Paid In Full

PAID IN FULL

One of the cities where I lived during my earlier adult years was well-known for the many small "Mom & Pop" type bars and taverns that dotted the neighborhoods throughout the city's residential areas. These were typically clean little establishments like the one depicted in the old "Archie Bunker's Place" TV sitcom.

Since these were some of my lonelier days, I was known to frequent one of these bars with a good deal of regularity. I remember it as the place where my love for Haggard & Jones songs was cultivated. The jukebox was loaded with the good old drinkin' & cheatin' songs made popular by so many classic country artists of the day. I wasn't above crying a tear in my beer at times, although the times were relatively good as I look back.

These bars were a source of comfort to so many, who otherwise might have gone friendless. As the city's population was constantly shifting, friendships were hard to develop in traditional settings. So, it was here that many came to share what would have otherwise been an evening of solitude. A few of those friends have stayed in contact even today. It wasn't just the men who came. I met several women who became good friends for a time. I grew a lot in many ways during those days.

In addition to the jukebox, a dartboard was attached to a backroom wall, while a heavy punching bag was hung from the ceiling in another corner. Frustrations from loneliness and rejection were often high, so these activities were always as popular as the pool table and pinball machine upstairs. No matter your state of mind, there was relief to be found at the neighborhood bars. People were usually open to meeting new friends and talking through the issues they faced.

As this city was known for its ethnic diversity, it wasn't uncommon to share a place at the bar with someone of any variety of descent. It made no difference to us. We each had reasons for coming, and people faced similar difficulties whether white, black, yellow, or green. We all got along and looked forward to each other's company. One particular middle-aged Asian man sticks out clearly in my memories. He came every Wednesday evening like clockwork. He was a small-framed friendly man, who always wore nicely pressed black slacks and the kind of silk print shirts his nationality was known to wear. We never knew his Christian name, but Mr. Wang quickly became a well-liked presence at the bar.

Wang, as we called him, had immigrated to America at the end of the Vietnam Conflict. He earned his citizenship and was as proud of it as anyone in the room. Wang was a salesman for an obscure marketing company selling things of which we were unaware. But, as a sideline, he carried a little black bag similar to the ones doctors used to carry during the time house calls were still made. At eight o'clock each Wednesday evening, he "set up shop" at a table in a quiet corner of the first floor, across from the bar. He sold a wide variety of worthless items that somehow were often in demand. It was generally the kind of thing you'd use as an ice-breaker gift for a girl you were trying to get close to. Men were often eagerly awaiting Wang's arrival each week.

He was a showman without equal. But, after his last customer had been served, he became "one of us", ready to laugh, tease, and listen to his friends as they sat with him at a table or his normal spot and the far end of the bar. If Wang were to miss a Wednesday evening, it was quickly noticed, and an answer for his absence was quickly sought out. We never learned much about Wang's life away from the bar, which was surprising, given his penchant for talking and sharing conversations with friends. We were just happy that he came.

Although his inventory would often change, one thing remained constant. That was the large cluster of beautiful handmade paper roses that was always attached to the handle of Wang's black sales bag. It was his signature item that women always seemed to love. They were priced at just a dollar each, but the pleasure they would bring to the face of a woman when presented with one was priceless. We never knew the story behind the roses, but assumed that Wang had made them himself. He had them in red, yellow, and white, ensuring he had one sure to be right for any occasion.

Wang seemed to be well-liked and respected by all. He was a good-hearted man who loved to tell stories of his homeland when times were good. It wasn't unusual to see a tear forming in the corners of his eyes as he reminisced. Everyone tried to make him feel welcome in the bar, giving him that same much-needed sanctuary that brought each of us back time and again. He seemed at home there, and none of us could imagine him ever uttering a crossword.

The neighborhood in which most of us lived surrounding the bar, was one where everyone got along well. There was no strife. Young and old alike enjoyed the company of each other. Crime here was non-existant.

So, you can easily imagine our surprise when we heard that unmistakable crack of a handgun being fired right outside the building. To the horror of all who were there that fateful evening, the sight that met us outside the front door will forever be etched in my memory.

There lying on his back in a pool of blood on the sidewalk, was the quite lifeless figure of Wang with one of his paper roses looped through a buttonhole of his silk shirt near the neck. On his chest, tucked beside the rose, was a hand-written receipt stamped, "Paid in Full".

To be continued.....