A Guy In A Bar

Hey all!

Delurking for a moment here to post this story. I've been working on
this since November or so; it sat in my "Stories" folder half-finished
for months while I waited for inspiration, which finally struck me
tonight. I know it's a bit rough; I'd appreciate any and all
constructive criticisms. It's just my idea of how this important but
unseen scene might have occurred.

Disclaimers: All "Remember WENN" characters and situations created by
Rupert Holmes are his property (and maybe AMC's); while the story is
mine, no copyright infringement is intended. Et cetera, et cetera, et
cetera...

Guy in a Bar
by Maria Aspan

The bar was smoky and warm, a welcome respite from the cold rain
outside. That rain ... Scott Sherwood had been to many countries and
survived many climates, but he couldn't think of anyplace else that
rained as dismally as London did. The Bahamas, Hawaii, various teeny
equatorial forests ... all could probably match London's record for the
amount of water he squeezed out of his tent each morning, if not the
unrelenting chill of that water. He decided that even without the war
the English would have a good excuse for being depressed.

The room was crowded; apparently he wasn't the only one who thought a
drink in a warm place was more inviting than the dreary wet night.
Soot-faced workers and cleaner-looking businessmen alike crowded
companionably into booths and laughed around tables. In the bar's
cheerful atmosphere, situations seemed easier, less serious. It seemed
almost possible to imagine that there wasn't a war raging down
destruction on the city. Perhaps by this time tomorrow the homes,
families, or lives of any of the men around Scott might be destroyed by
the unheard whistle of a German bomb ... but they weren't thinking of
tomorrow, instead being grateful simply for the moment and not yet
confronting the threat of the next day. It was almost unnerving,
really. It wasn't his disposition to stay in a situation where the odds
were so high against him. Once again he fingered the damp plane ticket
inside his jacket pocket. Early next morning he was leaving, going back
to safe, oblivious America, on what might be one of the last certain
flights out of England. Scott just hoped the Germans managed to avoid
the airports on their night's bombings.

"Bartender ... bartender," the man two seats away from Scott demanded.
His speech was slightly indistinct, but his accent sounded American to
Scott, who surreptitiously glanced him over. He was very tall, and
rather gaunt. On the bar a row of empty shot glasses created a ring
around a book the man was paging through. Scott distinctly felt he
wasn't exactly reading; the man's sad eyes and wistful half-smile were
far away. As he watched, the other man took out a pen and flipped to
the front of the book, scribbling a note on the front leaf.

"Buy you a drink?" Scott suddenly asked. The man looked up with a start
as Scott grinned in his friendliest manner.

"Why, uh, thank you, sir," he smiled. "Normally I'd ... well, hell, I'm
trying to get as drunk as possible tonight, and I tink -- I *think* --
I'm already most of the way there."

"Boy, have I been through nights like those," Scott agreed, sliding
over. "Glad to help a fellow American. The name's Scott Sherwood," he
added, sticking out his hand.

"Comstock ... Victor Comstock," the other man said, gripping Scott's
hand with a surprising strength. "I'm a radio broadcaster ... working
at the BBC right now."

"Ah, war correspondent, that type of thing?" Scott asked.

"Yes ... you could say that." Comstock drained his glass and added it
to the sad ring around the book. "And what are you doing over here, Mr.
Sherwood?"

"Oh, just passing through." Scott again fingered the ticket. "I'm
leaving tomorrow morning, in fact. Returning to the old U.S. of A. So
tell me, what's the occasion?"

His companion looked askance at Scott. "Occasion?"

"For drinking yourself under the table." Scott gestured to the empty
glasses. "I'm no temperance-monger myself, but it usually has to be a
pretty special occasion for me to risk that kind of hangover."

The other man's mouth turned up wryly. "Yes ... well, I suppose it is
indeed that serious an occasion, since I haven't yet thought of tomorrow
morning. Just a little bout of ... homesickness, you might call it."

"Oh? You have family back in the States?"

Comstock shrugged. "None to speak of." He paused a moment, as his
thumb brushed the green cover of the book he held. "I came from -- my
last job was at a little radio station in Pittsburgh. I was missing the
people there ... I don't think I had realized how important they were to
me." He quirked his eyebrows at Scott and assumed a self-deprecatory
tone. "How maudlin that sounds, eh, Sherwood?"

Scott grinned back. "I had a friend in Spain who got drunk almost every
night. With each drink he'd shed a piece of clothing, and by midnight
he'd usually be up dancing on the tables, stark naked." He paused for
effect. "I knew every bar in that country by the end of a month. Next
to that, a little sentiment seems allowable."

Comstock merely smiled and started on his next glass. "It was ...
something new, coming over here. The same way WENN was. I came there
from the choking atmosphere of New York, and finally, I thought, here I
had this wonderful artistic freedom. The true frontier of radio was
little WENN Pittsburgh, always in the red, Betty and I creating shows
like 'Captain Power and Lightening Lad' on the spot just to pay the
electric bill for another month...." Comstock's flowing hands gestured
elegantly as he reminisced; however temporary dulled his senses might
have been, the man was a marvelous storyteller. Scott was startled to
find himself mesmerized by the broadcaster's words.

"That's how I thought England was going to be. A chance for a new
challenge, and the chance to be patriotic and wonderful, serving our
great country. Bringing the realities of the war to Americans who right
now couldn't care less how many people die in the blitz, as long as the
World Series isn't rained out. I just didn't think I'd miss WENN so
much. Now they want me to stay ... to go on to Norway, and France ...
the frontiers of radio. Frankly--" Comstock paused and looked around,
as though afraid that someone might overhear him "--right now I just
want to be back in Pittsburgh ... just to see Betty again...."

"'Betty'?" Scott formed a mental picture of a fifty-ish, bespectacled
secretary. "Is she your gal?"

"My gal?" Comstock drew his eyebrows together in confusion for a moment
before comprehending the meaning of the term. "Oh. Well ... my gal
Friday, she was that certainly. My gal ... well...." Comstock finished
his drink and nearly choked on the final gulp. The bartender, obviously
well-versed in his chosen profession, quickly brought another round.
Comstock's voice softened as he continued. "Betty Roberts, WENN's head
-- heck, our *only* writer, straight from Moosehead, Indiana.
Twenty-two at the most, and beautiful in a quiet way -- you can look at
her for hours and not realize how extraordinary she is, until you're
suddenly face to face with her one day and--" Comstock took a breath
and steadied his voice before continuing. "It's her spirit, and
intelligence -- you're so busy marveling at her capability that you
don't realize -- and then I never said anything to her. God, I remember
the day I left. She sat there, not a foot away from me, and asked,
'What about us?' And I, dolt that I am, replied that I was certain the
station -- the *station* -- would be fine without me."

Comstock stared morosely at his book. If Scott had any judgment powers,
he was certain the man next to him was extremely drunk by now.

"I'm sir -- sure it is fine, perfectly fine," Comstock continued, his
speech beginning to slur more noticeably. "I just wiss I could get a
letter across -- the mails are so slow right now that I could walk back
to WENN and probably get this book there faster than air mile -- mail --
can."

"What is it?" Scott asked, his curiosity whetted from seeing Comstock
holding the thin green volume for their entire conversation. Rather
surprisingly, his companion seemed amused.

"A book of limericks for one of the people at the station, Tom Eldridge.
A wonderful, sweet old man who can't understand you the other half of
the time from when you understand him...." The homesick broadcaster let
the book rest on the bar top as he continued. "I suppose -- it's not so
much the book as wanting to be connected to the people back home, to
know that they remember me."

Scott barely heard the last comment; his mind was too busy spinning. At
some point in Comstock's reminisces, a crazy, impromptu, totally
unreasonable idea had suddenly popped into Scott's mind. He grinned.
Those kind of ideas were the most fun to follow.

Seeing that his companion had stopped speaking (and was probably soon
going to stop sitting upright), Scott grabbed the man's arm and somewhat
abruptly dragged him off the stool. "This should cover our bills," he
told the bartender, plopping a few well-worn pound-notes onto the bar
while gathering his companion's hat and book. He had pulled Comstock
into the misty side street before the other man even registered what was
going on.

"What -- what?" the broadcaster muttered, apparently trying to clear his
head enough to figure out what was going on, but not really succeeding.
"Where are we going?"

"Back to your hotel," Scott quickly replied. "Where are you staying?"

"BBC ... Madison and Fifty-Second...." Scott paused, momentarily puzzled
by the garbled reply. "Isn't that in New York?" he said to himself.
"We'll just take you back to the BBC, then, Victor," he said soothingly.
"I'm sure that someone there will know where you belong."

They managed to make it one block more before Comstock stopped,
consternation over his features. "Wait! My book!"

"Got it right here," Scott reassured the other man, seeing the perfect
opportunity to present his scheme. "Say, Victor, I was thinking ... you
know I'm leaving tomorrow morning ... actually more like today now," he
observed, glancing at his watch in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp.
"I was kind of thinking about going by Pittsburgh way when I do get back
home. What do you say I bring your book over? I can stop by the
station, give them all your regards ... say hello to Betty for you...."

Despite the level of his intoxication (as Scott could attest from how
much of the taller man's bulk he was currently supporting) the word
"Betty" managed to penetrate Comstock's foggy expression, bringing a
slightly goofy grin across his face. "Betty..." he repeated, in an
almost childlike manner.

"It'll be a lot faster than the mails," Scott urged. Comstock was
silent; Scott took a sharper look at his face and noticed that his
drinking buddy was on the verge of passing out. Fortunately they were
almost at the BBC.

Luck was apparently sticking with Scott; someone was leaving the
building just as they reached it. "Excuse me, miss?" Scott called out,
tightening his grip around Comstock's waist as he felt the taller man
begin to slip in his grasp. The woman turned towards them and
recognition illuminated her face.

"Mr. Comstock!" she exclaimed, hurrying to help Scott with his rather
large burden. "Are you all right, sir?"

"He's had a few hogsheads too many, but other than a headache to beat
the blitz when he wakes up, he'll be fine," Scott reassured her.
Comstock began to revive a little; at least, it seemed like Scott was no
longer supporting quite as much of the other man's weight. "Do you
think you'd be able to see him safely back to his hotel?"

The woman raised an eyebrow at Scott's lack of gallantry but kept most
of her attention focused on the less conscious man. "Yes, it's right
around the corner."

"Swell." Scott took Comstock's fedora from his own head to return it to
its rightful owner and stepped back, releasing his burden. Comstock
staggered a bit but slowly managed to stand with only minimum assistance
from the accommodating woman. "I'd stay but I've got a plane to catch
... oh, will you look at the time -- I'm late," he quickly added,
retreating further.

The woman threw Scott's back a vengeful glare before assisting her
colleague further down the street. As he hurried off in the opposite
direction, Scott brushed his fingers against the book in his hand and
grinned. Pittsburgh. Not exactly paradise ... but it still looked very
exciting.

Finis

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