Loose Ends

I was going to stop this nonsense in October when I wrote Signing Off. But Michelle's story was too compelling to not write about, the Darlene incident needed explaining, Thursday night was too nice to not try to capture, and so it went. How do I wrap up all these little vignettes? Maybe I can tie up some loose ends.

Thursday evening. A friend sits at the bar with me. He doesn't know the history between Darlene and me, so when he hears her say that she has no significant other, he says to me, "You ought to take her out." Take Darlene out? This is funny. Even without all that's happened between Darlene and me, it would be very unlikely. But explaining why is not the kind of thing you want to do while sitting at a noisy bar, so I just shake my head and say "No."  Later, as Darlene grabs a quick dinner at one of the bar tables, I stop at her table and tell her what my friend said to me. I figure she'll get a laugh out of it.

"Hey Darlene—my friend just told me he thinks I should take you out!" But Darlene doesn't laugh. Instead—

"I'm not interested in dating anyone right now," she says. I am chagrined to realize that Darlene thinks I'm hitting on her. How could she think that? I resolve to be more careful about what I say to Darlene.

A few days later I learn that I've been having sex with Terry for the past few months. This news is passed to me by a regular customer, who heard it from some of the waitresses. Apparently, having a few drinks with Terry on two or three occasions was enough to start the rumor. I resolve to be more careful about what I say and do with Terry.

Saturday night I sit at the bar and watch a football game on one of the bar TVs. Susan is waitressing tonight, but she's also  interested in the game. Several times she stops by my barstool to ask the score or comment on the game. Suddenly the customer sitting beside me says, "I think she's hitting on you."

What?

I resolve to leave Earth and find a planet with intelligent life. I only hope they have some nice bars.

Kimmie comes in later that night. I spot her sitting a few seats down the crowded bar.

"Kimmie!" I call to her above the noise of the packed restaurant and the rock music on the Muzak.

She sees me, jumps off her barstool and comes over to me. We hug each other for a few seconds. Turns out she's in town for a quick visit with friends. We have a little reunion, and then she rejoins her friends. It was really nice to see her again. I like Kimmie. She's a good person.

Bambi still works at Applebee's, but as a waitress, not a bartender. Her baby is doing very well.

Amy, the bar customer who once said to me "I will see you again", turned out to be a friend. We often meet at the bar and talk about work, about people we've known, about places we've been. We have a few drinks, some good laughs, some good conversation, and we go our separate ways.

That wraps it up. I guess there weren't that many loose ends to tie up after all.

A friend once called me an Applebee commando. The way she said it was more like, "Get a life!"

What can I say? She was right. I'll try to do better. Meanwhile, you be good.

Maybe I'll see you at the bar.

Friday Night

I received an email today from Amy, a bar customer. She read the chronicles and wanted to say 'hello'. She asked "How long before I'm a regular?"

Being a regular isn't a length of time. It's more like a state of mind. It's when people aren't surprised to run into you at Applebee's—they're surprised when they don't run into you at Applebee's. Like, "I was at Applebee's Tuesday night, and I looked around and I didn't see you. Where were you?"

Then again, maybe it really is a length of time. Who knows?

It's quarter past 10. The place is crowded but there are 1 or 2 seats at the bar. I walk around the bar in search of a vacancy and I spot Matt across the bar. Matt has certainly earned the title of "regular"—I've seen him at the bar for a couple of years.

I sit and order a burger and a beer from Bridgette and I talk to Matt for a while. I tell him that next time I'll come earlier so we'll have more time to talk.

"I came early," he says, "and I had to wait a half hour for a seat at the bar."

Ok, I guess I won't come early.

Matt leaves and Cathy puts down a cup of coffee on the bar and tells me she's going to join me. She disappears for a while and returns in her "civvies". She sits and eats a meal and we talk for maybe an hour. Cathy never acts friendly, and, in fact, she relishes the fact that she has a reputation for being mean. So while I enjoy her company, I can only assume that her hormones are out of balance and that soon enough she will regain her old, familiar personality.

Halloween

For Halloween, most of the girls come to work dressed in costumes. Terry dresses like Demi Moore in the movie G.I. Jane, or like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2—remember that scene near the beginning where Linda escapes from the mental institution? One very tough lady. That's Terry tonight.

Bambi dresses in a flowery short dress with gaudy costume jewelry. I can't figure who she's supposed to be.

Ashley wears a convict costume—with black and white stripes and complete with handcuffs. I ask Ashley about Bambi's  costume, momentarily forgetting that Bambi and Ashley have not been on good terms.

"Ashley, what is Bambi supposed to be?"

"A slut," Ashley replies. Ok, Ashley. Point taken.

Susan wears a nun's habit. It's fitting, as Susan is so not like that image. Susan is spiritual but not religious. It's a dichotomy I appreciate.

"Susan, are you the 'flying nun'?"

"What?" Susan asks.

"You know . . . remember that TV show, 'The Flying Nun'?"

Susan looks mystified. "I've never heard of it," she says. I forget she's 23. I thought all the old shows lived on in syndication. Obviously, not all do.

Heather is a doctor (with stethoscope), Carol is a "pink lady" from the movie Grease, Bridgette wears a St. Louis Cardinals jersey. Darlene dresses like the "scarecrow" in The Wizard of Oz. She has straw in her hair, on her clothes, and sticking out of her sleeves.

"Darlene," I tell her, "your costume gets a 'number one' rating from me, for one reason. It looks absolutely like the most annoying costume to wear."

Cathy is a hippie tonight. Sidney doesn't dress up at all—she comes to work wearing her Applebee's uniform.

"Sidney, you're dressed up like an Applebee's waitress! That's a very good costume. It looks so realistic."

"I made it myself," she says. "It took months to sew the name on."

Joan wears a sign around her neck that says, "Don't yell at me. I'm not a real manager." I tell her that if I had a pencil I'd make myself a sign—"Don't ask me for money. I'm not a real customer."

But you already knew that.

Ashley

It's the day before Halloween. I sit at the bar and wait for my lunch to arrive. The restaurant is not crowded today, and Ashley has time to sit with me. I've already introduced Ashley. She's a 22 years old waitress and she's a cutie. She has a pretty face, and she's meticulous with her makeup and appearance.

"Ashley," I say to her, "can you cook?"

"Hell no!" Ashley replies. "Do I look like I can cook?"

Now that you mention it, no. What was I thinking?

Ashley has never been my server, but we've seen each other in the restaurant many times. Sometimes, as I come through the door, she will walk up to me and hug me. Sometimes, she yells "Wayner!" when she sees me. Sometimes, she punches the back of my barstool as she walks by. And sometimes, she punches me as she walks by. If this is flirting, it's not serious. It's just Ashley being Ashley. I think she trusts me to ensure nothing comes of it, and that allows her to feel safe to do it.

If she gets bored she might open a notepad and doodle a picture—a car outside, or me sitting at the bar. Just for grins, I scanned in a couple of her drawings, threw some color on them, and printed them letter size. When I brought in the prints and showed them to her, she seemed pleased to have them.

Today she reads her horoscope, then asks about my birthday so she can read my horoscope. "Come in tomorrow," she says, talking about Halloween. "I'm going to come as a prisoner. I've got a striped suit and handcuffs." Then she sees a new customer in her section. She jumps off the barstool and she's gone.

Ashley is looking for a job that pays more. I don't know how much longer she will be at Applebee's. She's not a bartender and she never serves me food, but if she goes, I'll miss her. I'll miss hearing her yell "Wayner!" at me, and I'll miss those mischievous, flirtatious looks she sends my way.
So, Ashley, I'll understand if you have to leave, but I hope it doesn't happen for a while. A long while.

A Night at the Bar

I sit at the bar, I sip my beer, I look out the window. The room is crowded, the bar is crowded. Tonight, I don't look at the people around me, I just listen to their voices. It's a babble of conversations, but now and then one voice momentarily rises above the babble for a few words, then all the voices blur together again. It sounds like . . .

babble . . . babble . . . babble . . .

(man's voice) "hey there . . . "

babble . . . babble . . .

(another man's voice) "So I said . . ."

female laughter . . . more babble . . .

(female voice) "And then I ran out of condoms . . ."

Huh?

I take a quick look at the female who said that. She's about 20 years old and very cute. What was that about?

I sit at the bar, I sip my beer, I look out the window. The manager walks out of the kitchen and up to my barstool.

"How do you spell Schwarzkopf?" he asks. "As in General Schwarzkopf."
Uh, like it sounds?

"Write it down." He hands me a notepad and pencil. I write it down. He walks around the bar and shows the pad to other bar customers. As he passes by me again he says, "You were right. I told the bartender to give you a beer on me." Then he disappears into the kitchen.

Huh? What was that about?

I sit at the bar, I sip my beer, I look out the window. A loud male voice to my right says, "You're very quiet tonight!" I look to my right and see a guy I recognize as a regular, though I never talk to him.

"Yes, I am," I agree with him.

"It's been a hell of a week," he says. "I'm being sued for two hundred thousand dollars."

"You are?"

"Yeah, I beat the crap out of this guy in a bar, so he's suing me."

"You beat him up?"

"He attacked me with a bottle—a broken bottle. I used to be an expert at karate. I beat the crap out of him."

"He attacked you?"

"He threatened me. He threatened to attack me with the bottle. So I beat him up."

After a while he leaves to talk to another customer. I'm alone at the bar again. I sip my beer. I look out the window. Then, I look to my left at the woman sitting two seats from me.

"Hello. Are you from Roanoke?"

She looks at me, then turns her barstool slightly toward mine. "I live in Galax," she says with a smile. "I'm in Roanoke on business."

"What's your business?"

"I'm an investment broker," she says. "Stocks, bonds, mutual funds. Boring stuff."

Boring is ok. It's just a night at the bar.

Nancy

Nancy is the weekday daytime bartender. On this Thursday at lunch I have the bar to myself, and  Nancy and I have time to talk. For a while our conversation wanders. Finally, she tells me about what happened to her four years ago. It was the night of December 23, 1995.

Nancy worked at the Christiansburg Applebee's that night. As she closed the bar and prepared to go home, one of her co-workers asked if she could give him a ride home. Nancy agreed, and proceeded to drive him to his home in Radford. The restaurant didn't close its doors until 1 AM, and for those who had to close, it was typical to work until 2 or 2:30 in the morning. It was 3 or 3:30 AM when Nancy turned her Bronco around and headed for her own home.

The most direct route was a "back road" over the mountains. Nancy decided to take this winding, single lane, unpaved road, though she wasn't very familiar with it. The road wound between steep hills which shielded it from the weak December sun and allowed icy spots from recent snowfalls to remain for days.

When she was about a mile and a half from her home she encountered a curve. As her Bronco rounded the curve it hit an icy patch. At first she thought she could recover and keep the Bronco on the road. But it was not to be. The Bronco hit the shoulder and rolled over, rolling several times on its way down into a creek.

Nancy's head hit the windshield and the impact knocked her out. When she awoke, she heard a noise and wondered what it was. She soon realized what was making the noise. The Bronco had landed on its side and the rear window had broken out. The noise she heard was the sound of creek water running through the Bronco. As she regained her awareness, she realized that she was lying, inside her vehicle, in the icy creek water.

Nancy opened the Bronco's door and pulled herself up and out of the vehicle. She was wearing a short miniskirt and tennis  shoes. She fortunately had on a leather coat, which she would  sorely need. The temperature was ten degrees below zero and she was soaking wet.

Nancy knew that a friend lived just a mile down the road, and, though her circumstances were dire, she felt she could make it. All she had to do was climb an embankment to the road and then hike to her friend's house.

In the darkness of the night, disoriented and confused after being knocked unconscious, Nancy made a near-fatal mistake. Instead of climbing the embankment to the road, Nancy climbed the opposite embankment. She struggled forward looking for the road, not knowing that every step carried her deeper into the woods.

Deep in the woods, Nancy knew she was in trouble. She didn't know which way to go, but she knew that she would never be found alive if she stopped. She had to find her way back to the road.

It was a new moon night, and the woods were pitch black. Nancy stumbled and fell repeatly over barbed wire and brambles. Soon her legs were torn and covered with blood.

At dawn she encountered a small river and swam to the other side. Once there she found a road and started walking down it. It was the road to her home, but she was too disoriented, too exhausted, to realize that she was walking in the wrong direction. By 10 AM she was 10 miles from the site of her accident. She had been trying to find her way home, wet, in subzero weather, for six hours.

Then she encountered two men walking down the road toward her. They were dressed in jeans and flannel shirts and were wearing ball caps. Strangely, neither man had on a coat, nor was there a vehicle in sight on the road. "They must have been angels," she says. "What were they doing out there without coats and with no car or truck?" At the time, Nancy had little time to ponder the matter, as she was close to losing consciousness.

"Please help me," she cried to them. At that point, both men turned around and walked away. Nancy fell backward and collapsed on the road.

When she awakened again, the rescue squad was there. Her wet clothes had frozen to the road, and the men in the rescue truck used a shovel to break the ice holding her down. They took her to the hospital suffering numerous injuries and severe frostbite. At the hospital, doctors at first did not expect her to live. One doctor told her later that the lowest body temperature that they had been able to revive a person from was 85 degrees. Nancy's body temperature on arrival at the hospital was 82 degrees.

After she had revived, doctors warned her that she might lose her legs from the severe frostbite, but they were wrong again. She bounces around behind the bar with no hint of her ordeal, save for the small scars up and down the front of her legs.

"I guess God wasn't through with me yet," she says of her brush with death.

Yeah, Nancy. That, and you're one tough cookie.

Terry’s Double Part 2

It's dusky dark outside, an early Tuesday evening, as I sit at the bar. The bar is slow tonight. Darlene works the bar; I'm the only bar patron. The restaurant is crowded, and a group of people hover just inside the door, waiting for a table to open up. Finally, another customer comes in and sits at the bar. I don't know him, but Darlene does, so he must be a "regular", though his visits are on a different schedule from mine. He talks to Darlene for a while, then I hear him ask, "Who is that?" as he points toward the kitchen door. Terry (see the vignette titled Terry's Double) is disappearing through the door.

Darlene shrugs. She didn't see Terry in time. So he tries to describe her—brunette, thus and so tall, etc.

"He's talking about Terry," I tell Darlene.

"Does she have a twin?" he asks Darlene.

Darlene isn't sure. I tell him no, she doesn't have a twin.

"She has a twin," the newcomer says. "I've seen her around here." He pauses, then reiterates, "She has a twin."

Then I understand. He doesn't mean "sister". He just means a lookalike.

So I tell him, "There's a woman I've seen around here who looks just like her."

"Yeah," he says, "that's what I'm saying. There's a woman around here who looks just like her."

So I'm wondering, if he doesn't know Terry well enough to know her name, why would he think that Terry isn't the same person as this other person? Maybe he really did see two women who looked enough alike to be twins. Or maybe it's just a ploy to start a conversation with Terry, which he tries to do moments later when Terry walks by.

"Hey, you've got a twin, you know that . . . ?" He tries a couple more times to get a dialogue going.

Terry handles it like a pro. If he was hitting on her, he got nowhere. Three and out.

He may or may not have been hitting on Terry. But I believe him when he says he saw Terry's twin.

Too weird.