A Stop at Staunton's

                             James, “Joltin’ Jim” Mac Adam was a thoughtful man, who stood  over six feet in height. He weighed in at 14 stone. His arms were the oak hard pistons of a Mason, who handled several tons of stone daily. The raspy calluses of his hands shined like leather gloves, as he raised a glass of beer to his lips.

         Some said he was on the lam from the constabulary in Bristol, England, where his family owned a brick yard. They didn’t say it anywhere within Jim’s range of hearing though. That foolishness had cost the odd voluble lad a good thrashing on different occasions.

       Jim sat on a bar stool, whose oaken seat had been polished by a thousand lads before him. A frothy glass of beer lay on the bar. He stared into the large mirror behind that bar, at the tableau of an interesting cast of characters gathered this evening in Staunton’s Ale House on Vancouver’s waterfront.

      In one corner, Shifty Mac Dougal held court at a game of seven card stud. The pilgrims playing with him were unaware of Shifty’s deft manipulation of the greasy deck of cards. Had they known, Shifty might well catch the lead surprise of a .45 caliber round in the center of his forehead. Card cheats were given no lee-way in Staunton’s.

      In another corner, Big Betty Baranski regaled a small group of admirers with a loud voice and a cheerful laugh. One never knew if Betty was “Having you on” about something or attempting to “Have you on her” later in the evening.

     It was the solitary stranger, quietly sitting alone at a table near the front of the saloon, that caught Jim’s attention. He had on one of those large “ten-gallon” hats that cowboys were so fond of. A gun belt rode low on his right hip and was strapped to his thigh. He had the look of someone who knew how to handle a gun. He looked like someone serious of mien, and deadly of purpose. Jim wondered who the stranger was waiting for and what the end result of that encounter would be.

     Staunton’s was like that, a meeting place of the rough and tumble, on Vancouver’s waterfront. Men came here for any number of reasons. Some-times the reasons were simple enough. A hard day laboring needed a bit if easing at day’s end. The mild delirium of several large glasses of beer could take the edge off a tough day.

       Others sought the company of women like Betty and those of her trade. A quick tussle in an upstairs room could slake the hunger of another kind..

        People like Shifty Mac Dougal were artfully plying their skills on luckless pilgrims who might have thought he was a cheat, but could never quite catch him in a skillful, slight of hand. And you didn’t accuse anyone of such skull-duggery unless you were willing to back it up with lead.

       Others, like the solitary man? Who knew? You didn’t ask anyone what their business was in places like this. The response might be both swift and physical, sometimes fatal.

        Jim downed a last slug of beer, wiped his mouth on his sleeve stood up. He walked towards the saloon doors, making eye contact with none of the players. The “Staunton story” would have to continues, on another night for him. It had been a long day and he was headed home for the warmth and comfort of a soft bed.

                               -30-

                           (591 words)

                      Joseph Xavier Martin