When P.T. Barnum started dancing on a table in the bar, the bartender was hardly surprised. Annoyed, yes, but hardly surprised. Barnum had always been somewhat eccentric, but he was also a paying customer, so the bartender put up with his occasional tendency to dance on barroom furniture.
Now, young Phillip Carlyle dancing on his bar—that was unexpected. Phillip had frequented this establishment before, but he was always very quiet, preferring to sit at a table in the back. He definitely did not dance on bars. Or sing, for that matter.
Something strange was going on, indeed.
It had started when Barnum and Phillip had walked into the previously empty bar for drinks. It seemed that Barnum was trying to convince his younger companion to join the circus, but Phillip was rather skeptical.
"Let's just say I find it much more comfortable admiring your show from afar," he was saying.
"Ah. Comfort, the enemy of progress," Barnum replied, tossing a peanut into his mouth.
"Do you understand that just associating with you could cost me my inheritance?" Phillip asked.
"Oh, it could cost you more than that. You'd be risking everything. But on the other hand, well… you just might find yourself a free man." Barnum then began to sing.
Singing! the bartender thought. In my bar! Pigs must be flying in Kalamazoo about now! What does Barnum think he's doing? His train of thought was interrupted, however, when Barnum tapped the bar for a refill. He slid over and poured two more drinks.
"… And if it's crazy, live a little crazy. You can play it sensible, a king of conventional, or you can risk it all and see. Don't you wanna get away from the same old part you gotta play?" At that, Barnum pulled on Phillip's necktie, and the bartender stifled a laugh as the younger man's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his neatly gelled hair. Barnum seemed to finish singing, but then Phillip joined in. He had a surprisingly good voice, and seemed almost amused at Barnum's antics.
"Okay, my friend, you want to cut me in. Well I hate to tell you, but it just won't happen. So thanks, but no. I think I'm good to go, 'cause I quite enjoy the life you say I'm trapped in. Now I admire you, and that whole show you do, you're onto something, really it's something, but I live among the swells, and we don't pick up peanut shells. I'll have to leave that up to you…" he said as he threw a handful of peanut shells on the floor! The bartender was starting to get angry with the two men, acting like they owned the place and climbing on the furniture like a couple of toddlers. He swept his broom through them angrily as Phillip continued singing. Less than thirty seconds later, the kid overturned a barstool and climbed onto the freshly cleaned bar! If the bartender was angry before, he was furious now. He cleared off the bar, lest Phillip step on one of the nice glasses he had just purchased.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped off the bar and the bartender handed Barnum two full shot glasses as he danced over to the piano. He asked Phillip if he really wanted a life of whiskey and plays, and Phillip said no, but the bartender could see the hesitation in his eyes. He had met his father before and really felt for the kid. Mr. Carlyle was a rather haughty, overbearing man, and the bartender did not envy young Phillip's position one bit, what with an abusive father and no other siblings to keep him company. Although, rumor did say that Phillip had two cats, but cats weren't much compared to another human being, at least in the bartender's opinion. Then, Barnum offered Phillip an alternative.
"…Wake you up and cure your aching, take your walls and start 'em breaking. Now that's a deal that seems worth taking… but I guess I'll leave that up to you?" Phillip paused… then turned around, smiling, and began negotiating for his pay as Barnum signaled the bartender for more drinks. He set out eight, evenly spaced along the bar top, and leaned back, tapping his fingers on the counter as he waited for the money. Barnum patted his vest—then realized he had nothing left. Phillip raised his eyebrows and slapped a bill onto the counter, and the bartender began ringing up the order. He turned around, and added his own moves to theirs, hoping that they would give him a better tip. Although, he reflected, the kid had already given him a substantial tip, so maybe that would be bad taste? He never got the chance to decide, however, because the two men danced (danced!) out the door and into the night.
Later that evening, as he was cleaning the bar for the next day, he wondered what possessed him to start dancing with the other two men. He decided that he deserved a bit of a break, so that was his way to let off a bit of steam. And the next day, he'd do it all over again—pour drinks, deal with people who had too many drinks, and occasionally break into choreographed dances as necessary.
Although really, Barnum's suggestion—to get away from the 'part you gotta play?' That was just preposterous.