A Bar in Omaha

By Wayne Scheer

I'm sitting in this bar at the Omaha Ramada wanting to celebrate because I just closed the deal on the Ramsfield account. I called old man Jenkins at home like he told me, and he nearly pissed in his pants. I mean, he actually said, "Good work, son." He never called me "son" before, although once he called me a lazy son-of-a-bitch.

It's a little after eight, and I know I can't call Karen yet because Billy's just gone to bed and if the phone rings he'll want to know if it's me and if he can talk. Besides, I told her I'd call about 10 when she can relax and we can talk dirty. It's dumb, but it's this little game we play when I'm on the road.

I'm aching to tell her about the Ramsfield account. I know she doesn't care about the details, but when I tell her how big the deal is, she'll say, "Oh goody for you," like a little kid. That's what I love about her, her enthusiasm. The best part is after all these years, she's still enthusiastic about me.

So I sit down at the nearly empty bar to help pass time. I don't drink much, but I order a scotch and water and try to make small talk with the bartender. He's not interested and acts like he has to polish the imitation brass railing along the bar separating him from the customers. Someone's played a Garth Brooks song on the jukebox, and it makes me feel like everyone has either just lost their best friend or is hung over. Or both. I don't want to go up to my room, because hotel rooms are even lonelier than hotel bars. It's funny. If I were home, I'd probably be watching TV while Karen reads the newspaper or grades her third graders' spelling tests. But I can't bear the thought of watching TV without her nearby.

There are peanuts on the bar, so I take a handful and pop them into my mouth, a few at a time. The bartender brings my drink, and I sign for it with my room number. He's less communicative than before. Even giving him a decent tip doesn't make him friendlier. He just mumbles, "preciate it," gives me my receipt and returns to his polishing.

So I'm sipping my drink and popping peanuts when this real knockout with long black hair sits down next to me, although there's a row of empty seats. She catches me glancing at her and smiles. I'm embarrassed when our eyes meet, so I turn towards my drink. Actually, I'm thinking she's a hooker.

"Hi," she says, holding out her hand. "My name is Gwen Whitner."

I look up as if I'm surprised to see her. "Jim," I say. "Jim Yoder." We shake, and I realize my hand is covered with salt from the peanuts.

I start apologizing like a fool, but she laughs, wipes her hand with the napkin that was under my drink and tells me not to worry about it. I see she has one of those open-mouth, toothpaste commercial laughs. It's sexy and wholesome at the same time.

She orders scotch and water. The bartender asks if the bar brand will do, and I notice he didn't ask me. When the drink arrives, she signs for it. She takes a long sip and sighs like Billy does when he drinks his first glass of milk of the morning.

"Rough day?" I ask.

She turns to me and smiles. "No more than usual."

I stare at her, trying to think of something witty.

Finally, she helps me out by asking what I do. I tell her and she tells me she's with Payne Marketing. I've heard of the firm, so we talk shop for a while and exchange cards. I can't help myself and brag about the Ramsfield account. "It should bring in close to a quarter of a million the first year," I say. "And if they merge with Bellows Electronics, the sky's the limit how much that account can be worth."

She asks about my company's annual gross, and she seems impressed, although Payne Marketing must be worth five times the amount.

"Ramsfield could be a big move up for me," I tell her.

"Then we should celebrate," she says. "This place is depressing. I have a bottle of J&B in my room."

I guess I'm not the sharpest tack in the box, because I say I usually don't drink and I've already had my limit.

She smiles and shakes her head a little. "You don't have to drink. We could just get more comfortable."

It finally dawns on me what she's suggesting, and I can feel my heart pounding. Finally, after a long silence, I say, "Thanks, but I, uh, have to call my wife."

She laughs. "That's all right, I know you're married. I can see your ring." And she wets her lips with a pink tongue and raises her eyebrows just a little.

Her eyes are just plain gorgeous. Even in the dark bar I can see that they're green. And the rest of her? Well, let me just say that she fills out the tan sweater she's wearing under a dark jacket.

Karen is good looking, but Gwen is, well, wet-dream gorgeous. And she's coming on to me.