10.29.2001
I was tending bar for Peter one morning when he was either too sick or too drunk to get out of bed. Josh called me and - in a rare moment of need - actually begged me to go down and open the place. I was quite hungover myself but viewed it as a good way to get myself out of part of my tab. I wandered down to Josh's apartment and picked up the keys needed to open the door then made my way over to his bar to pour myself a drink and get things going.
It was a crisp fall day and the sun cast a nice warm glow over the old hardwood floor of the place. I stood holding my scotch & soda and basked in the light for a few minutes before going to fish out the money from the safe to open the register. It was a quiet morning and instead of turning on the jukebox or television, I leaned against the bar wiping the age-old smudges between thoughts. In my head I added up my tab and tried to figure what a day of bartending would be worth, hoping that we could just toss the whole thing out when I was done. As it was, and a smile crept across my face at the idea, I was drinking for free all that day.
It was just past two when my first customer wandered in. He looked to be about the same age as I was but better groomed and much better dressed. He looked around casting a long shadow across the room, stunned at first by the silence of the place then slowly made his way over to me.
"Are you open," he asked with trepidation.
"You're standing there aren't you?"
"Sure. I guess I am. Could I get a gin & tonic?"
"Yep," I said and went through the bottles in the rack to find the gin. It was a terribly generic label I vaguely remembered my grandfather having at one point. It had evaporated a little more than half way down. I pulled out a collins glass, filled it with ice, placed it on the bar, and poured the gin. I counted to four, stopped pouring and dispensed the soda from the gun, tossed in a straw, dug through the fridge for the lime wedges and, after finding one, tossed it in also. I pushed the drink in front of him and waited for him to take a sip.
"Strong," he commented as his face puckered up.
"What's the point of drinking if you can't taste the alcohol? That's three bucks," I said and rapped the bar with my knuckles.
He dug through his wallet and pulled out four singles, placing them in front of his drink and took another sip. "Do you get CNN?"
"No." We did, but I was liking the silence and didn't want to break it.
"What do you get?"
"Nothing. The television's broken."
"What about the jukebox?"
"It too."
"Really?"
"Look around," I said. He swiveled his head left and right and saw the wallpaper peeling away from the edges of the wall, the warped floor, dirty bar, ancient bottles, and inches of dust almost everywhere. He nodded as he turned back toward me and rested his head in his hands. I leaned against the shelf holding the bottles and propped my foot up on the ice bin beneath, watching him for a few minutes as he quietly sipped at his drink.
"No work today," I asked.
"I tried to go into work today," he started then stopped, realizing that he and I probably had more in common than he wanted; we both talked to the bartender. When a guy talks to the bartender he's either a drunk or on his way to becoming one.
"But you didn't make it, huh," I continued for him wanting to hear the rest and to complete his downward descent.
"No." He didn't add anything else so I lit a cigarette and waited until he was ready to participate.
"You been married," he asked, chewing on his straw.
"Nope."
"So I guess you never had to worry about getting your wife pregnant," he said looking into his gin for answers. There weren't any there, but I didn't expect him to know that. I had learned it from experience he obviously hadn't.
"I got a girl pregnant once in high school," I offered not wanting him to stop. "Of course, she gave me something so I consider it even."
I don't think I've ever seen a man wear a frown as deep as the one he wore looking back at me. I shrugged and flicked my cigarette, dropping the ash on the shelf behind me, and continued to look at him. When there was nothing left but ice and a little bit of water, I made him another then one for myself. I wasn't a gin drinker, but I did it in the spirit of camaraderie.
"So what's the problem," I asked placing my smokes on the bar as an offer. "You knocked up your wife. That's good news right?"
"Is it?"
"I don't know, you tell me." I watched his eyes dart back and forth between his drink and my pack of Chesterfields and I could tell he was an ex-smoker. He was the kind of guy who picked it up in college then gave it up, probably for his now pregnant wife. If he smoked, at least then I could have some kind of gauge to his character. As it was, I couldn't figure out what he was about. His clothes said junior vice-president at a bank downtown but he could just as easily be in marketing at some firm uptown. Regardless, he struck me as a very uninteresting man that something interesting had happened to.
"So what're you going to do," I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know." He leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand and closed his eyes. Watching him, I suddenly became sick. He had a real job and an actual girl to go home to at night - something I felt sorely lacking in my own life - yet, when I looked at him, I couldn't help but to think he was probably one of the more pathetic people I'd ever encountered. He reached for my cigarettes and lit up, fumbling with the book of matches as though he was unsure of how to use them. He inhaled deeply with his eyes closed then looked at me, for the first time, in my eyes. "What would you do?"
"Beats me man. It's your problem one way or another," I said.
He looked into his glass that seemed to empty while I wasn't paying attention then looked at me with a pair of puppy dog eyes he probably used to pick up girls back before his married days. I didn't move.
"Could I get another," he asked.
"No," I said.
"What," he asked as though he didn't understand.
"No," I said again slowly to make sure that he understood. "You can't have another."
"You're cutting me off?"
"Yeah." I'd always wanted to cut someone off and that sad sack of shit arrived on my lucky day. "I don't like you much and think it would probably be better if you left."
He looked around the bar, at the television, at the "broken" jukebox, at the empty stools and chairs, then turned back around to look at me. "There's no one else here!"
"I've noticed."
"I'm your only customer!"
"I've noticed that too."
"And you're cutting me off?" He looked desperate. He looked like a man who needed a drink of water who stumbled across an oasis marked "for residents only." There were bars on every block so I took no pity.
I didn't say another word as I cleared away his empty glass, tossed the wet napkin into a trash bin beneath the bar, and reclaimed ownership of my cigarettes which I didn't want him to smoke any more of.
He didn't take his eyes off of me as he picked up his bag and walked backwards to the door. He continued to stare with an open mouth as he stumbled slowly past the window. Before he was out of sight, I gave him a slight wave and smile which made him pause for a second.
I sat against the counter and smoked my cigarette before pouring myself a scotch & soda and turning on the jukebox for a little bit of music to listen to while waiting for my next customer.