Rainy Monday

It's a rainy Monday when I drop by the bar for happy hour. For a while I'm the only bar customer, so when Bridgette arrives at 4:15 and clocks-in, she orders food then sits beside me and tells me all about her own recent social blunder. "I'm so stupid," she says, "I ought to win the Darwin award."

Ah, relationships. They do so much for our self-esteem.

A woman comes in and sits down two seats from me. For a while Bridgette and I continue to talk, but soon the new customer and I start talking. We talk for the next two and a half hours. She's an ex-bartender from Florida, and she tells me about the time she had a customer—a professional gambler—who gave her a four thousand dollar tip. I guess with gamblers it's "easy come, easy go".

(Next day, I tell a female acquaintance about meeting this lady and the tale of the four thousand dollar tip, just because it was an interesting story, and her response is, "Did you make a love connection?" I guess that would have been the more interesting story.)

Terry is going off the clock, and she takes the trouble to come by my barstool and tell me she's leaving. "Bye Terry," I tell her. "I'll see you next Monday."

"Next Monday?" she asks with just a little disbelief. "I don't believe that." (I'm spending entirely too much time in this place.)

Eventually my new acquaintance leaves, and I leave, too. For the entire time I've been at the bar, we were the only bar customers. And it was very pleasant.

"I will be seeing you again!" my new acquaintance says.

Maybe. But when you meet people at a bar, it's usually more like ships passing in the night. So I have no expectations.

Wednesday. Terry turns out to be right. I stop by Wednesday afternoon (her day off) and there she is. She's having dinner with her kids, Ryan and Shannon (three and six). Again, she stops by my barstool, this time with the kids in tow. Ryan is holding a Teddy bear like it's a life jacket on a stormy sea. Here's some advice for you, Ryan: when all else fails, hug your Teddy.

Cathy is working tonight, and she actually speaks to me. (If you knew Cathy you would know how unusual that is. In fact, I'm so astonished that I'm sure she must be speaking to someone else, until she says, "I said 'Hello' to you.")

"Hi Cathy," I finally muster. "You startled me when you spoke to me. It's so unlike you."

She pretends to slap my arm. "I bet that didn't startle you," she says.

She's right. It never surprises me to encounter meanness. Niceness from people—that's what always surprises me.

The Gift

Monday night. I've just sat down and ordered food when Ashley comes over and sits down beside me. Ashley is a 22 year old cutie (I almost said cutie-pie … sorry) who, whenever she sees me come into the place, hollers "Wayner!" Sometimes when I go to lunch at Applebee's my company’s GM goes with me, and when Ashley sees us she hollers "It's Wayner and Wayner's friend!" It tickles him so much that he's begun calling me Wayner. Look at what you started, Ashley.

Ashley sits beside me at the bar and orders a burger. Someone walks by and says "What are you doing, Ashley?" Replies Ashley, "I'm eating dinner with Wayner!"

I find it hard to talk to Ashley. I was never that young. In fact, I was born older than she is now. That may not be a fair thing to say, as I don't know much about her, but she seems to breeze through her days with the typical concerns of the very young soul: what bar to hit, where to party, where to party next, and you get the picture. I like Ashley and would like to know her better. But that's a conversation that will be hard to get a grip on. There's a gulf between us greater even than our difference in years, which is considerable. Sometimes she invites me to do something with her, and I wish I could. But her world is one I left lifetimes ago. I can't be a part of it, not even for a while. So we make small talk about her job, her plans to celebrate her friend's birthday, the quality of our respective meals (I should have ordered what she ordered). I leave early tonight, but I do enjoy her company. It was nice of her to join me for dinner.

Tuesday night. Tonight I screwed up. Or maybe I didn't. I'm really not sure, and that might be the worst of it. Probably no one but me is thinking about this, and that must say something about me.

It's Terry's birthday, and I decide to get her a gift. Of course, the first thing to decide is how much to spend—a little or a lot. She's not my wife, she's not my girl friend—and I fear that if I spend very much on a gift, it might make her feel weird, like I'm hitting on her, or suggesting something. I'm sure these gals get their share of that. To Terry, I'm just a bar customer. I only want to say "Happy Birthday" and give her something to unwrap, no big deal. I decide that a small, inexpensive gift would be most appropriate, would make her feel that my birthday wish was just that—a birthday wish—not a signal of an ulterior motive or unspoken expectations. So I buy her something, and I wrap it up, and I put it in one of those little decorated bags, and I take it to the restaurant. When she comes over to the bar, I wish her a happy birthday and I hand the bag to her.

She unwraps the present and thanks me for it. Almost immediately I start feeling that this is a mistake—I should have gone for the bigger bucks type of gift. Terry has done nothing to create this feeling, but I'm suddenly sure that she is disappointed that it was a small gift and furthermore I'm coming off looking like a cheapskate. I thought I was doing the right thing, but suddenly I realize it was the wrong thing. I realize that no gift at all would have been better than the small gift I gave her. So the scenario is—I try to do the right thing, it seems like I'm doing the right thing, I think I'm succeeding at doing the right thing, and suddenly, at the moment of doing it, I realize that it's not the right thing—in fact, it's the wrong thing. I go home kicking myself, and I kick myself the rest of the evening.

The next day at lunch I tell Joan about my social mistake. "You're being awful hard on yourself," Joan says. Maybe she's right, but I don't think so. It may not have been a major social blunder, but it was definitely some kind of failure. I don't really want to go back into Applebee's and see Terry—that's how bad I feel about it. I had a chance to make someone I like feel good and all I did was make them feel like, well, this is all you're worth. That's the way I see it. But maybe Joan is right—maybe it was no biggie, maybe it didn't matter. In quantum physics there is a concept called contrafactual definiteness. It means there is no way to prove that if preceding events had been different, the result would have been different. For example, say you leave work early and wreck your car on the way home. You could say, "If I hadn't left work early I wouldn't have wrecked my car." But contrafactual definiteness says you have no basis to say that—it's an unprovable assertion. If you had left work at your usual time you may still have had a wreck on the way home.

I'm going to apply contrafactual definiteness here. An expensive gift might have been inappropriate, might have made her uncomfortable. Like, "What is this guy thinking, getting me this kind of gift. What is he trying to say?" Maybe that would have been the wrong thing to do.

But who knows? Definitely not me.

Saturday Night

As I get up from the table to walk back to the bar, I say to Cathy, "You finally got me to feel your leg. I'll have to write about that."

Cathy laughs. "You're going to write about it?"

But wait, I'm starting this story at the end. Flashback—

Saturday night, 9:45. Bridgette and Terry are working the bar, though Terry is going to be cut at 10. I order a beer and a sandwich. I talk to Bridgette; time passes. I'm starting my second beer when Terry walks up. We talk for about 10 minutes and eventually it occurs to me that while I am sitting comfortably at the bar (I'm quick that way), Terry is standing beside me holding her drink (employees are not allowed to sit and drink at the bar). Though she says she doesn't mind standing, I do, and I suggest we grab a table. We move the conversation to one of the tall round tables beside the bar. Immediately one of the guys at the bar comes over and joins the conversation. It's a little like he's crashing my party, but I'm not exactly on a date here, so there's not much I can say. Eventually he leaves and Terry and I talk for about one minute and then Melanie sits down. Terry and Melanie get into a conversation about work, and a few minutes later Cathy joins us.

Melanie is usually pretty quiet, but Cathy is a clam. In the years I've been a customer, I've heard her say maybe three words. Tonight she opens up and talks about her childhood. I sit and listen to the ladies talk. The topic of this conversation spins on various injuries they experienced as kids and teenagers—the time Terry got belted in the face by a drug-crazed teenage girl who was so whacked out on drugs that it took six bouncers to restrain her—the time Cathy broke her nose practicing martial arts with a friend—the time Terry slipped on ice and lay there 45 minutes with a broken ankle, with only a thin layer of pantyhose between her flesh and the ice—the time Cathy cracked both shins by running into a hay baler on the farm where she grew up.

"It took years for the bruises to go away," Cathy says, "and there's still a lump there on both legs." She walks around the table and puts her bare leg on the chair beside me. "Feel that," she says, pointing. I see a faint scar on her shin. I put my finger on the scar and rub it gently. There is a slight bump. The wounds of childhood—we all carry them. Some scars are visible, some are hidden. The physical scars, at least, eventually fade into insignificance.

As if by an invisible signal, everyone at the table decides to be somewhere else. I return to my seat at the bar.

"Another beer?" Bridgette asks.

"Yeah, a small one. But only if you'll stay and talk to me. If you don't want to do that, screw this place, I'm going someplace else!"

Bridgette laughs. But she stays, and we talk.

Labor Day

Einstein was wrong. It IS possible to go faster than light. Just look at Terry behind the bar this labor day lunch hour.

The restaurant is slammed and Terry works the bar alone, taking care of not only the bar customers, but pouring beers and making drinks for all the customers in the restaurant—mixed drinks, frozen drinks, milkshakes, mudslides. Plus all the little time-stealers: making change for the waitstaff, answering the phone, handling to-go orders. Dirty dishes and glasses are stacked high at the end of the bar. I feel slightly guilty for coming in. "She really doesn't need one more customer to deal with" is what I'm thinking. I order a salad and sit and look around.

There are still a few empty barstools, yet a number of people are waiting for tables. If there are no seats at the bar I go someplace else to eat or drink. Yet I see people wait many minutes for a table when the bar is almost empty. There have been times when I was the only bar patron while customers waited for a table to become available. To each his own.

I dine on my salad and fill my tea glass from a pitcher placed fortuitously within my reach. While the waitstaff get their butts kicked, I relax, look at the day's paper, sip my tea, and observe the commotion. There are still empty seats at the bar.

Eventually it's time to leave. "Have a good one," I tell Terry, "and don't let it get to you."

"No," she answers. But that, of course, is easy to say, not so easy to do.

As I walk out the door, I have this idea for a book: "Zen and the Art of Bartending." I do believe Terry is qualified to write it.

Labor Day Eve II

Saturday lunch. Today is Joan's wedding day. The restaurant, shorthanded to begin with, is about to be hit with a major understaffing. Joan has a lot of friends here and they're going to be in her wedding. Terry is at the bar and she tells me she's getting off work at 3. They have someone from another store coming in at 6, but so far they have no one to cover the bar between 3 and 6. The person coming in at 6 is a guy.

A guy bartender? "Male bartenders have their place," I say to her, "and their place is Ruby Tuesday's or O'Charlie's, not here. I'm not coming in here with some guy bartending. That's disgusting. The more I think about it the more disgusting it is to me. Just the thought of it makes me nauseous. In fact, I'm not sure I want to come back in here at all."

Terry laughs. "I'll see you in here tomorrow night."

"Of course," I reply. "Have fun at the wedding."

Labor Day Eve

Friday. I have dinner with friends, shoot some pool, and I'm on my way home. It's 10:45 when I stop into the bar to see what's happening. They were slammed tonight! Glasses are stacked all over the bar. Dirty glasses, dirty dishes, dirty ashtrays. Terry races around making drinks and trying to catch up on the cleaning. And what has to be a first—one of the managers is behind the bar washing glasses!

"Everybody wants Tequila," Terry says. "I've never sold so many shots of Tequila in one night! There was nobody in here until 6. Where did all these people come from?"

Deane (pronounced Dee-Ann) sits beside me to talk for a minute. Deane is a waitress with attitude. If you didn't know her you might think she's mad at the world—and sometimes she looks like she might be—but she's okay. I like Deane.

"If you were off the clock I'd buy you a drink," I tell her.

"I'll be off in an hour."

I'm full of beer and burger and bratwurst and I'm really tired. In an hour I'll likely be asleep. Goodnight, Deane. Sorry I couldn't wait for you. It would have been fun.

Kim

It's Thursday, and the managers at my local Applebee's have called upon the Christiansburg store to help them out. After a suitable amount of pleading and laying on of guilt trips, the bartender they get is Kim. Kim used to work here. A year or so ago she transferred to the Christiansburg store and moved her residence to somewhere near Radford. Now she lives an hour's drive from Roanoke. I hope they give her some overtime.

I like the name Kim. There was a time when I derived much enjoyment from writing short stories—science fiction, mostly. A female character named "Kim" was prominent in several of my stories. In each story the character "Kim" was an intelligent, competent, physically attractive young woman with a strong personality. My fictional Kim was a memorable character. I don't know the Applebee's Kim very well, but she seems intelligent and mature. She entered the Army at age 17 (I bet there's a story there) and is very confident of her survival skills. Now, at 35, she studies biology at a local university. She seems to have many of the qualities of my fictional Kim.

The store is understaffed today and they get slammed with a big lunch crowd. Kim is busting her butt at the bar when an older (70-ish) man, impatient at not being seated quickly enough, walks over to the bar and says "Do you want me to go over to Anthony's for lunch?" Kim gives him a polite answer but she's understandably annoyed at his sarcasm. "Can you believe he said that? Doesn't he see how busy we are today?"

So I say to her, "You've heard that old joke, 'What's the difference between a proctologist and a bartender?' "

"The difference between a proctologist and a bartender?" she says, puzzled. "I don't know."

"A proctologist," I tell her, "only has to look at one asshole at a time."

If you're going to be sarcastic about not getting served quickly enough, find someone who is standing around with his hands in his pockets to be a target of your sarcasm. Do not, repeat, do not get sarcastic about slow service with someone who is moving at lightspeed behind the bar fixing drinks for an packed restaurant, delivering food orders, ringing up checks, washing glasses, carrying dirty dishes to the kitchen, packing to-go orders, answering the phone, and on and on. Just don't do it. You've no idea how close you may come to being told exactly where you can go.

Wednesday Night

I sit at the bar and I think, "What my web site needs is some pictures. Maybe photos of some of the Applebee's ladies. I'm writing about them, why not put some photos of them on the site? Sort of a "Women of Applebee's" section. Great idea, huh?

Ok, step one: get some photos. All I have to do is talk to each gal and explain that I've got this little site on which I write about the people I see at Applebee's and do you have a photo I can scan into the site and I'll give you back the photo.

"No way," is Terry's answer, but the way she says it you can tell what she means is "No freakin' way, pervert." Ok, Terry, no problem. I'm just asking.

"I'll see if I have a nice photo," is Carolyn's answer. She smiles a nice smile and quickly walks away. Translation: "No freakin' way, pervert."

I ask two more waitresses and their answers are basically the same: "Are naked pictures ok?"

Sure. Naked pictures are fine, I tell them. In the back of my mind I wonder how long it will take my ISP to kick me off their server when they find photos of naked women on my site. What does the word "nanosecond" mean to you? But alas, I do believe these ladies are trying to have a little fun with me. Well, one of them, anyway.

I don't care. I'm only here to make the offer. It's not my job to make it fly. That would be a job for Fate.

Put your face on the Internet, absolutely no cost. Be seen by millions. Well, hundreds at least. Okay, three people, definitely.

It's Wednesday evening. I sit at the end of the bar and survey the room. Quite an assortment of customers this evening. To the left a man sits at a table quietly alone. To the right eight people sit around a table in a jovial party mood. Other tables hold two, three, four customers. Down the bar a young woman—in her early twenties, I'm guessing—sits with several people. About every thirty seconds she looks directly at me, makes eye contact, then looks away. What's that about?

Bridgette comes in and sits beside me long enough to drink two glasses of wine. She's on her way to Kimmie's going-away party and she's almost crying. She's going to miss Kimmie. Darlene tries to console her, "Raleigh is only two hours away, Bridgette." But of course, this isn't new information to Bridgette and it doesn't help.

"You know you'll never see her again," I say. I refuse to pretend. I've said goodbye enough times to know there's no point in pretending.

Darlene looks at me with wide-eyed disbelief, but with a sort of amused expression on her face just the same. Bridgette says "That's terrible," but she's not really fazed. She knows the score. People come into your life. Some you like, some you love, and some you don't connect with. At some point, they move on and out of your life. If you love them, cherish the time you had with them, cherish the connection you had with them. Circumstances are temporary, but love is real. Your soul will be richer for having known it. And one day you will connect with that person again.

Oh yes, you will. I promise you that.