Her dark page boy haircut stood out among the permed and bleached bouffants circling the bar. Crocodile skin heels as opposed to white cross-trainers. Her only ring was a huge turquoise stone ensconced in sterling rather than a small diamond solitare set in cheap gold. The arrogance of having risen above this blue collar town cloyed like the wafting cigarette smoke. Aislin's affluence offended many lining the bar as they turned to watch her and Duke walk in.
Aislin faced the bar, and stared at the neon domestic beer signs, NASCAR plaques, an infamous picture of Babe Ruth, and small placards denoting fried delicasies served in red plastic baskets. Each person's face was cast with an eerie red glow; each one marked by bad marriages and multiple children. Familiar faces from high school telling the familiar stories. The bartender, a large man with COOP tattooed down his forearm, walked up and nodded to her. He looked like an ex-boyfriend and probably was. Aislin had been popular with the opposite sex in the days before college--a lucky combination of running five miles daily and the Irish baby feeding breasts.
Aislin stared down the bar and catalogued familiar bottles. "Absolut Mandarian, tonic, and a twist of lemon."
"And for you, son?"
Duke looked her with a befuddled look.
"An Irish car bomb for my friend here," Aislin said.
"ID, son."
Duke pulled his driver's license from a ratty brown wallet and slid it across the bar picutre side down. Coop furrowed his brow, looked at the ID, and returned it as delivered. Aislin considered grabbing his ID to end the suspense, but felt it might violate some sort of trust.
They sat in silence until the drinks arrived. Aislin squeezed her lemon into the drink with two dainty fingers and patted them on her cocktail napkin. Duke watched this ritual before dropping the Baileys shot into the beer and drinking it in two swallows.
"You drink like my dog."
"Excuse me?"
"Alfred gulps Guinness like a normal dog takes to a bone."
"What does he do with a bone?"
"Sniffs it and walks away wondering why I didn't make him a steak too."
Duke laughed. The loud speaker played decade old hits. Men still wore flannel shirts as if the god of grunge was alive. Mullets were worn with pride. The psuedo businessman at the end of the bar wore a cheap gold tie tack.
Duke stared into his glass as if the answer was hidden in the foam.
"Hey, Coop! Another Guinness."
Duke started to speak, but Aislin interrupted him, "You know, I never hear confession when alcohol is involved. Let's just enjoy our beverages and take in the atmosphere."
"Why's that?"
"You seem so above all this. Bad beer, bad hair, and everyone smokes."
"I always felt like I was adopted from some fabulous Park Avenue couple. But this ... Iowa shapes my art. Middle America is exactly that, the middle: where high meets low and intelligence meets the bootstrap myth."
"The what?"
"The myth that every man can make something of himself by the leverage of his bootstraps. Work hard and you will be rewarded with the American dream."
Duke frowned.
"It takes more than your own ingenuity to get by these days."
Not the movie to watch when your personal life is falling apart and you have no faith in modern relationships.
