On PUBLICIST

March 14th

On PUBLICIST

The Publicist, Chapter 1

It was a quiet day in Rock Pile, WY, when the publicist came to town. He wore a pinstiped three piece suit with violet suspenders, and a blue shirt with a white striped collar. He had a long face, an easy smile with long teeth and long sideburns. He wore on his head a bowler hat, which fitted his head perfectly.
He strolled into Little Bob’s Bar and Grill, pushing the glass and metal door clouded with fingermarks. It was 4pm and the atmosphere was dusty, cloudy and squinty. The man behind the bar, Little Bob, was six feet tall and five feet wide, with a walrus mustache that curled over his lower lip and a red, shiny face.
“You must be Little Bob,” the publicist said, putting his elbow on the counter and crossing his right leg behind his left.
“That I am,” said Bob, “Who are you?”
“My name is Tyrone Getz. I couldn’t help but notice that your bar,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’ in bar, “needs some publicity.”
“It’s not that good a bar,” admitted Bob, “are you some kind of publicist?”
“That I am!” exclaimed the publicist, “Now we’re all on the same page. I’ll tell you what, Little Bob, I am awful thirsty. Terrible thirsty. Why don’t you sling me one drink, just one drink, and I’ll work my magic.”
Little Bob moved his head backwards and squinted skeptically. “Magic? What kind of magic can you do?”
“Why publicity of course! And here I thought we were all on the same page,” said Getz, shaking his head mournfully.
“Well, I guess one drink won’t hurt,” said Bob, pouring the publicist a beer. “I’m not much of a businessman, but one beer seems pretty cheap for a publicity deal. Is this going to turn out to be a big scam, like in ‘The Music Man’?”
“Nope!” said Getz, smiling widely, “No scam! Just leave it to me,” he said, taking a drink. “Ahhhh! What a refreshing drink. Why I think all of Rock Pile, if they only knew about this fine ale, would flock to this location.”
“Ah, they’re all over at Big Bob’s Irish Pub,” lamented Little Bob.
“Well, what’s Big Bob got that you don’t?” asked Getz.
“Customers,” said Little Bob.
“Not for long – trust me, I’m from the big city, and I know how people think. Back where I come from, they got whole big buildings of people figuring out what people are thinking when they want to go out drinking. And I’ve got everything they know up here in my head,” he said, pointing to his hat. “Now you just recommend me a decent hotel with no bed bugs, and first thing tomorrow, I’ll come over here and start working.”
“All right. You don’t want to stay for another drink?” asked Little Bob.
“Early to bed, early to rise.” Getz dismissed, “I’m not a drinker, I’m a thinker, and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do to make this bar the number one bar in this here Rock Pile of a town.”
“Well, there’s the Dude Rancher. Never heard anyone complain about that place,” admitted Little Bob.
“Good enough for me,” announced the publicist, hopping up out of his lean and waltzing towards the door. “You won’t forget, or regret, giving me a drink today, my friend. I tip my cap to you,” and he did, “and bid you good day.”