And Now the News

Friday. What a difference a week makes (yes, I've been in a few times). Kimmie's job in Raleigh came through. She's excited about moving to a new city and starting a new career, and she's nervous about it too. Anticipation is the worst part. I'm glad for her, though I'll miss her at Applebee's. I hope her new job is wonderful.

Saturday night. Joanie has her bachelorette party. It starts at Outback and ends up at Macado's. Ashley calls Macado's and asks if there is a group from Applebee's there. "Yes, they're at the bar and they're having a good time!" is the reply. No doubt! Ashley is getting ready to drive over to Macado's and insists that I join them. "You can stop in and have just one beer." Uh, no can do, Ashley. Sit down with a bunch of ladies half my age having a bachelorette party? Yeah, I'd fit right in with that crowd. They need me there like a fish needs a bicycle. It was nice of her to invite me, though.

Sunday. Bambi goes into labor five weeks early and delivers a six pound six ounce boy—Jacob Allen. Mother and son are doing well. I talk to her Monday morning. She is tired but in good spirits. She feels bad because she was supposed to work Sunday night and had to leave her co-workers holding the bag. "But I couldn't help it!" she explains. Considering the circumstances, I don't think anyone is going to be mad at her for not showing up to work.

Monday night. I go to the bar a half hour before closing and order a beer. I'm sitting there sipping my beer when I see a manager walking by. Now I must digress for a little bit: during the eight months that Bambi has been pregnant, I ask her about once a month, "Who's going to replace you when you're on maternity leave?" I always get the same answer: "They haven't trained anyone to replace me." Also, Joan's wedding date has been set for a year and she'll be leaving for two or three weeks. If I was a manager I would be scrambling to train some more bartenders. I don't understand why they appear to be doing nothing. When Bambi went into the hospital Sunday, they had to call in a bartender from Martinsville to cover for her. So when I see this manager walking by I ask him, "Who's going to bartend tomorrow?" He shrugs and says, "I don't know."

I find this astonishing. "Wait a minute," I say, pointing my finger at him for emphasis, "you're a manager here? And you don't know who's going to work the bar tomorrow?" "No," he says, backing away from me as though he had just spotted a land mine in front of him. Long pause from me. "O-o-kay," I finally say. I'm incredulous, but it's not my store. The manager mumbles something about getting somebody from Christiansburg to work the bar and makes a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

Sorry guys, but calling in people from other stores doesn't really sound like a plan. How's this for a radical idea: cross-train a couple more servers to be backup bartenders? And how about getting starting on that training a few months before you need them? That's starting to sound like a plan!

But what do I know? I'm just a customer.

Week End

Sunday night. The dregs of the week. The burnt-down stub of a week gone up in smoke. I walk into Applebee's at 9:30 pm and find the bar empty. A few people sit at scattered tables, but not a soul sits at the bar this Sunday evening. Terry is tending bar ( I knew she would be).

"You're my only regular customer tonight," Terry says. Even when she has no customers at the bar, Terry stays busy. She mixes drinks, makes frozen drinks, milkshakes, and mudslides for customers at the tables. It seems like the Island Oasis and the blender are constantly churning. She cleans, she estimates and counts (bar inventory), she answers the phone, she punches in to-go orders. She's like the freakin' Eveready bunny—she just keeps going and going.

I order food, and Terry and I talk.

"Where did you and Bridgette go last night?"

"Nowhere. We talked a while, then I went home and she went home."

"I thought you and she had plans. I thought you were waiting for her."

"No. I just wanted a beer before I went home."

Soon it's 11 pm and the Muzak system is playing Closing Time. Coincidence, I wonder? Day's end, week's end, closing time. It's 11:15 when I leave. As I walk out the door I look back. Terry is bent over, busy sweeping around the bar and under the barstools.

Now I have a week of Applebee vignettes and there are still a number of Applebee ladies I haven't introduced. There's Ashley, who yells "Wayner!" whenever she sees me. There's Susan, a real sweetheart with a maturity that belies her 22 years. There's ...

But I won't try to name them all now. You'll meet them sooner or later.

Triple Play

I ate lunch and dinner at Applebee's today. Now I'm back in at 11 pm for a beer. Three visits in one day. Who says I don't have a life? I do have a life. I just rent it from Applebee's.

Most people go to Applebee's during the day. But the late night atmosphere is different, especially on a Saturday. The place is almost empty tonight. A regular who goes by the moniker "Skeeter" sits at one end of the bar eating dinner. I sit at the other end. Bridgette is bartending. When Bridgette is on a roll, she's a force of nature. Tonight she's a little more mellow. Bridgette and I banter a little, although the banter is 90 percent hers and 10 percent mine.("What do you call a dog with no legs?" "Don't know, what?" "Doesn't matter, he won't come.")

Around midnight Carolyn comes in. Carolyn is a waitress here—and an eye-catching woman of 24. She has a pretty face and a figure that, even in the unflattering Applebee uniform, is dynamite. But tonight she's off-duty, wearing her "civvies", tight fitting jeans and an equally tight, figure-revealing top. Ow! When she walks down the street, I bet her name suddenly becomes "Hey Baby!" Or maybe "Yo, Yo, Baby, Whassup, Whassup!" Depends on the street. Sometimes I try to speak to her, but she doesn't slow down enough for more than a "Hi Carolyn". Maybe she's shy. Maybe she thinks I'm hitting on her and she doesn't like it. Maybe she doesn't want to waste time talking to "some old dude" at the bar who isn't her customer anyway. Who knows.

Terry goes off the clock. She puts on her civvies, comes over and sits down beside me. Terry is 32 and married. And though she's dressed simply—shirt and shorts—she looks terrific. Terry is pretty and sexy, and her workouts at the gym are enhancing everything. We talk, and for a while I can almost imagine that this young, attractive woman is sitting there because she enjoys my company. I can almost imagine it, but not quite. Because I know why she's sitting there. She's killing time until Bridgette goes off the clock, and there's no one else to talk to. Reality check. But I don't care why she's here, I enjoy her company just as much.

Soon enough it's quarter to two. The restaurant's been closed for 45 minutes. Bridgette is off the clock now and has changed her clothes. She and Terry are ready to leave. Time for me to go home.

And I do. I go home. And so at 3:30 on a Sunday morning I sit in an utterly dark room, lit only by the phosphor glow of a computer screen, headphones on, music playing, a beer beside me, trying to capture a moment before it fades forever.

You guys, be good. And g'night, all.

Terry’s Double

It's half past lunchtime on a Saturday pm. I'm having lunch at the bar. On my right is my neighbor, Alton. Alton has sharp eyes - not much gets past him. You can walk up to me and bump into me and I still don't see you. I don't know where I am sometimes, but it's definitely not here. Not so for Alton.

So we're sitting there and Alton says, "There's your friend Terry." Terry is a bartender and waitress and one of my favorite Applebee-ers.

"Where," I say, looking around the room. "I don't see her."

"Coming in the door," says Alton.

I look and sure enough, there's Terry walking toward the front entrance. She's wearing a white shirt, which isn't unusual. It's normal for the wait staff to come to work in "civvies" and change into a uniform after they get to work. I watch her approach the door. But she doesn't come in. Instead, she turns away from the door and takes a few steps, looking down into her pocketbook. She is turned partly toward me and I can still see her face plainly through the large window beside the door. I look away from the window for a few seconds and when I look back I don't see her. Nor do I see her in the room. I figure she's gone into the mall to shop.

Around five pm I get a craving for a burger, so I go back to the restaurant. Terry's there, and I say to her, "Terry! I saw you at lunch today!"

Terry has a "what are you talking about" look on her face. "I just started work," she says.

"Not at work," I say. "I saw you outside earlier, wearing a white shirt."

"No," Terry reiterates, "I just started work."

"But I saw you today. It was lunchtime, about twelve-thirty or one."

"I didn't leave the house today until four," Terry replies.

Okay, mistaken identity is one thing. We've all done it. But I saw that woman very clearly, and Alton saw her, also. It was Terry. Only -- it wasn't.

The Germans have a word for it: doppelganger. My dictionary defines doppelganger as a ghostly counterpart of a living person. I asked Terry if she happened to have an identical twin. But no. She has no twin and she was at home until four.

They say everyone has a double. I don't know if that's true. But Terry certainly has one.

Lunch and the Drunks

Nothing interesting happens at lunch today. Nothing at all. Hey, it's not my fault. Sometimes it just happens that way. Skip ahead to the next vignette if you want.

The bar is half full. Jack, a regular, is already there. I sit down two seats from Jack and order lunch. We talk while other customers come and go. I stay for about two hours, drinking tea and talking. Shortly before I leave, two men come in and seat themselves at the other end of the bar. They each order a beer and Bambi serves them. At first I pay no attention to them; they are just two ordinary guys having beers. They sit there for some time, quietly talking, when I begin to notice something about the man closest to me. He is—not to put too fine a point on it—shit-faced, as they say. He has trouble lighting his cigarette—can't quite hit the end of it with his lighter flame. After a while Bambi comes over to me, leans across the bar, and whispers, "I think those guys were drinking before they got here—they're pretty fucked up." Well, yeah!

Sometimes people have a few drinks before they come in. They handle themselves pretty well until they take one drink too many and go right over the edge. It's not always easy for a bartender to know if someone's been drinking before they come in. They sit at the bar, they look sober, they act sober, they drink one beer, and they're drunk. Then you know.

After a while they leave. I hope they called a taxi.

Holy Jalapeño, it’s Darlene

Darlene. Bartender. Twenty-seven. Pretty face, interesting eyes.

There was a time when I went into the restaurant several nights a week for dinner or a couple of beers. Darlene usually waited on me. I never knew her very well. She never knew me very well. We had a disagreement and a parting of the ways and that, as they say, was that.

Bartenders have ways to let you know they don't want your business, just as they have ways to let you know they want and appreciate your business.

What happened? It doesn't matter. It's in the past. Let it stay there.

Bygones, Darlene. I mean it. Who needs the karma?

Bambi, Jayna, Joan, Kimmie

Today I have a light-hearted lunch, a contrast to the previous two days. I go in at 1:30, when much of the usual lunchtime rush has come and gone. Bambi is working the bar. Bambi is 22 and expecting her first child (a boy) the first week of October. I like Bambi—she's pretty and she smiles easily—but Bambi can shoot someone a look that would turn water to ice, that would peel the wallpaper right off the wall. Now this may sound strange, but I like to see those killer glances of hers. For some reason that I can't fathom, it just tickles me when she does it. Maybe because it's a bit of theatrics that she does so well that it's more of a caricature of an evil look than a real evil look. Then again, maybe you just have to know Bambi. She says she wants to return to school and make something of her life. I hope she does. I wish her luck. Good luck to you, Bambi, and I say that very sincerely.

Jayna is the second person to say hello to me today. She rarely fails to greet me when she sees me come in. Jayna turned 21 yesterday ("Be glad I'm here today," she said). Jayna is cute and very outgoing. I don't know her very well. When we talk we just trade the usual banalities. I know she has a boyfriend and plans to return to school at a local college soon.

Kimmie comes over and talks to me for a while. Kimmie is 25 with a bachelor's degree in history. Kimmie has been job-hunting and had an interview in Raleigh yesterday. She comes over and talks about the company she interviewed with and the position she interviewed for. She seems really excited at the prospect of taking this new job in Raleigh. Kimmie is smart and conscientious. If I needed help I would hire Kimmie in a New York minute. Kimmie has a lot of potential. I suspect she won't be around Applebee's much longer. I'll miss her, and Applebee's will be the poorer for not having her.

Joan stops by and talks a little. Joan is 26—a bright, hard-working waitress and occasional bartender who goes out of her way to make sure that you're well cared for in her restaurant. But Joan is more than a good employee; she's pretty, she has charm, and she has a smile that lights up the room. I don't know what's in store for Joan, but I hope it's a nice, rosy future. She's getting married in less than three weeks. Good luck to you, Joan. I wish you only the best.

The bar is slow and after a while I'm the only customer. Bambi and I talk for a little while as she works. Two young men come in and sit at the bar. Bambi walks over and engages them in conversation. I sit for a while longer, watching the people in the room, the comings and goings of the waitresses, listening to the music, thinking.

The Old Couple

I have just finished my lunch when I notice a very elderly couple. They have finished their meal, also, and are preparing to leave. The man goes to the restroom, leaving this very elderly lady, presumably his wife, standing near the kitchen entrance.

Now, when I say elderly, I don't mean she is just a "senior citizen". I mean she could be ninety easily. Anyway, she gingerly seats herself at one of the round tables near the kitchen. I notice how she moves - like she is afraid she will disturb something. She looks around the room as though she is a little "out of her element". She sits there, waiting for her spouse to return, maybe a little confused by the commotion and the rock music playing on the Muzak system. I notice how fragile she appears, how almost childlike. Her movements are cautious and tentative. Something about the way she looks makes me want to smile at her and say "Don't be afraid, you're very welcome in here, we're glad to see you here today."

The waitresses bustle past her, not glancing at her. Other customers are animated in conversation, wrapped up in their own worlds. The little old lady looks very out of place and looks as though she feels very of place. I feel sad for her. What experiences she must have had. Perhaps she was a child during the Great Depression. Perhaps she was a young woman working in a factory during World War Two. I imagine she had children, had watched her children grow up, get married, have children of their own, and become old themselves. Perhaps she has even watched her grandchildren grow to adulthood and have families of their own.

What crises she must have gone through in her life, what sadness, what heartbreak and loss. And what happy times as well: childhood friends, trips eagerly planned and awaited, marriages, births, family gatherings. Once she was a vigorous young woman. Now she is old, and her time is nearly at an end. Is this the reward for a life well lived? A lifetime of experience, a lifetime of knowledge gained, and yet, now the world is ready to discard her—ready to presume there is nothing in her that we could benefit from knowing. What marvelous secrets she might know, what marvelous stories she might share, if only … if only she had the strength to sit and tell us, if only we had the wisdom to listen.

Lunch with Terry

Terry is tending the bar today. I like Terry, though I don't know her terribly well. I like her because she has so many positive traits. She's fast, efficient, friendly, courteous—everything one could ask for in a bartender. She never has a negative comment about a co-worker or customer; at least, not that I've ever heard. She isn't bothered by people who ask dumb questions. She tries hard to be helpful to everyone around her. If that's not enough, she's nice looking, very fit, lots of energy. She's bright, likes to talk, is always in a good mood. She is definitely on my A-list. So I feel bad when our conversation—but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Terry struggles with a problem in her life now; I won't discuss it here. I think sometimes that she works hard (and works out hard) partly to get away from it. Yet it seems never far from her mind. Today as I sit at the bar Terry tells me about an elderly couple that she saw crossing the parking lot. She saw a lot more in them than I realized. Maybe she saw a lifetime of love, a friend who is always there. Maybe she saw a family growing up and growing old together. I don't know what she saw. She tells me about seeing them, then she turns and walks toward the open end of the bar. "How did seeing them make you feel?" I ask, wanting to understand. She reaches the end of the bar, pauses, turns partly toward me, as if to answer. She stands there silently for a few seconds, wanting to answer but unable to answer, or not daring to answer. Then she turns and quickly disappears into the kitchen.

She is gone a long time. When she returns to the bar she is very quiet. I, too, am quiet. I feel responsible, in some vague way, for whatever pain she just felt. I should have known that it was not the old couple, but the loss of something precious in her own life, that had caused her to comment on them. But now there is nothing that I can say. And there is nothing that Terry can say. She mixes drinks and washes glasses. I look across the room to the traffic flowing down Electric Road.

I return later that evening and sit at the bar, sipping a beer. Stupid, maybe, but I feel the day would be incomplete without at least trying to say something to Terry. I want to tell her that I understand, that she shouldn't feel weird about what happened. And though I want to tell her, I'm really not sure if I should or exactly how to say it. But Terry has already left for home. I drink one beer. Then I, too, leave for home.