| It's 3am |
[Dec. 14th, 2004|03:55 am] |
Blood on sausages.
“I’m going to need more than one Band-aid” he said. After trying to prepare sausage & peppers for the dart team, he inadvertently took off the tip of his middle finger. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but it still looked rather nasty. I asked if he wanted to leave & see a doctor. The thought of leaving wasn’t seriously entertained. His place was here at the bar, making sure things went smoothly. This little incident, this tiny wound—an inconvenience. He wouldn’t allow it to affect the night in any way. Band-Aid #s 2 & 3 were applied over the quickly reddening #1. “I just need to keep pressure on it, it’ll be fine.” He said this as if he had to convince himself. I wasn't really impressed with his show of strength. I'm not sure I was suppossed to be. Later, when the bleeding subsided, he sat at the bar and asked me for a drink. He is my manager. He ordered 2 mugs of McSorley’s.
I live to serve.
The crusty man waved his hand again. He never says hello. I don’t know his name. In his mind, I really am beneath him. There’s never a need to exchange pleasantries…the crusty man has no time for such things. His purpose here is to throw darts. The other players seem to enjoy the evening. The game, the company, the drinks…whatever. Not the crusty man. He sits at the corner of the bar expecting his beer to be replaced the very moment he finishes the last one. He never asks for a drink…it’s just understood that he wants one. I remember being taught bartender etiquette by an old school Brooklyn man many years ago. His name was George. George drank Bud by the mug-full. He never wanted anything else. His glass was always placed in front of his coaster when he was ready for another, and the coaster placed upon the glass when he was done. This was how it was done in the pubs of Brooklyn, and George was pleased that I learned his ways. Everyday when he came in, I would ask “What are ya having?” George would tell me not to bother asking. He always has the same thing. I felt it proper to ask, just in case the day came where he wanted something different. The crusty man came from the same old-school as George. If he went a moment with an empty bottle in front of him, it was a source of annoyance & a reason to complain. The crusty man never hesitates to complain about something. His beer isn’t arriving quickly enough…the sausage & peppers doesn’t taste very good…this jukebox music is terrible. I spied him waving his hand around as if to signal the emergency of an empty bottle. I shot over to him and popped a fresh bottle, smiled & said “This one’s on me.” I pushed his money back at him and awaited a response. There was none, he just turned and watched the dart match unfold. I wondered what his life is like outside the bar. He can’t be like this all the time, can he? Does he have a family? A Job? Is there anything in his life that makes him happy? Perhaps this was the crusty man’s way of showing happiness. Maybe he’s a really miserable fuck outside of this place. I was busy, and didn’t want to spend too much thought on him. The crusty man drinks Coors light bottles. George drank Bud Mugs…except the one day when I asked him “What are ya having?” and he said “I’m in the mood for a Bloody Mary.” It was the only time anyone could recall that George was drinking something other than tap Bud. That was a fun Bloody Mary to make. He said it was good. Approval from Brooklyn.
Yes. She's cute.
The girl with the tattoo may not be 21. I think she is. When I proofed her, her ID checked out. It might be falsified, but if it is, it’s beyond my ability to tell. The girl with the tattoo talked with me tonight about the band Radiohead. I get strange looks from some of the old-timers, as if I’m not supposed to have anything in common with a young girl. They want me to be one of them, and the girl with the tattoo wouldn’t just talk to them. Even though it’s mostly small talk, the older men look on as if I’ve made a connection that they’ll never be able to make. My talking to the girl takes me further away from them. The crusty man will have none of it. Once he sees I’m talking to a girl, he downs his beer, places the bottle in front of the coaster & waves his hand. I roll my eyes in such a way that only the girl with the tattoo can see. She laughs, and then returns with her drink to play pool. Her beer was a Bud Light Bottle until later in the evening she informs me that she really ordered a Miller Light & I mistakenly gave her a Bud Light. That was 3 drinks ago. I feel awful & buy her a Miller Light as a way of apologizing. She tells me it’s okay…she’ll drink anything I give her. I resist the urge to say something flirty & just apologize again. She tells me that she played some great songs in the jukebox. Everybody thinks they’re jukebox choices are the best ones. Her’s aren’t bad. She plays a few too many Sublime songs, but overall, solid choices. Her dance partner is the pool cue she’s holding. She leads. At the night’s end, she says goodnight and promises to be back next Monday night. I hope the girl with the tattoo really is 21.
A good deal.
He spends exactly $10 a night. The guy with red hair comes in every week. He orders a $5 pitcher special, and $3.00 worth of 20 cent wings. He hands me a ten dollar bill at the end of the night. He tells me to keep the change. A few weeks ago, he had a deeply blacked eye. Word got around that he actually got into a fight here at the bar. The guy with red hair is kind of tall, but not what I’d call an imposing figure. I wonder what brought him to physical conflict. People don’t resort to fisticuffs on Monday night, they usually just watch football. Tonight the Chiefs beat the Titans in an entertaining & high scoring affair. I was busy so I missed pretty much all of the game. The guy with red hair told me it was a good one though. His drink is a pitcher of Bud. He likes his wings hot.
I closed the bar tonight at 2:50am. I made $241. |
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