bartender
Working afternoon shifts at a local tavern can be an experience. With a few days a week in the opening slot, I usually see the same folks rolling through around open or shortly thereafter. Other days, though, provide the variants, the free radicals, the spice of life. Here we have the people who make an impression, be it good, bad, or other.
An afternoon in late winter. It’s a Friday, and the city’s slowing shutting down to an ice storm. Cars approach the intersection outside the window at a couple miles per hour before coming to sliding stops. It’s in this weather, no less, that a single, clean-cut customer pops in around 5 p.m. He’s the first person through the door, an hour after open.
He orders a drink, looks around the room, and then inquires as to whether he’d be able to buy some weed.
“Had you heard this is a place that you could buy some weed?”
“No, but it’s a hipster bar, so I figured the bartender would maybe sell me some."
At first perplexed by the situation, it dawned on me that this could be a law-enforcement official, just doing due diligence. The would-be-buyer and I chatted for a bit, but his was a quick mission: One quickly downed drink and no dime bag later, he bounced, leaving our cozy space for the winter’s night and, maybe, to ask his same strange question elsewhere.
Two friends arrive on a pleasant summer afternoon. Seemingly happy, they chat while entering the bar, then order gins. The questions begin a few minutes later: Their friendship's been strained in recent months, with one friend feeling the need for more talk, more texts, more calls. With only their voices in the room, the emotions are real and raw.
During these moments, a service worker's distance occurs naturally. You’re working, yes, wanting to be available, but the best service that you can offer at such moments is to provide space. As the conversation continues, some enjoyment begins to reenter the conversation: a laugh here, a smile there, an arm touched. Before a third round of gins and dinner elsewhere, the discussion moves outside, all those feelings pouring out into the sunny afternoon. From the lovely framing of the window, a friendship's being reborn. Corny, yes. Trite, maybe. True, for sure.
So this guy’s got a name that’s just outside the daily, something like “Lester.” If his name comes from another decade, so does his attire. He’s rocking an ‘80s-centric vibe, which he's likely been doing since those bygone days. Lester recently lost his job and has been coping by frequenting bars. There’s nothing about the job, or this town, that he seems to enjoy—he even hates the Cardinals.
Our resident sage tries to engage him, change the conversation, but it doesn’t stick. Lester has something to say, and the bar—only four, maybe five people—is getting an earful. Even our sage is unable to hide disappointment. As Lester leaves, you can feel the mood lift. It’s a lively reminder that each of us are capable of changing the space around us. The lesson: Don’t be a Lester.
Conversation, no matter how stilted or negative, can happen in a corner bar. When that’s occurring, the venue is providing one of its main services. What can also happen is the opposite: a group of strangers locked in separate, silent conversation via the ubiquity of smartphones.
On one especially amusing afternoon, four guys rolled in individually. These four weren’t going to shoot the breeze about beer, baseball, or the other usual barroom go-to’s. Instead, they typed, scrolled, and spaced for many uncomfortable moments, seated two chairs apart down the row. Finally, someone broke the silence, talking about his beer, which caused me to leap into the normally mundane conversation. We talked about that beer and talked about that beer and… That was kinda all we talked about before the conversation eventually dissipated. For a moment, though, it was nice to be a part of a shared humanity.
