Earth to Iran!”

“What did you just call me?” Isma’il said opening his eyes. There was an edge to his voice now. A frustration that could go nowhere good. “I am from Turkey, pislik.”

“pardon?”

“I said I am from Turkey, then called you an asshole,” Isma’il said sharply.

“My apologies, sir,” the bartender said, slightly embarrassed. “Is there
anything else I can get you?”

“peace and quiet.”

Isma’il stood up from his stool and grabbed his glass of water. He turned away from the bar and walked to an empty table near the back of the bar. He strongly hoped that the bartender would not get under his skin anymore. Having once lived with a similar man, Isma’il had lost all his patience for men with an aptitude for such annoyance.

He would have left that bar the moment that the bartender started to speak to him,
but unfortunately, Isma’il was waiting for a friend, Na’im, to arrive. Na’im
had only recently traveled from Turkey
to visit his best friend. Isma’il had begun to regret ever coming to this bar
and not just meeting Na’im at a restaurant. Even though Na’im was not
comfortable in a formal setting, Isma’il would have taken much rather put his
friend through hell than put up with pigs at a bar.

The reason for Isma’il looking like he had been through a lot in his life was to try to make people take no interest in him. Obviously, his plan backfired. Not knowing about Bar People Customs, he was unsure how to dress and what would help him be less approachable, so he decided to just go with what he knew about the upper class society and how they avert their attention away from such
disgust.

Isma’il took another sip of his water. Peering around him, he found that he was the only man in the entire bar aside from the bartender. Looking at the empty tables and booths, he quickly realized why. Everything had a layer of dust on it as if the place hadn’t been cleaned in years. This was very odd to Isma’il. Never before had he seemed to find a bar that that tried so hard to find ways of keeping costumers away.

The bartender noticed Isma’il’s observation. He glared at the Turkish man, and then turned to face the wall behind the bar. He picked up a rag and a glass. With frustration, he cleaned the glass. Looking back at Isma’il he saw that he was being watched intensely. With even more anger, he continued the clean the glass. After a few more turns of the rag, he pushed a little too hard and it broke, cutting the bartender’s finger.

”Damn!” he said under his breath.

”Something wrong?” Isma’il said uncomfortably. He did not expect himself to ask that.

”Everything is fine,” the bartender replied, speaking over his shoulder.

Standing up from his seat at the back of the bar, Isma’il made his way back to the bar. Snapping his fingers, he summoned the bartender to him. The bartender looked at him confused. Isma’il raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly to reassure the bartender that he wanted to help. The bartender turned to face him.

”Refill my glass,” Isma’il said sternly.

Disgusted by Isma’il’s attitude and harsh treatment, the bartender grabbed the nozzle below the counter and pointed it above the glass. Pushing the water button, he refilled the glass three quarters of the way to the brim. Glaring at Isma’il again, he put the nozzle back.

”Grab some salt.”

More anger flared inside the bartender. He did not understand why Isma’il required salt. The Turkish man had nothing to put salt on. Reaching under the counter again, he pulled up salt and slammed it on the table in front of his only costumer. Isma’il rotated the top of the salt shaker until it was off. Smiling, he poured a fourth of the contents of the salt shaker into the glass of water. Putting the top back on the shaker, Isma’il handed it back the grudging bartender.

”Stick your wounded finger in there,” Isma’il insisted. “It will sting like a bitch, so be prepared.

The bartender did as he was told with reluctance. He was unsure what this was going to do to him. In the 30 years he had lived, he had not once ever heard of sticking a bleeding finger in salt water. To be hearing it from a Turkish man that seemed to have a great dislike for him, it was hard to trust that this would do anything.

”Go ahead,” Isma’il said. “I have lived long and seen a lot. One of the things I have learned over my years of travel is that when you bleed, you put peroxide on it. When there is none around, you make your own remedy which is here before you now. Salt water will clean the wound and help it heal quicker.”

Sticking his finger in the water, he shut his eyes tight and let out a loud scream. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experience. It did not last long though. After a few seconds, the excruciating pain dulled down and he was able to open his eyes again. Looking at the glass with salt water in it, he saw that his blood had shrouded the water making it impossible to see through.

”Haha,” Isma’il laughed. “I told you it was going to sting. I learned that from a young woman in Scotland back in the 1890’s.”

”1890’s?” the bartender said in disbelief. “You mean 1990’s right?”

”No, I meant the late 19th century.”

”Sir, you do not look any older than I. In fact, you look younger.”

”Evet, I do.”

”Evet?” the bartender said, unsure if he had said that correctly. “Is that Turkish for yes?”

”Indeed…eh…what is your name?”

”Elliot, but my friends think that is old fashioned, so they call me El. I guess it is more masculine?”

”I disagree, your name is very masculine. My name is Isma’il. Sorry for my rude behavior before. I do not usually come to places like this. I do not like being around pigs at bars. From the looks of it, neither do you?”

”Evet?”

”Ah, we learn something everyday, even old men like me.”

”You say you were around in the 1890’s. That makes me wonder how old you are and if you need to be checked into Funny Farm.”

”I do not need to be checked into a mental institution, El. And if it gives you an idea of how old I am, I am the man who thought that Istanbul would make a good name for the Constantinople.”

”So you live forever, correct?”

”Evet, but only to view the world as a place to explore and enjoy, not waging war in.”

”I was right about you,” Elliot said. “You can tell stories, stories unlike any man on this planet.”

”Would you like to hear a few?” Isma’il offered. “I have some time before my friend Na’im gets here.”

“Of course I would. It would be my pleasure.”

“Where would you like to start, El?”

“The beginning. How was it that you acquired the ability to live forever? Or how was it that you learned that you have this gift?”

“Ahaha,” Isma’il laughed. “I do not remember much. I will do my best to retain the information for you, though.