THE TAVERNE IN THE TOWNE

(I wrote this story nearly two years ago, and sent it around to every erotic-themed publisher I could find. I wanted to sell it, partly because I need the money, but also because I wanted the personal vindication of having something published that somebody paid money for. Unfortunately, I had only one nibble in two years, and the assistant editor who tentatively accepted it was fired the next month, and the story was reviewed again – and rejected again.

However, I really like these guys – I rarely write about people or create characters that I can’t stand personally – and I don’t want to see them die together, trapped in the bowels of my computer, so I offer them to you here in hopes that my poor orphan children may find loving warm homes.)

I got home from work on Monday and there was a message on my machine from Jason: “Meet me at The Taverne tonight – 7:00pm. Don’t sit at the bar – sit back in The Confessional. I’ve got a lot to tell you!” I grinned, and thought to myself, “After what I saw on Friday, I’ll just bet you do!” and changed clothes to go to The Taverne.

First, let me explain about The Taverne in the Towne. It is a neighborhood bar and restaurant that has been here forever. The building it is in dates to 1910, and the same family – Greek immigrants fresh off the boat in the wake of World War I – have owned it since 1919. It has quite a history – it sat right on the border of two Mob families during Prohibition, but the rule was – nobody messes with The Taverne, and nobody messes with anybody in The Taverne, or going into The Taverne, or coming out of The Taverne. It was a safe place, the owners were on nobody’s side, and they respected everybody. Most importantly, nobody talked – ever, about anything. The main bar and dining room haven’t significantly changed in all those years – pressed-tin ceilings, shoulder-high dark-walnut wainscoting, ‘romantic’ lighting (or, merely dim, depending on who’s describing). The barback is absolutely gorgeous – fully fifty feet of old, dark, solid walnut, etched and beveled-glass mirrors, sidelights with reverse-painted glass globes and crystal pendants – probably worth more by itself than the entire building. Over the top of the bar, acting as a shelf for the neon liquor advertising signs and the collection of fancy decanters, is a long sign carved in 18-inch-high Gothic-script letters, highlighted in gold so they stand out from the dark wood: “What is said in The Taverne stays in The Taverne”. The owners have lived by that motto religiously for three generations, and everyone who comes in respects it to the fullest.

The Taverne is nothing fancy or hip – this has always been a predominantly working-class neighborhood, but one that attracts a highly eclectic mix. Three blocks up (east) are some of the most expensive apartments and condos in the city. Six blocks down (west) are public-housing tenements. In between are artists, students, professionals, families, rich, poor, black, white, European, Asian, gay, straight, and who-knows-who-cares? In The Taverne, we all just get along…