A Poem for Cognac

I didn’t have much to say to Percy at the pub. We watched the soccer match on TV although neither of us had an inclination for sports. It was mys intention to get Percy plastered and it seemed, by the brooding look on his face, that he may have had much to mull over.

Eventually the middle aged blonde bartender slid away from the rugged man she was lingering with at the end of the bar.

“Two IPAs,” I ordered for both of us.

“Anything else?”

Percy scratched his chin, looking to the bulletin of beers above the bar, “Do you have cognac?”

“Why are you ordering cognac?” I said, upset by the pretension of it all.

“Yes honey,” she reached down and pulled out a squat bottle from a well lit, three tiered shelf beneath the beer bulletin, “How would you like it?”

“Just a glass,” Percy remarked cooly, and then added, “Thank you very much.”

The woman looked back down the bar and smiled, “I’ll put it on the rocks how about that?”

“That would be… excellent,” Percy smiled gleefully.

“Open or closed?”

“What?” Percy asked.

“Open,” I said.

She left them and went back to the man at the end of the bar.

“Corin,” Percy said emphatically, putting his whole palm on the bar and turning ninety degrees to face him, “have you ever had — I mean, rather, do you like cognac?”

“Never had it.”

“Why is that?”

“Never wanted to.”

“Would you like to try a sip of mine tonight?” He said so like a child who’d instated himself as king on the playground.

“I think I’m okay.”

I was unable to dampen Percy’s gleeful face. He swirled his cognac, “somebody ought to write a poem about cognac. Maybe T.S. Eliot.”

“He’s dead.”

“Well obviously, but if he wasn’t.”

“How would it go?”

“I think,” Percy swirled his cognac again, “cognac…”

He droned off slightly and I was surprised to realize that Percy was already tipsy from the first few sips.

I picked up his beer and took a sip, “Come on Percy, give me a line of poetry. For cognac.”

“I suppose. Well, cognac, leather chair, auburn hair, and supple legs—“ he furrowed his brow in search of another line.

The next line wasn’t forthcoming. I chimed in to restart Percy’s verse, “—the scent of lilac, drifting through the air…”

“Affair,” Percy mused, “he stalks his next affair. No. He stalks her naked breasts which are bare— hmm. She wanders in, her breasts are bare.”

“Good shit,” I squinted with a pained smile which made Percy laugh. We watched the tv again. Then Percy’s palm came down again on the bar, “two beers for yourself?”

“Well one was for you.”

“Ah, what a gentleman, I would hate to refuse your—” he paused, and continued with a humble gesticulation, “gentlemanly generosity, but I must finish this cognac first.”

“By all means,” I returned the humble gesture.

“You know Sal wouldn’t like you to have two beers.”

“I know, but it’ll be okay. He can worry.”

“He’s worried about Estelle too.”

“I know,” I said, “do you mind if I drink the second beer? I’ll get you another when you finish your cognac.”

Percy gave a candid look of surprise at my empty glass, “Of course Corin. You’re so silly, you bought the beer.”

“Sal really doesn’t like Estelle?”

“No,” Percy stuck out his bottom lip as he did when he had a complex thought to explain, “he, well, I think when she was calling him non-stop he picked up a few times and, well, I love Estelle, but you know how she can be, um intense,” Percy laughed a little, “I think she kind of ripped his head off. Or at least that’s how he said it. But Sal can be pretty sensitive. You know.”

“She’s calling him?”

“Well I think he blocked her now.”

They drank more and Corin went back to watching the tv. Two girls came in the door with smiles and giggles and one had a big white beanie with a pompom on top. They sat at the bar a seat down from where Percy was working on his poem on a napkin.

“What are you writing?” the one closest asked.

Percy’s brow was furrowed. I listened to hear Percy’s response, but realized Percy was either too focused or had so fully ruled out that they could’ve been talking to him and so he had actually not heard the girl’s question.

I nudged Percy. He looked at me. I looked towards the girls. Percy turned, “Sorry, were— did you say something? I’m sorry,” he laughed.

The girl who’d asked repeated with more subdued enthusiasm, “what are you writing?”

“I’m working on a poem.”

“What is it about?”

I buried his head in his arms on the bar.

“Cognac,” Percy said.

“Like the drink?”

“Yes,” Percy said and picked up his still very full glass, “this very drink.”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s fun. Can I read it?”

“Um,” Percy looked it over. It was a good five stanzas now, “I think—I just think it might not agree with your sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities?”

I pulled my head up grinning and tried to pretend that I was only watching the tv.

“Yes um. I worry it might come off as, or I just worry you might think it’s—” he paused.

“It’s?”

“Just say it Percy,” I said, “He thinks that it’s too sappy. He’s the biggest romantic.”

Vulgar. I knew the word Percy was about to say was ‘vulgar’.

“Oh well if it’s too personal I understand,” she said, “That’s not really a matter of sensibilities though. And you are?” She said to me.

“Corin,” I reached over Percy to shake her hand, “and you?”

“Georgia.”

“Oh like Georgia on My Mind. You like Willie Nelson?”

She said yes.

I guess I was trying to imitate Sal’s technique for talking with strangers, because I had none of my own. That technique was to free associate quickly and with self-assured projection.

“Yeah,” I continued, “good artist, good voice.” I failed to keep up the conversational vigor I’d studied in Sal.

“Yes,” she said slightly smiling and then she turned back to her friend after expressing her hope that Percy would enjoy his cognac.

Percy did enjoy it. Far more enjoyment per sip than me, with my four beers before deciding it was time to close my tab and coax Percy to leave his half finished cognac behind.