From ogre@iglou.iglou.com Sun Jan 21 18:28:11 EST 1996
Newsgroups: soc.singles
Subject: Re: Hey, Ogre!
Message-ID: 
Organization: Old Jack's Subjugated Plain Bar and Grille

In article <4ds6mo$bt6@news.missouri.edu>,
Trish Roberts  wrote:
>We have a famous person in our midst.  Reading Auden in the tub, I come 
>across:
>
>"The Ogre does what ogres can,
>Deeds quite impossible for Man,
>But one prize is beyond his reach,
>The Ogre cannot master Speech.
>About a subjugated plain,
>Among its desperate and slain,
>The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
>While drivel gushes from his lips."
>
>So, where'd you meet Wystan, Sonny?

Oh, is that who that was...

It was a dismal night - blustery, rainy, cold.  Not a fit
night out for madmen nor English dogs, as the saying doesn't
go (which, now that I think about it, goes quite a long way
toward explaining what I was doing out...)

I hadn't intended to end up at that particular tavern, I just
got caught in a downdraft, and blown a bit off course.  Still,
I knew the place well, and, finding myself unexpectedly upon
the doorstep, picked myself up and walked in.

It took a while for the rain to stop dripping out of my hair
into my eyes, so it was some time before I could really get a
good look at my surroundings.  By then I was halfway through
my first pint at the bar, so I just swivelled round on the
stool and surveyed the place.  Quite a few regulars, I
noticed, nodding at the ones I knew.  Couple of folks I didn't
know but had seen before; one, in particular, that I hadn't.

"Who's the new guy?" I asked Meg, the barmaid, turning back
round.  She glanced past me at the man, his dishevelled hair,
his wild, staring eyes - could be he always looked like that,
but I just figured he'd gotten a close-up look at Mary, one of
the serving "wenches" - and wordlessly gave me the universal sign
for "Beats the hell out of me, he just wandered in and started
drinkin'."

Things were quiet for a while.  This place is like that,
usually; folks are there to mind their own business, or flirt
with the wenches, or lose their minds in a couple of pints of
the bitter.  Most excitement that usually happens in a night is
when someone gets a little too carried away, and Old Jack (the
one behind the bar that most newcomers mistake for a petrified
tree) steps in to quiet things down.  He doesn't mind his
customers having a bit of fun, Old Jack, but he doesn't run a
brothel.  (That's his sister, Jill.)

Anyway, things were quiet for a bit, 'til this newcomer took
it into his head to start reciting some kind of poetry, or
song, or something.  You could tell that by then whatever'd
been on his mind when he came in was gone with his latest
bottle.  Wouldn't have been any trouble, most nights, but I
guess that night people just didn't want to have to listen to
him.  So I looked over at Old Jack, and Old Jack looked over
at me, and I slid off my stool and wandered over to the
stranger's table.

When I got closer, I could make out a few bits of what the guy
was trying to say - something like 'weep no more but pity me'.
Bit of a downer, I thought, thinking he was reminiscing about a
lost love, but then that's probably why he was here, just like the
rest of us...

Now, by this time, I'd had five or six (or seven or eight) of
Old Jack's best Scotch Ales, and maybe a barley wine or two
(I never was one for keepin' a count), so I'm afraid I was
probably feeling rather more conversational than coherent.
Anyway, I sat myself down across from the stranger and proceeded
to try to inform him that his mumbling was beginning to disturb
some of the other customers, and that he probably didn't want to
know what would happen to him if they got good 'n riled.

He leaned across the table, motioned me close, and spat in my
face.  I pushed the table aside, picked him up by his ankles,
swung him around and threw him into a wall.  Then he stood up,
stalked back over, and bought me a drink.  I don't remember much
of what we talked about, after that, except that he bought a
few rounds of drinks, and I bought a few more, and by the time
we stumbled out of Old Jack's into the morning light the storm
had just about blown itself out.

Funny, for some reason I never saw him again,...

Wonder how Old Jack would like having his place called a
'subjugated plain'.  Probably have a new sign made up for the
front, he would.  And even I have to admit that 'desperate and
slain' does pretty well describe the clientele...

(I'd rather not elaborate on the 'Deeds quite impossible for Man'
bit, except perhaps to say that, as far as I can remember,
they involve a serving maid with a particular reputation, and
a few well-placed rumours...)

>He certainly knows you quite well.

Nah, he didn't see the *real* me.  He only got to see the
sensitive, caring side...

-- 

- "Pipeline", the Alan Parsons Project