Parlour Tricks

      I've been travelling a lot and I've become famous in some pretty odd circles. It's not unusual for me to blow into town and be hit right away with four or five tempting offers from admirers of my work. I've learned there are things you look for in an invitation. Promises of complimentary service offset travel costs, but promises of unusual access is better. Everyone wants a write up, so it's tit for tat, as they say.
      When I blew into Seattle last time a friend of a friend told me about a bar called the Parlour.  She said that the owner would open up the back room for me, and added that this was a special treat; no one was allowed back there, not even staff.  How could I resist?
      My first question, upon arrival, was "How?"  How had they obtained the proper permits for a bar in the historic Underground?  How did it receive deliveries?  My friend, whom we will call Samantha, told me not to worry.  The owner had all the answers.  To my credit, I did not roll my eyes.
      The proprietor was exactly as I'd expected, which, at first, amused me.  The Seattle Underground is a tourist trap for people who find enclosed spaces thrilling and delight in the safe, historical distance of seedy history.  Who better to own a bar there than this man: ponytail, padlock goatee, white shirt, brown vest?  There was the glint of gold at the back of his smile and the glint of silver at the edge of his eye.  I put out a hand to introduce myself, but before I could finish, he clapped his over my back and said, "Oh, I know who you are."
      "Come inside," he said.  "I've got the finest collection in this world or any other and tonight it's all for you."  How could I refuse?
      You don't need the details of how much I drank.  The short version is it was a lot and Samantha had passed out long before our host began bringing by the really rare stuff.  I hadn't even heard of some of it.  We were finishing what I'm told was rum made when Barbados was a British colony when my host leaned across the table showing both of his glints and said, "So how's about it?  Do you want to experience the full collection?"
      With dignity and gravitas, I giggled and nodded.
      The bar, I should mention, looked old.  Every inch of it was period from a period before I was born.  Its furniture was a hodgepodge of battered antiques, its light fixtures hung like refugees of the great bars of the past.  Maybe they were.  Regardless, every wall was mirrored and each mirror was stunning and perfect.  There were no glassblower's distortions, no tarnished silver backings.  There weren't even smudges.
      The proprietor walked to one such wall and, producing a cloth from his waist apron, pushed.  The glass pivoted and I saw the depths of a room beyond.  He raised his head and tilted his eyebrows as if to say, "Go on."  I did.
      The room beyond was immense.  It was the size of an airport hanger or a Sams club, but full of rich old wooden shelves full of bottles.  It was the whole world's history of liquor.  When one passes through a hidden door one expects a bit of a hall and maybe a musty store room.  One does not expect to see one's whole life's work laid out for them.  I stopped, the strength sapped from me.  I had a million questions but what I asked was, "How?"
      The proprietor laughed again and said, "Vigilance and addiction make strange bedfellows," or something to that effect.  I was stunned and drunk and not paying much attention.  He put one hand on my shoulder and stretched the other out to the room at large.  "Take any bottle you like," he said, "and we shall drink it in my private sitting room."
      You don't want to know how long it took me to decide on something but I picked an absinthe, which pleased my host.  He claimed it was bottled in 1876 and I was skeptical of him then.  I am not now.
      He led me, clutching this very old, very green spirit, through the dusky backing of another mirror door.  He pushed it open and held out his big hand as if to say, "After you."  When I walked through, it closed behind me.
      I found myself in a room full of other men and women.  I believe that some of them are not human, but I could not tell you what they are, other than alcoholics with good palates.  They tell me this room, which looks just like the bar on the other side is the true collection: the fanciest drunks in the universe.
      At the time of my writing this, I'm still here.  It's taken me forty napkins to get this story down and my pen is running dry.  This bar is exactly the same as the one I came in save one difference.  There is a small window in the far wall that each of us strange drunken creatures staggers over to from time to time.  Through it all we see is stars.