Play it again, Sam

Nowadays, Pecos on Saturday evenings is like the rest of Bangalore on Saturday evenings.
Unbearably crowded.
All three floors are completely packed, the staircases are overflowing, and there is no space to be had anywhere.
But on Saturday evening, if one is on Brigade Road, and one is thirsty, then one goes to Pecos.
That's just the way things are, and nothing can be done about it.
And so I stepped into the Tower of Babel, with ye olde Clapton strumming away in the background, beer all round, and a good time to be had.
Kiran waved his usual cheery hand of greeting, and then shrugged smilingly, pointing out that there were no seats to be had. But I'd already spotted the raconteur, perched in the one seat that Pecos seems to keep for him at all hours, halfway through his mug of beer.
He acknowledged my presence by his side by nodding quietly, and motioning to Kiran to supply me with the ambrosia. And suitably armed, I slouched next to him, sipping of the holy glass every now and then.
"It's getting to be a little too crowded in here, ain't it now?" I yelled over the din, cupping my hands against his ear.
"Half of India's brats are in Bangalore", he yelled back, "And twice that many are faithfuls here."
I smiled in agreement, watching the many heads bobbing in time to the music.
"It's going to be such that even the regulars are going to find it hard to get a seat out here" I yelled again, trying to outdo Clapton's decibel levels - he wanted the rain pretty bad.
"Hell yeah", the raconteur said feelingly "Hell, there are days when I come in to find my seat occupied. Just the other day, I had to sit on the bloody staircase, because some young whippersnapper...."
The raconteur stood up then. Smiling, he made way and bade welcome to an old man who'd just entered Pecos.
Old and stooped, with wrinkled face and a crinkled smile. A white, checked shirt worn over black trousers, both of which had seen many a year. Thick, black, rimmed spectacles, truly old ones. Brown leather, weather beaten sandals, and eyes that had long been steeped in humor.
Those wrinkles that you see at the side of the eyes, especially with old people who laugh a lot? Just like those - a lot of 'em.
"Hey, Sammy, my man," the raconteur said, giving the old dodderer a warm hug," How's it going?"
"Like it has been, friend, like it always has been" said Sammy, sinking gratefully onto the stool. " And how's the Shepherd been treating his favorite black sheep?"
"He's got a beer in his hand no, Sammy", Kiran grinned, as he handed Sammy a mug, "He's doing OK, not to worry."
The raconteur introduced me, and old Sammy shook hands, and I noticed they trembled a little.
Sammy smiled as he noticed my glance at his hands linger awhile.
"No, young lad, it's my first mug yet."
We laughed again, as the raconteur led me to the staircase, where space was willingly made for us.
"Quite an old guy, that" I said, hoping to get the raconteur started on one of his many tales.
"Yeah", he said, smiling fondly at the old guy. "Comes in here like you could set the calendar by him... Every Saturday, he'll traipse in, all those many miles from his place - has a beer and goes back home."
"Every weekend?" I asked, looking at the old guy with new found respect. "How old is he?"
"Oh, must be around 70 now. He was one fourth of a gang of four... they've been coming here since the place started. They used to work in an office nearby, and started frequenting this place since it started."
He took a sip and continued.
"There isn't much to say, really... pretty soon, they'd formed a routine. Every Saturday - and Saturdays were half days back then, you know - they'd come in, have a couple of beers, listen to some blues, and get back home."
"Year after year, the same four - Vivek, George, Abhijeet and old Sammy here. Like brothers, they were. They took houses next to each other, their families grew up with each other - they spent their entire lives working for the one firm, and after retirement, they'd still come here - every Saturday evening."
"It was a quiet kind of comradeship - I don't think I've seen any of them drunk, ever. Just some beers, listen to Coltrane, B.B. King, that blues stuff - and leave. Very quiet, very regular."
I nodded thoughtfully.
"So the other three...?"
"Yup," he nodded "One by one... old age and nothing else really. But whoever was left would still come here, and now it's just good old Sammy. Catches the bus from his place, gets off on MG Road, comes up to here, has a mug and goes back. And knowing him, he'll do it until he can't."
"He likes the place that much, eh?", I marvelled, looking over at Sam, who raised his glass at us.
"Well, what's to not like?", asked the raconteur, motioning to Kiran to refill our glasses. "But not really, he comes here for old times sakes - to meet his buddies."
"What do you mean, meet his buddies?", I asked incredulously. "Surely you don't mean to say he thinks they're still..."
"No, no, of course not!", interrupted the raconteur. "Just the memories... he just sits there and relives the good ol' times, that's all. And really, it's a kind of pilgrimage, this Saturday at Pecos business."
Almost out of habit, Kiran had slipped in a B B King CD, and the wizard of the blues was just wrapping up a song on the speakers.
And as the last notes wafted out, almost out of habit, Kiran leaned over the counter towards the old man.
"Play it again, Sammy?", he asked.
Old Sammy nodded. Took a sip, squared his shoulders and smiled back at Kiran.
"Yes, Kiran, my boy", said the septuagenarian," Let the good times roll!"