Poofs in the Sand

All those months preparing, waiting, contemplating, debating, worrying about the plethora of potential outcomes. Putting the envelope to his forehead to shield his vision from the blinding rays of midday sun, Jim looked out at the dusty road before him. Miles and miles of endless nothingness, he thought, an expanse of purgatorial desert. Behind him, the bar which he had lived in stood on its foundation like an old man leaning over his walker. “Michaelson’s”, the establishment named aptly after the constructer’s family name, which happened to be his own, seemed to reek history. Or rather absorb the history of its original town, he thought. Ceiling logs and support beams littered the surrounding area around the bar. Planks of wood rose like masts of sunken ships out of a sand-filled sea. And, like other explorers before him, Jim Michaelson was going to set out in search of something new. Something fresh. He looked at the return address again. Academy of Art in San Francisco.

“That the letter?”a guttural voice asked. Jim saw Uncle Pete approach the porch with a case of Three Floyd’s Dreadnaught under each arm. Uncle Pete was the cornerstone of a character he drew out for a comic book; the character being Heimlaff the Barbarian. Heimlaff was a perfect mirror to his uncle: a tall fellow, with arms resembling battering rams and a gut like a cask of wine.  “Here, help me with them cases.”

“Yes sir,” was the reply as he trekked towards the beat-up pickup. What used to be a blue Ford now garnished a rusty tan from years of elemental exposure. Jim’s finger tore the top of the envelope as he fished the letter out.

“Uncle Pete! I got into the Illustration Program!” Jim said.

“Hey, congrats boy! I know you were lookin’ forward to hearin’ back from them artsy people. Before you pick that case up,” Uncle Pete called, jogging towards the truck, “I gotta ask; are you sure you wanna leave, boy?”

“You’ve seen my sketchbooks Uncle Pete; you’ve seen the stuff I come up with.”

“That ain’t the question I asked.” Uncle Pete said.

“Well…I mean I don’t want to be a bartender the rest of my life.”

“I understand that, but…here let me tell you about Frank. He worked at the Grab N’ Go down the road for years, even before you came around. Picked up and left one day, talkin’ about becoming a sculptor or somethin’. Just out of the blue, ya know? Anyway, his family ain’t hear from him in a while, then one day he calls ‘em up, sayin’ he’s tryin’ to get his art off the ground and, get this, workin’ at a 7-11 in the mean time. Apparently still workin’ there, with no statues neither. All I’m sayin’, Jim, is think long and hard ‘bout what you’re doin’. Family’s all ya got sometimes ya know,” Uncle Pete said, then he hoisted a case on his shoulder and turned towards the decrepit-looking bar.

Uncle Pete is right though, Jim thought. Even though I’ve been saving hard earned tips and drawing every day before my shift, working hard to hone my craft, what comes first? Would I be abandoning him? Dad said he’s ok with me leaving if I got in, but he said it the same way he told me Mom died. It was all in his face. Dad’s mouth would talk, but his eyes never met his. They bore holes into his feet instead. Jim looked at the letter once again. If he wanted to make it there on time for orientation, he needed to catch a bus to Flagstaff by tomorrow. It was going to take him a while to cross into California and work his way up the coast. Jim watched a brown and white spotted roadrunner dart behind the wooden spires. He thought about his own feet bolting for the big cities, walking down a path of artistic fame with his father watching him leave.

“He’s growin’ up, Danny. You know this.” Pete said as he stacked case after case behind the bar. Daniel nodded, wiping down the bar counter.

“I did have a talk with the kid. Mentioned how important family is. We’re all we’ve got and all that,” Pete said, the bar doors closing as he left. Daniel’s washcloth stopped mid-wipe. “Michaelson’s” has been in the family for five generations. Hell, its Jim’s birthright to inherit this place one day.

Daniel continued wiping down the oak counter top and thought about how he worked hard to build “Michaelson’s” up. The interior was completely refurbished, with the wooden walls giving off a rustic feeling, while relics from the pub’s past hung on the walls and behind the bar itself. A stuffed black bear stood upright in one corner; its maw open in a vicious roar, while pool cues rested on mounted racks against the opposite wall. A picture of Theodore Michaelson, Daniel’s great-grandfather, lay propped against a bottle of McCarthy’s Single Malt Whiskey. Daniel looked around at all the improvements to the bar he made. Even though the customers consisted mainly of bikers and some local folk, Daniel didn’t seem to mind. He liked the fact that “Michaelson’s” was a well-kept secret. It let him appreciate his work and accomplishments. But what of Jim? Daniel picked up Theodore’s picture and looked at the ancestor who started all of this. He stood tall and proud on the bar’s porch and, even in the grainy grayscale photograph, Daniel could make out a smile. It was then he realized that the two of them looked remarkably similar since he decided to grow a moustache a few years back. He smiled, and appreciated following in his father’s footsteps, as well as his great-grandfather’s.

Pete walked into the pub, another case on his shoulder. Jim followed, letter and case in arm. As Pete put the case down and walked out, Jim placed his case against the wall and approached the bar.

“Hey Dad, umm, can I talk to you?”

“Uncle Pete just told me. I’m proud of you son.” Daniel said, his washcloth never stopping.

“Thanks. I have to make a decision by tonight in order to catch buses and all.”

“I see.”

“I really want to do this Dad.”

“I know you do,” Daniel replied. Jim looked at his father before taking the letter and walking towards the staircase that led to his room.

His eyes never left the surface he was cleaning, Jim thought, and now, like a yellow-bellied scallywag, I’m jumping ship. He lay, for what could be the last time in a long time, on his twin mattress, staring up at his very own Iron Maiden artwork. He loved the painstaking detail he put into every wrinkle on Eddie’s undead face, much more than he loved serving drinks on a busy night. It was about time he navigated his own ship for once, but the thought of abandoning his crew of dusty sailors and venturing into unknown waters was daunting.

Jim leaned over and pulled out a large sketchbook from under his bed. Sitting up, he grinned as page after page of his artwork appeared before him. He didn’t just treat these drawings as comically doodles; they were artistic. He obsessed over the dynamic shading of his work, making sure to get everything just as he wanted it. When it came to his art, he was a perfectionist. Every contour line and spot of ink had to be right.

But what of the pub? Jim looked at the Academy’s letter on his desk then noticed the still life of the bar mug, brimming with beer and foam, to the left. This was his home, his anchor,  where he grew up and learned how to bartend as well as draw.  He remembered sketching the facial expressions of customers on bar napkins when the rush died. It had always been about art, bartending, and family. Leaving “Michaelson’s” would mean leaving the Michaelsons.

Glancing over to his small stack of comic art books which introduced him to Jack Kirby, Carl Barks, and Neal Adams, Jim started gathering his sketchbooks. As he piled his most recent drawings together, he paused as his hands came upon a frame. It was a photograph of him when he was 17, standing next to his father. Wow, Jim thought, that seems like ages ago. They were standing in front of the bar. Row after row of bottles were lit up by the backlight. This must’ve been just after the renovation, Jim concluded. As he was about to put the picture back down, Jim noticed something. Something he hadn’t really seen before in the picture. He studied the photograph more closely. While he was looking at the camera, giving the photographer a huge smile, his father was not looking at the camera. He was smiling of course; the reconstruction of the pub had been a massive feat, but his eyes were locked on to Jim. He was smiling at Jim.

“Pete!” Daniel called as he walked up from the cellar to stock the shelves, “Get your ass in gear!”

“Aw, come on Danny.” Pete said as he leaned back against the bar, “You and I both know that the rush ain’t gonna be here for another few hours. Take a load off, big guy.” As Daniel put bottle after bottle under the counter, he knew his younger brother was right. The main crowds from the nearby town didn’t show up until ten usually, and it was only six. But everything had to be just right.

“Take some pride in your family name, will ya?” Daniel said. Pete stood a little straighter.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. We did all this work on Dad’s bar, on Granddad’s bar, and it’s like you don’t even care. I’m the one doing all the preparations! What do you do? Serve drinks and gather tips.”

“All right. Spill. What’s eatin’ ya?” Pete asked. He approached Daniel.

“Nothin’. Just thinking about all this work. There’s always a lot to get done. You know?”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” Pete nodded, “But sometimes no matter how hard ya work, in the end, you gotta realize ya did what ya could. It was like when we went shootin’ at Rhine’s Field. We hit as many cans as we could with one clip, and that was that. There were times when we both missed a few, but hey, that’s life buddy. Use what ya got in the clip, cause there sure as shit ain’t much else ya got.”

“Yeah…” Daniel said automatically as he put the last bottle away. He felt Pete’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sometimes takin’ risks could end in success, like that old guy over there,” Pete said, motioning to the photograph of their great-grandfather. “I’ll bring up some ice. Breathe for a second.” Pete said. He turned and walked to the cellar. Daniel stood up and sighed. Use what you got. That’s definitely what Theodore Michaelson did. He used all the pennies he had to build a business for himself and his family. He’s the one that started all of this, Daniel reflected as he looked around the interior of the bar. This all started with him. Daniel remembered sitting on his father’s lap among the barrels in the cellar when he was young, listening to tales about Great-Grandpa Theodore.  His father regaled him with stories of Theodore Michaelson setting out to provide comfort and entertainment for people, while making a living for himself and his new family. He gathered some men from the local area, farmers and tradesmen mostly, and constructed the first “Michaelson’s” pub. Daniel thought about his ancestor as well as himself. He used what he had as well. When he realized the bar needed to be fixed, what did he do? He acted just like Theodore Michaelson and got the job done. Life is like that a lot, Daniel pondered as he straightened some bottles so the labels were facing the customers, just doing what you have to do.

What would Miranda say about that kind of thinking, Daniel thought as picked his wife’s picture off of the mantle. What a woman; brown hair, dark like the wood used for the bar, traveled down her back. Like a surprise downpour, Daniel remembered his wife vividly. The cloud that was Miranda consisted of numerous quirky and unique drops, one of those drops being her love for collecting different kinds of cacti. Daniel always asked her about that every time he saw her lightly watering her spiky plants.

“Why a cactus, Miranda?”

“Easy,” Miranda would say grinning, “a cactus just is. They do what they can to survive. They’re just themselves, and nothing more. They don’t ask for a lot of space or a lot of water. They just are, and if your patient with them, sometimes a flower will bloom.”

Daniel placed the picture of his wife besides an Orange Cactus. He went to go on preparing for tonight, remembering that he watered the Orange Cactus earlier. Now it was time to let it bloom.

Sunset arrived. Jim stood in the doorway of Michaelson’s, peering out at the darkening vista and enjoying the cooling temperature. His mind felt like a miniature maelstrom, but the sound of jangling spurs tickled his eardrums, breaking the spell over him. Jim turned to see his father cleaning a glass mug in the doorway. The slow circular motions of the dishcloth did nothing to hide the emotion surging out of his aged eyes. The barkeep nodded towards his son, his only son, and turned away to continue his tasks. The tired man stopped suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Daniel Michaelson remembered when his son was born. He remembered his son running around in overalls chasing little sand tornadoes, or as he called them “sand poofs”. He remembered his son climbing up on barstools and being overjoyed when he could sit proudly at the bar like a big boy. He remembered when his son started getting into heavy metal and saved up enough money to buy his first albums, and proceed to redraw the album art on each and every one. He remembered his son learning how to bartend with flair; flipping shakers and glasses like a professional member of a touring circus troupe. Now, as it dawned upon him that Jim was 22, Daniel forced this image into his head as another memory to cherish. Jim embraced him, and although the surrounding area was one of earth and their clothes were adorned with patches of dust, water entered the scene like flash flood. They let go, and tears streamed down on to Daniel’s thick mustache.

Jim Michaelson smiled at his father, this big proud man who he managed to make cry. Taking the glass from his hand, he flipped it behind his back and handed it back to him. His father smiled as the glass exchanged hands. Jim mouthed the words “Good-bye” before adjusting the pack on his back and turning to walk down the dust-covered road, towards the setting sun. Daniel watched his son trek onward from the creaking porch before putting rag to glass once again. Curious, he found a small folded piece of paper wedged towards the bottom of the bar glass. He looked towards his son again, walking against the browns of the sand, the blues of the sky, and the reds and oranges of the fiery sun, and grinned as he opened the note:

I’m confident that when I stand on my own,

You’ll see the truest form of a man when I’m shining through.