The door to the Uptown Tavern opened, letting in a shaft of light. The man shuffled through and hoisted himself onto a bar stool. He winced when his foot met the seat rung.
It was Saturday afternoon, and I’d stopped into the tavern at East 17th Avenue and Pearl Street for a cold one before finishing some errands.
Business was slow, what with the end of the college football season. There wasn’t much for the regulars to do except settle back in the cushy seats around the fireplace and watch Tiger Woods lap the field at the Buick Open.
The man wasn’t one of the regulars.
Nikki the bartender came over and put a coaster in front of him. He asked for a bourbon and Pepsi. Nikki poured the whiskey and told him they only had Coke.
“Can you give me a phone?” he said. “I need to make a long-distance call.” He was serious. Nikki said no and retreated to the other end of the bar.
The man was a talker. His name was Wayne. He was 65, but his voice was already brittle as a reed. Back in the day, he was a supervisor at a Chrysler plant in Detroit.
“I was somebody,” he said. “I once had lunch with Coleman Young. He was the mayor. And another thing, I received the highest medal from the bishop in Michigan as an altar boy.”
I looked at Wayne’s face. It had seen some wear. A small sickle-shaped scar curved down his right temple. He sported a bristly mustache and a “USA” ball cap. His blue eyes were rheumy.
The past two months had been tough on Wayne. Around Thanksgiving, he was watching TV at his apartment. He was in his bare feet.
There was a disagreement with his girlfriend. Something about him bringing in young women off the street and putting them up in a nicer room than the one she stayed in.
The argument turned south and the girlfriend started stomping on his feet. “She smashed right down on them,” he said. She broke about a half-dozen of his bones.
Worst of all: “She was wearing high heels. And they were high heels I’d bought her. You know how much that hurt?”
I could only imagine. Nikki caught my eye — glad, I guess, she was not involved.
“This is the first time I’ve been able to walk over here in a long time,” he said. “I live at 14th and Washington.”
That’s a block off Colfax Avenue in one of the sketchier stretches of Capitol Hill. Which made me wonder what kind of young women Wayne was bringing home. So I asked. Yes, he said, he got his feet busted up over a hooker.
“I try to give them a helping hand,” he said. “No funny business, though. In 30 years, I haven’t had sex, so she didn’t do it because I was fooling around with other women.”
I didn’t ask what prompted his celibacy. We were already teetering on information overload. But he seemed to be drawing from a deep well of defeat.
“You know what the lesson here is, don’t you?” Wayne said. There seemed to be dozens of lessons, but I shook my head and let him tell me.
“Some women, you just don’t take your shoes off when you’re around them.”
He returned to his bourbon, staring into the glass like it might hold a good idea. “I hope my luck’s gonna change,” he said.
I dropped six bucks on the bar and wished him well.
But I knew in my heart his luck was probably all used up.
William Porter’s column appears twice a week. Reach him at 303-954-1977 or wporter@denverpost.com.
