Canary in a Coal Mine

August, ‘05

Last Friday night, rather than choose between watching the Patriots v. Cincinnati or the Red Sox v. the White Sox (I hate those little second screens), I headed down to the Alumni Café with its many big televisions and unmatched bar pizza. I sometimes run into people from the old neighborhood there, and my friend Bobby tends bar, a situation that leads to reduced prices for me and increased gratuities for him.

The Alumni is a throwback neighborhood sports bar. There are no fancy martinis or cosmopolitans ordered there; customers drink beer from the bottle or Jack on the rocks. The crowd on a Friday night is split between hard-drinking regulars, sports fans, small groups of 20-something girls, and slumming hitters looking for a low-maintenance score. A middle-aged guy in a muscle shirt was deejaying, and a trio of surprisingly attractive girls were dancing and singing along to every song and tugging up their tube tops during every interval.

I got the last seat at the bar, with a view of both games and of the writhing young women. Bobby came over with a Coors and told me about a serious accident he’d been in a couple of weeks earlier. I put in an order for a pizza with mushrooms, peppers, and sausage. A guy I knew vaguely, Peter something, came over to say hello and discuss the Patriots’ and Sox’s chances of repeating as world champions.

It was Peter that pointed out the short, middle-aged woman surrounded by several younger, somewhat unsavory-looking men. She was decently dressed and not unattractive, but flirting drunkenly and desperately with men whom she should have outclassed. They were laughing as she encouraged them to kiss and touch her, but they were mostly harmless and soon backed away.

The Pats game was in the second half and I’d finished my pizza. Peter had left and the stool beside me was empty. Suddenly the woman was in the stool, gripping my right arm. The Deejay was playing the Police song “Canary in a Coal Mine,” and the woman reclined against the back of the stool until she was almost supine. She began wildly thrusting her pelvis in the air to the staccato reggae rhythm of the song. When the song ended, she waited for me to make my move. When I began instead to offer lame advice about calling a taxi, she looked at me in boozy disgust, slid off the stool, and staggered away.

I returned my focus to the games. The Patriots unleashed an unheralded quarterback (a back-up at Southern Cal!) on the Bengals. Curt Schilling gave up two home runs in the ninth inning, but the Red Sox won anyway. Bobby and I worked our deal, and I left the bar.

Outside, there was an ambulance at the curb. Peter was crouched on the sidewalk, supporting the head of the drunken woman, who had passed out in front of him as he was returning to the bar. A policeman was trying to ask her some questions, but could get no coherent response. His partner asked the patrons, watching from a respectful distance, if anyone knew her. No one did.

The EMT’s loaded the woman onto a stretcher and left for the hospital. I complimented Peter and the officer on their compassion and walked to my car. A siren blared softly in the distance, and beyond that rumbled soft rolling thunder from heat lighting.

The world can be a cruel and lonely place. Sometimes the need for a human touch can overwhelm our judgment and sensibility. The lyrics from “Canary in a Coal Mine” reverberated through my thoughts as I drove home.

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect
You live you life like a canary in a coal mine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line
Canary in coal mine…canary in a coal mine…