Helene Never Stopped Learning

Helene Hadsell knew that there was always something new to learn as long as you drew breath. In her late 70s, she took a creative writing class. Here is a project she wrote on February 5th, 2003.

MURDER IN BARNEY’S BAR

It was Saturday night, the night ordained for the murder of Betty. Barney’s Bar was unusually crowded. The drinks were flowing freely; even Barney was drinking from his watered-down bottle under the counter. The local teamsters union finally won the state basketball championship after six years of competition. It was a night to celebrate; everyone in the place was unusually rowdy.

Barney watched as Betty made the rounds at the bar for free drinks. He ignored her as usual, and she was grateful that he didn’t swat at her backside, a habit he had with the females in the place. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, sporting a goatee mustache on his lean face that made him look more like a goat than a dashing swashbuckler. The only guy who didn’t seem to be bothered by Betty’s flighty behavior was Jughead. Jughead was a regular at the bar. When he made his entrance, his routine was to head for his favorite imitation leather barstool, order a beer, and spend the rest of the night talking to himself in the mirror behind the counter. His dark gray hair, the texture of steel wool, was shoulder length. Severe features-squinty eyes and blue lips-punctuated his long face. His complexion, though, was uncommonly smooth for a man his age, not a laugh line in sight. The only other communication he had at the bar was with Betty. He whispered in her ear whenever she laid her head on his shoulder. She felt safe with Jughead, especially when irritated patrons told her to buzz off or get lost, and then she would head for Jughead to regroup.

Tonight, Betty was unusually quiet. All day, her stomach muscles kept twisting in her like a gnawing cramp. A chill deep within her was giving her the feeling that her life was in jeopardy, and she just couldn’t shake it. In the past, her sixth sense had kept her out of harm’s way. Her instinct told her when to move away before anyone laid a hand on her. She did not like being treated like a nobody, but she still wanted attention. Tonight, she kept her guard up in spite of her head throbbing so intensely that even the beer she consumed didn’t relax her. She looked forward to the place closing at 2 a.m. so she could be alone. Her large eyes kept flicking toward the grime-stained clock behind the bar as if her answer were printed on her face. Had the clock stopped? Time seemed to be dragging.

Why did Betty make Barney’s bar her hangout? Probably it was because it was her mother’s favorite place. Her mother disappeared one day and left Betty to fend for herself. Betty was totally unaware of the life she could have experienced outside of Barney’s Bar. She could have lived in the suburbs, raised a family, gone to park picnics and poolside parties. But alas, that was not her destiny.

When the bar finally closed, and Barney locked up and left, Betty heaved a sigh of relief. She knew she would be safe until 6 p.m. the following evening when Barney came to open up. Occasionally, he would come in early to restock when the deliveryman came with supplies. On these days, she stayed out of sight.

Barney was aware that Betty used his place as her crash pad, but he never approached her. She wondered why he ignored her. Perhaps one day, she would know the answer.

Staggering into the Ladies’ lounge, she headed for the soiled, flowered couch to sleep off her buzz.

It was shortly after 3 a.m. when Betty awoke. It was too early for the bar to open, but she distinctly heard the click of the front door latch. She made her way toward the Ladies’ lounge room door and peeked through the narrow slit. That’s when she saw the intruder. His massive shoulders filled the plaid shirt he wore. As he stood and studied the room, his square jaw tensed visibly. It was the sinister, calculating look in his piercing, watery eyes that alarmed her. Her uneasiness swelled into alarm, her heart was knocking louder than a fist on a wooden door. As terror courted her, her knees buckled, and she sank into the couch, closing her eyes and trying to get control of herself. Taking a series of deep breaths, she sighed with relief as he suddenly turned around and left. But in a few minutes, he was back with a huge black drum. She watched in horror as he plugged the cord into the wall outlet. The room began filling with a blue haze as the machine began its penetrating hum. Betty felt a cold chill of panic and began searching for a way to escape. Her legs became rubbery, and her breathing became alarmingly rapid and ragged with desperation-where could she go? The one small window in the lounge was nailed tight. Her only hope was to hide behind the couch; perhaps she would be safe there.

The door to the lounge was suddenly thrown open, and the intruder blasted through the door as he began his ordained mission. In a moment, Betty was engulfed and suffocating from the odor of the sweet vapor that was pointed in her direction from a silver tube. She tried desperately to escape the deadly fumes. She buried her nose into the couch, but it was to no avail. The gagging, gasping, and fighting for one last breath ceased. Betty lay dead. Her life expectancy of nine days was cut off on her seventh day. You see, Betty was a BARFLY.