By Devin Hansen
written this past summer...

The taverns are full of tomatoes this time of year. Boxes and bags of them free for the taking. Along with cucumbers, hot peppers and bush beans, all from generous backyard gardeners who saw bumper crops thanks to the wet summer.

I’ve harvested over 400 tomatoes myself, on just twelve plants. Romas, celebrities and better boys. My tomatoes are larger than most. Bulbous and juicy with taut skin. They are nearly perfect, and not due to a green thumb, just dumb luck. I mean, I don’t even weed the fucking garden…

I sacked up a few for the German bar this weekend. I walked triumphantly in and set the booty on the bar. They’d never seen tomatoes like this, I thought. No splits or valleys, no faded skin, just red, round balls with perfect green crowns.

It was late on a Monday, with just five regulars at the bar, along with the blonde bartender with her own ripe goodness.

“Daaaaamn,” The Drywaller said before biting into one, the juice and seeds trapped in his mustache.

“Shit, Devin. You grow these?” The Machinist asked, looking over his glasses frames to inspect a roma.

“The dirt did all the work,” I said, nodding to the top-heavy bartender that I wanted the usual. “I just planted em.”

The two other patrons stayed fixated on the Cubs game. The Electrician, however, snatched one out of the bag and turned it in his strong fingers. Squeezing it almost to the breaking point.

“Taste sweeter than those fuckers you brought in,” The Drywaller said to The Electrician, as juice dripped onto his white shirt and pants.

“Hmph,” The Electrician snorted, then tossed it back into the bag. He fell back into his stool and drew a long swallow of beer.

I took my shot and started on the beer, while the conversation inevitably switched to the Cubs. They were trailing, of course, but it looked to possible to make a comeback.

I looked over at The Electrician. He was on whiskey now, pointing his heavy eyelids at the TV and quietly belching to himself. I had never liked him. He was a bragger, so boisterous with his collegiate tall-tales. It was strange to see him so quiet and not dominating the conversation.

For a short time, I was king of the bar. The tomato king. But after three beers and two innings, I was quickly dethroned…and very glad to be so…

The Mechanic walked in. That old man dressed in his perpetual dirty tank-top and ball-cap, both a few sizes too large. The quiet man with black fingernails and one knee that wouldn’t bend. The retired bachelor, who always liked to see the latest pictures of my daughters. The man with gray, combed eyebrows and tired eyes…always tired….but not today, today they were merry.

He walked in slowly, a golden trophy in one hand. He tried to hold back a smile, but the pride beamed through. Had it been The Electrician, he would have carried it over his head and announced his arrival with a slamming of the door and Tarzan holler.

But not The Mechanic. He just limped to his regular stool, and casually set the trophy on the bar.

It had to be four foot tall. Golden leaves, red and green foil, and a shiny classic car perched on the top. I’d seen Christmas trees less beautiful!

Everyone, except for The Electrician, surrounded him. Hands slapped him on the back, glasses clinked and The Mechanic let out a laugh. Someone bought him a drink, someone else bought him another. We’d have carried him around the bar on our shoulders if half of them weren’t elderly.

“First place at the car show for my Mustang,” The Mechanic said, voice slightly cracking. “I’ve won trophies before, but never like this.”

Congratulations went around again. The beer flowed. The blonde bartender left lipstick on his cheek.

This was his moment. His grand achievement….Fifteen minutes of fame are sweeter among friends and family. And here, today, this was his family.

The commotion died down and I sat next to him. He slid me two of the beers we bought him and said, “Help me out with these.” I downed them quickly.

We sat and watched the last of the Cubs game. Well wishes still fluttered in during the commercials, until the ninth when the game was clearly out of reach.

“God dammit,” yelled the Electrician. He bolted upright, sending his barstool to the floor. “Fucking cubs. Fucking bums.”

He stormed into the bathroom and the bar was silent. The bartender dumped out the rest of his whiskey.

The Drywaller thanked me for the tomatoes and split. As did The Machinist who followed him out the door.

Soon The Electrician stumbled back and picked up his stool. Sat down. Eyed the empty bar where his drink used to be.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. Ok. Ok. I see. Cutting me off eh?”

Then he reached into the bag of tomatoes. Pulled out one the size of a soft-ball.

I braced myself. Tightened my fists and turned on my stool towards him. The man was twice my age and half-my-weight, but if he was about to do what I thought he was about to do, then he deserved a punch in the mouth.

He didn’t come over though. Didn’t rear back. Just slowly walked to the exit. The bartender, Mechanic and I turned to watch him. He stood at the door, holding the handle, head down.

We turned back to the television. Started on our drinks again.

“SPLAT!”

I flinched. The bartender flinched. The Mechanic didn’t. He dove onto the bar to catch his trophy. The gold now covered in tomato seeds, skin and juice.

“Ha ha!” we heard from the doorway. “Fuck you and your fucking tomato trophies.”

The door slammed. No one gave chase. He’d be here tomorrow. Apologetic. Buying drinks and the butt of every joke. I thought about throwing a frozen tomato through his car window. Wait to see his face when he found that mushy, broken mess of glass and ketchup on his car seat. That would show him. But I figured there would be plenty of tavern vigilantism to go around.

The bartender handed The Mechanic a wet towel, and they went at cleaning the trophy. I pitched in to help dry.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought I might see a tear in his eyes. I patted him on the back as the bar owner walked in. A former football coach who had the North wall of the tavern lined with trophies of his own.

The bartender filled him in on the story.

“Jerry,” the owner said. Jerry, I repeated to myself. I gotta remember that, the Mechanic is named Jerry.
“Jerry,” the owner said again, now throwing his arm over the old man’s shoulder and walking him to the North wall. “You wouldn’t mind keeping that trophy here, would you?”

The old man straightened up. The bar owner took the gleaming trophy and put it in the center. He was king again. And would be for some time.

I shared another beer with Jerry, and laughed about what The Electrician would think tomorrow…