According to one of its denizens, Lucy's Bar is "like a perfect family, always there if you need it, but if you need to leave it for a while and get away, you can." At first glance, the barflies who frequent Lucy's appear to be nondescript social flotsam, lonely losers who drink to numb or obliterate their disappointment and pain. However, Rebecca Barry's compassionate portraits of these alienated, frustrated and bewildered men and women make their dilemmas real and their anguish universal. "Later, at the Bar," her novel-in-stories, rings with truth.
It is a fine line that Barry walks. It would be all to easy for her to make her characters stock lovable drunks, stumbling over each other in a predictable and harmlessly affectionate manner. It would be equally easy for Barry to indict this group of small-town New York citizens for their lack of will and motivation to escape often self-inflicted difficulties. Instead, the author ropes us into the world of men like Harlan, who fails at everything he attempts but somehow gains access to others' hearts. Barry makes us feel attached to women like Grace, whose virtue has been compromised beyond count yet still retains a steely integrity. Even syndicated advice columnist Linda Hartley, whose personal life utterly contradicts the responsible counsel she dispenses in national magazines, appears not so much as a rank hypocrite but as a terribly lonely, frightened middle-aged woman who fears that life has passed her by.
Infidelity, recklessness and utter stupidity vie for attention in the lives of the patrons of Lucy's Bar. The miracle of Rebecca Barry's creative voice and detailed descriptions is that against our own will, we come to identify with the very characters we in no way aspire to become.
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