Merriam-Webster has three definitions for the word Mohawk:
- A member of an American Indian people of the Mohawk River valley, New York.
- The Iroquoian language of the Mohawk people.
- A hairstyle with a narrow center strip of usually upright hair and the sides of the head shaved.
In other words: people who have been here a while, a language few today can understand, or a bad haircut. The North Adams establishment known as The Mohawk is aptly named, then, since all of these may be found inside on any given evening.
Most would call it “just a bar”—and they would be right. It’s just a bar like a fly is just a fly, like everything in Just-a-Buck is just a buck.
Saturday night. I walk in around 9:15PM. Two middle-aged men sit at the bar. The bartender, an older woman, chats with the man on the right. On the far left, leaning against the end of the bar, is just who I expected: Ron.
Ron owns The Mohawk, but I don’t think he actually wants to. His business sense is steeped in misanthropy. As a child, his grandfather taught him to shoo efficiently. As a teenager, he was President of the Glaring Committee. In college, he excelled in such subjects as Bitterness 101 and Intro to Angry Grumbling. If there are only three true words that have ever been written in the history of mankind, it’s these: Ron. Hates. People.
He’s bald, too.
Ron eyes me as I sit down in the space between the two patrons. I greet the bartender. She knows me.
“Hey! What’ll you have?”
I’m feeling a little queasy, so I pick the only remedy available. “Ginger ale and Drambuie.”
She picks up the bottle of Drambuie. She can sense Ron keeping close watch, so she grabs a shot glass to measure it with. The man to my right half-drunkenly slurs on my behalf: “Ah, come on. Just pour the drink! You want him to stay, don’t you?”
Everybody laughs—except Ron.
I pay. I sip. It’s silent except for the TV. College basketball. I awkwardly glance at the screen once in a while just because there is nothing else to do. (I’m waiting for a friend.) Also, I feel Ron glaring at me and need to confirm my suspicions by shifting my gaze to the TV.
Fifteen minutes go by and I still feel his eyes. Finally, the man on my right breaks the tension by shouting something incoherent to Ron, who grumbles something incoherent back. Once again, the man says something unintelligible, to which Ron responds: “Go fuck yourself.” The man laughs. Playful banter.
Eventually, Ron gets bored with staring, grabs his coat, and heads for the door. Everyone says or waves good night. Ron turns, says nothing, then leaves. As soon as the door shuts, the bartender blurts out: “He’s such a jerk.”
A warm breeze suddenly sweeps across the room. Muscles relax. Smiles are born. Feeling comfortable enough to talk, I strike up a conversation with the man to my left.
“I’ve never seen him smile.”
“I have.” Everybody laughs incredulously.
“That must’ve been a miraculous occasion.”
“It was…” Frightened at the thought, he sips his beer.
During the next hour, The Mohawk transforms—a blossoming flower bursting forth from the frozen January soil. Customers pour in from Mass MoCA. The jukebox sings. The bartender even stops measuring drinks before pouring them. Nothing is rotten in the state of Mohawk.
And still, somehow, Ron can sense the festivities. He must, since he phones every twenty to thirty minutes. I never know what he says, but the bartender rolls her eyes, hangs up, then happily pours more alcohol. Is he threatening to stomp on over and end the fun? No, we never see him again that evening. Maybe he’s jealous?
I imagine him alone, sipping a tall glass of ice water, rubbing that Sahara of a head of his. He fondly recalls his Falstaffian youth, full of drink and laughter and merriment. Then his gradual transformation into the Berkshire Ebenezer: lovers lost, friends vanished, smiles gone, a life of embittered seclusion found. He is haunted by his own spectre. Suddenly, a change of heart. A single tear drops into the frosted glass as he whispers to himself: “Yes, I will honour The Mohawk in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.”
Probably not, though.
