Hi y’all- it’s been awhile. I’ve been being too delicate with my writing and trying to write “perfect” and “meaningful” pieces for Substack but I don’t even know what that means anymore after I’ve typed out draft after draft.
My life update is that I quit my horrible tech job in September and it was the best thing I ever could have done for myself (more on that in another post…) and I’ve been bartending.
I’ve wanted to say something profound about how amazing the transition from being behind a screen solving meaningless technical and customer service problems to being directly in front of people at night behind the bar, chatting and listening and not needing to “solve” anything besides thirst, has really altered my happiness levels.
So instead, in an effort to be less precious about my writing, here is something from my journal that I take to coffee shops and what not for practicing dialogue. For all intents and purposes, this is fiction.
On Friday night a guy sat down and said, “I asked for a divorce this morning".”
His friend didn’t say much back. Maybe he knew it was coming. Maybe he didn’t want to hear about IT anymore. Maybe he was friends with HIS wife and didn’t want to break that loyalty.
On Thursday night, that old school poet, who told me weeks earlier that I’d know who he was if I “bothered to google him”, came in and said to me, “What’s a drink for a mother fucker who shows up early?” I made him a Manhattan.
He had 5 more over the course of the night. He sat in the back on one of the scratchy crosshatch cotton chairs. About an hour after he got there, a younger woman introduced herself and cozied up next to him in a chair to his right for the rest of the night. I overheard him at one point say to her, “You don’t look Jewish.”
They were standing close at the end of the night. He was ordering an uber and she was standing close with her hands in his pockets. They must’ve gone home together. I said it was nice to see him again and I meant it. He was nicer this time around. He kept his cool composure all night. Small knit scarf around his neck. Saying, “these are reaaaally good,” before ordering another Manhattan- as if to excuse himself.
He was just cool- in the TRADITIONAL sense of the word. I realized that on Thursday. It excused all previous behavior because someone that effortlessly cool can give you all the shit they want for not googling them.
At 1:00am on Friday night, a Mailman walked in. He was in full uniform. The door guy working with him THOUGHT he might just be dropping off mail but went over to ask for his ID when he realized the time.
He sat down at a booth first, looking exhausted from the day. What time do Mailmen get off?
After a few moments he walked up to the bar and saddled up next to a regular. It was almost last call so I poured myself and the door guy a drink. The Mailman looked at me with a big, warm, genuine smile. The kind you usually don’t see after 1:00am.
Can I ask you a question? He said.
“Sure. Shoot".”
“What night of the week is popping here?”
I thought for a moment over the last two nights. One was a free jazz show where the singer talked in tongues and made high pitched mouth noises while holding his nostrils shut. The other was a shoe gaze type band- the singer had a low, quiet voice.
I decided to tell him about the DJ on next Saturday night. Avoiding all the stuff in between. I wanted the Mailman to think we were cool in the way that he was cool.
“They push all these tables back and people really dance,” I said.
It was true, I’d seen the bar get that way but it may have been pre-pandemic.
“I used to come here years ago,” he said. “Everyone was here. Their bodies packed closely together, sweating all over the damn place.”
I smiled and almost teared up thinking of this bar being packed capacity and so sweating and gross like that. It got packed like that with sold out shows but everyone sat at tables, contemplating, listening to whatever was on stage, thinking too hard.
I wanted to see people not think again. It’s been years now. I wanted to see shots of tequila that spilled and kissing on the dance floor and all the TABLES pushed aside, only used for storing jackets and drinks.
“It still gets like that.” I said. A hopeful, white lie.
Very vividly drawn and compassionate. Maybe a bartender's POV can be a novel. Have you read THE TENDER BAR about a kid who grows up in one? (I didnt bother with the movie)