The literature of alcohol is a tricky field for new writers to enter. There's the constant risk of slipping into lazy cliches as well-worn as the overlapping water rings on a bar (you see what I mean?). Then, too, so many masters of fiction have already gone before and blazed a brilliant trail—-William Kennedy's Ironweed, Raymond Carver's short story "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love," and nearly everything written by John Cheever. In the hands of the right writer, booze-soaked fiction can be--yes, I'll say it--intoxicating.
Now along comes Rebecca Barry with Later, at the Bar, a collection of linked stories which revolve around the barflies of Lucy's Tavern in upstate New York. More than a credible example of "Lost Weekend" Fiction, Barry's debut succeeds largely on the merits of her pared-down style and her obvious love for the characters she's created. Most of these people are on slippery slopes of self-pity and regret, but Barry tenderly gives them occasional glimmers of redemption and hope.
The small-town universe of Later, at the Bar is rife with the kind of drama found in soap opera and country-western songs: failed marriages, one-night stands, terminal illness, scrapes with the law, loneliness, bitterness and pent-up anger. The characters converge at Lucy's Tavern, but Barry does not confine the action to just that dim, smoky interior. The opening story (unfortunately the weakest of the bunch) tells us that Lucy's is a place where "bad behavior within reason was perfectly acceptable," a place where "most people in town came to lick their wounds or someone else's, or to give in to the night and see what would happen."
In the course of the book, we meet several recurring characters. There's advice columnist Linda Hartley, "who wouldn't set foot in the bar without high heels and a soft sweater"; there's Grace Meyers who "was nice to look at in an unreachable way"; and there's Grace's ex-husband Harlin who promised himself when he got out of jail "he would live a quieter, more peaceful life...by drinking at home, counting to ten before hitting anyone, and staying away from women, his ex-wife Grace especially, but all other women as well."
Even as Harlin says this, we know he'll break that vow the first lonely Saturday night he ends up back at Lucy's Tavern slumped on his stool and desperately throwing pick-up lines in Grace's direction. Harlin is the most interesting character in the book's large cast.
Barry knows when to let the story spin itself out at its own pace, and when to jab the reader with a punchy sentence like "The trouble with his new wife, (Harlin) said, was that she had terrible taste in men." She even gets good mileage out of hackneyed cliches Like the country-western songs that sob from the jukebox, all the familiar love-em-and-leave-em stories are on parade here. Yet, in Barry's hands, the time-worn feels fresh.
Later, at the Bar is full of gem-like moments where characters, with nothing better to do than drink and think, have a knack for saying what they really feel, no matter the consequences (and the stakes are usually very high for these characters). One barfly neatly expresses the sum total of the stories here when she remarks, "Say what you will about drunks, but no one will love you like they can."