The Joke: A Daneson Fan Fiction “Pick”
Thompson let out a purposeful sigh when they pulled into town, dust kicking up as Nestor jerked the Bronco to a stop in front of what could only be called a watering hole. The dilapidated building looked like something out of Western, crooked sign (“Big Juan’s” in faded paint), dark windows and all. Shabby bleak.
“You sure this is it? Don’t look like much,” grumbled Thompson.
“Do you see another Big Juan’s anywhere? This is it. Besides, we’re not here for a drink,” replied Nestor.
It was around dusk, and the rest of the street was quiet, save for a few shifty teenagers passing around a bottle of nothing good. Thompson was already at the entrance and as Nestor stepped out, then tucked a small weathered leather case no bigger than his palm into his jacket pocket, trying not to attract any attention.
The bar, if you could call it that, was a dimly-lit room with ten stools crammed together, two pinball machines (Elvira’s House of Horrors and Jurassic Park), and a jukebox playing an old Electric Light Orchestra tune. Not bad, at least someone had some taste. To the right of the jukebox was a single door, cracked open just barely.
There were three other customers at one end of the bar, huddled together, somewhat menacingly, over their half-empty glasses. The bartender was the type of guy who was short but carried it with such swagger, you hardly noticed. They all glanced over at the newcomers, as ELO flipped to “Rio” by Duran Duran.
Nestor and Thompson took a seat at the bar and one of them called out, “Hey, couple of whiskeys, hold the rocks, one of them with a straw.” This was followed by muted laughter from down the bar, but no real response.
“What does it take to get a drink around here. This some sort of joke?” said the other of the two. Now that stirred up something, as the three heathens stood up and approached them. And not in a handshake sort of way.
“Now hold on, hold. We’re not looking for any trouble. We were told this was the place, for a certain something special. No joke, no horsing around.”
The bartender slowly made his way over, with the three customers holding steady. “I’m Big Juan, this is my place. Maybe that’s what we need around these parts, a joke. You got one?”
“A joke?” Thompson readied himself, although not sure for what.
Juan, without a trace of humor, “A joke. I’d hate for it not to be funny.”
Nestor budged in, “If we tell you something worth your time, can we get behind that pretty door?”
“Why yes, that’s how things work around these parts. You got any better ideas?” asked Juan, who seemed to be growing in stature by the second.
“Alright, I think I got one,” said Nestor, but Thompson looked panicked. “Hey everyone, relax,” continued Nestor, as he removed the leather container from his jacket.
This startled everyone, including Thompson, but all Nestor did was knock the case against the bar, as four, then five and then a final thick toothpick dropped out. “These are Daneson brand toothpicks, consider it a peace offering,” as he distributed the white birch wood to each man standing.
“This guy walks into a bar, looks around and realizes he’s the only customer. No biggie, he orders up a martini, just a splash of vermouth. The bartender brings him one, along with a bowl of bar snacks, and says, I have to grab some inventory in back, you ok out here for a few?” “No problem,” says the guy, “Take your time.” A few minutes go by and the man hears someone say, “You’re looking fine, you come here often?” “Ha, not much, actually this is my first time,” quips the man, but when he turns around he doesn’t see a soul. Strange, must’ve been my long day, he muses. He has a few peanuts and proceeds to finish the martini, but then hears, “That’s a swell shirt, it goes well with your skin tone, too.” Again, he turns to find himself all alone. Ok, what’s going on, he thinks, am I crazy, what type of gin was that anyway?? Just then, the bartender returns and asks if he’d like another martini. The man remarks, “I think I need another. It’s gonna sound strange, but I could swear someone’s talking to me… but well, nobody’s here but me and now you…” “Oh hey now, it’s all good,” says the bartender. “That’s just the peanuts, they’re complimentary.”
For a moment, the silence was deafening, then there was a break in the jukebox as “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” started up. Right then and there, Juan swirled his toothpick, flipped it once-over in his mouth, then remarked, “Tastes like bourbon, how do they do that?! I like the joke, too, didn’t know where you were going at first, we get so many “horse walks into a bar” types here, you wouldn’t believe it. But yours, that was deadpan good.”
Thompson wiped his brow as the three toughs let out slight smiles and picked their nicotine whites with what could only be described as a twinkle in their eyes. Thompson could almost swear the three were even swaying to Cyndi Lauper. “That’s all they really want, some fun, when the working day is done…”
Spirits lifted, bridgework clean, Big Juan motioned for Nestor and Thompson to meet him at the door.
He knocked three times, and the door creaked open just enough for the two of them to slide on in. And then they did.
fin