Tuesday, Early January
Every town has its meeting place. Watering hole, tavern, pub. The earliest cities had them. You could find them on the oldest maps in the town center. A cave where people gathered to share information and learn. In cities they were old, storied, tattered places with histories etched into the wood bars. The narrative scratched into the stools and under the tables.
In the suburbs everything is new. The stories go back weeks, maybe months, but not decades, not centuries. The tables are too nice to carve. And besides the heavily-lacquered tops made it impossible. The bartenders wipe them clean as if a water mark could rise. Often they are attached to a steak house. No pub food here, but large portions with presentations and discussion about where and when the lobsters were caught, what the cows were fed, the value of marbled beef.
But the purpose remains. It is a place for the lost to find comfort from whatever road they traveled to get there. A chance to be alone in the crowd. Find companionship in the other souls who sought out a place that wasn’t home. Maybe it was someone from the adjacent hotel. A salesman on the road needing a drink before going to bed. Nervous about the morning presentation. The businessman who wants a pause in his day between the battles of work and home.
Sitting in places like this I often make up stories about the patrons, wondering what brought them here. The break-up with the girlfriend, the guy they needed to fire at work, the problem in accounting. But sometimes the stories scream out to me. I can't ignore them if I try.
“Vodka rocks, splash of lime,” said a large man with big hands. His baritone boomed, matching his six-foot-four frame. The bartender obliged with a nod, turning to grab a tumbler.
“A gimlet,” a voice croaked from the other end of the empty Tuesday night bar.
“I’m sorry?” replied the large man, in a tone that suggested the appropriate level of annoyance at the question and questioner.
The second man was short. Not just in comparison to the large one. But his almost stumpy shape and sausage fingers that barely made it around the glass suggested something between short and medically small. He stood with his back against the long bar, little arms splayed behind him looking out across a series of six mostly empty booths and stand up tables. He smiled and moved his wine glass and plate closer to the large man. “You just ordered a gimlet,” he said.
“What’s your point?” asked the large man, stepping back, trying to maintain distance.
“I used to do the same thing,” the short man said. “A gimlet sounds too, I don’t know, feminine. So I’d order a ‘vodka rocks, splash of lime.’ It sounds slightly more masculine.”
“I’m not gay,” the large man said into his glass, between gulps.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said the short man, laughing now. “I’m not either, I was just saying.”
“That’s not why I do it,” said the large man, making clear his lack of interest in continuing the conversation.
The bartender passed the drink across the dark cherry wood bar.
The large man took the small straw from his drink and threw it angrily to the floor and began drinking, without stopping until his glass was half drained. He closed his eyes as the vodka drew down his throat. The tartness of the lime mixing with the burn of the vodka was the combination he looked for. This was the moment he’d waited for all day, but it wasn’t pure. The interruption.
“I’m sorry,” the small said, pulling back. “I was just making conversation.”
The large man turned toward the bar, looked to the shorter man and confided it “had been a long day,” and raised his glass to his bar mate in faux toast.
The large Man continued drinking, watching the television on a shelf above the bar. “You gonna join us for dinner,” the bartender asked, his accent slipping in only on the word dinner. The large man was unclear if it was British or Australian, hell, it could have been South African.
“I don’t think so. Just liquid for me,” he replied.
“We serve that too,” the bartender said leaving him to finish his drink.
The large man, who would later reveal his name to be George, tried to focus on the television but couldn’t ignore the chomping and slurping noises coming from the man at the other end of the row.
“Vodka rocks, splash of lime,” said a large man with big hands. His baritone boomed, matching his six-foot-four frame. The bartender obliged with a nod, turning to grab a tumbler.
“A gimlet,” a voice croaked from the other end of the empty Tuesday night bar.
“I’m sorry?” replied the large man, in a tone that suggested the appropriate level of annoyance at the question and questioner.
The second man was short. Not just in comparison to the large one. But his almost stumpy shape and sausage fingers that barely made it around the glass suggested something between short and medically small. He stood with his back against the long bar, little arms splayed behind him looking out across a series of six mostly empty booths and stand up tables. He smiled and moved his wine glass and plate closer to the large man. “You just ordered a gimlet,” he said.
“What’s your point?” asked the large man, stepping back, trying to maintain distance.
“I used to do the same thing,” the short man said. “A gimlet sounds too, I don’t know, feminine. So I’d order a ‘vodka rocks, splash of lime.’ It sounds slightly more masculine.”
“I’m not gay,” the large man said into his glass, between gulps.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said the short man, laughing now. “I’m not either, I was just saying.”
“That’s not why I do it,” said the large man, making clear his lack of interest in continuing the conversation.
The bartender passed the drink across the dark cherry wood bar.
The large man took the small straw from his drink and threw it angrily to the floor and began drinking, without stopping until his glass was half drained. He closed his eyes as the vodka drew down his throat. The tartness of the lime mixing with the burn of the vodka was the combination he looked for. This was the moment he’d waited for all day, but it wasn’t pure. The interruption.
“I’m sorry,” the small said, pulling back. “I was just making conversation.”
The large man turned toward the bar, looked to the shorter man and confided it “had been a long day,” and raised his glass to his bar mate in faux toast.
The large Man continued drinking, watching the television on a shelf above the bar. “You gonna join us for dinner,” the bartender asked, his accent slipping in only on the word dinner. The large man was unclear if it was British or Australian, hell, it could have been South African.
“I don’t think so. Just liquid for me,” he replied.
“We serve that too,” the bartender said leaving him to finish his drink.
The large man, who would later reveal his name to be George, tried to focus on the television but couldn’t ignore the chomping and slurping noises coming from the man at the other end of the row.
I don't know much about scientific theories, but I've spent a lot of time in a lot of bars on a lot of business trips. And my experience brought me to the following conclusion: There are two kinds of men under five-foot eight. The first is the guy who always wanted to be six-feet tall and still can’t believe the bad hand he was dealt. He doesn't discuss it. Doesn't joke about it. There are moments where he believes if he doesn't talk about it, it doesn't exist. But for him it's always there. In pictures he feels his heels rising til he’s on his tip toes. If there is a step, he is apt to climb it. Anything to give himself a raise.
And then there is the person who doesn't realize he was smaller than the rest. Nobody told him growing up that he was shorter and so in some way inferior. He talks big, thinks big, acts big. He is big.
”I'm Rich” the short man said, his arms barely reaching across the space. Even with the overwhelming support of body language suggesting he didn't want to have this conversation, George politely introduced himself and expecting it would be the end of their relationship. Quelling Rich’s interest in his drink choices. But Rich wasn't that kind of person. If there was a void he would fill it. If there was a moment to make a personal connection, Rich would seize it. His eagerness to connect could be construed in any number of ways. Not all of them good.
“You feel better? You seemed to need that drink,” Rich said. George’s previous reaction was meant to shut off further questions, comments and all communication. Rich was impervious. But even Rich couldn't mis-read George’s latest glare.
“No judgement,” Rich said. “I just. You seem better now.”
Next to George, Rich was a shrunken mass. Both men in blue suits, ties, each resting a foot on the bar iron and leaning in, their entire weight on their elbows and right knee. But the difference in the figure they cut couldn't have been more stark.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Rich said, “I'm just interested in people. It’s a Tuesday. I’ve had two drinks. I downed my first faster than you did. You've got a wedding ring on, but it appears you’re not meeting your wife or your mistress. You’re just a guy, at a bar who needed a drink. Alone.”
“Alone, exactly,” said George. “I’m not sure why you think I want to discuss my drinking habits with you. I'm actually surprised you’d think I want to discuss anything with a stranger at a bar.”
“We’re all strangers,” Rich said. “We just happen to be people at a bar who don’t know each other.” Without a response to this he added: “I'm not looking for trouble. I just thought,” and he trailed off.
The door to the Steak House was darkened by a canopy lit only by a flickering candle perched high on a table. The darkness continued into the restaurant and the dimly lit maître d stand which led into the bar area to the right. The broad wood expanse swung around and was densely populated Wednesday to Friday night by groups of 40 to 60 year olds trying to bring some life back into their marriages as their children and bodies aged.
Friday and Saturday nights welcomed a younger crowd in slightly the same predicament. They were newly married, maybe a child on the way. Their evenings were fuelled by fear that their youth was ending, and their freedoms slipping away. The freedoms of a world that began in college or late high school. The world where sex and drinking were new. And once the Christmas morning newness wore off they moved on to new partners, different drugs, more adventurous sex, trying to reclaim the thrill of the first time.
When they realized they couldn't reclaim it, they settled into their lives, with one partner, a drink or two a few nights a week and the acknowledgement that more than two drinks would bury them the next morning. Although they kept up their Sunday basketball games and girls night out, the recovery period was longer. The highs were less so. And the lows were harder to climb out of.
Mixed in with the crowd was an older set, post-sixty, mostly men looking for something new. Sometimes they earned it, sometimes they paid for it. Either way they went away unsatisfied.
The Steak House closed Sunday and Monday and, like some of its patrons, it took a while for the scene to get going when they re-opened Tuesday night. This Tuesday in January was particularly quiet.
Tuesday was the wildcard. The owners debated whether to open, and when they did, they closed up by 10:00. Sometimes a group would come in and make their night. During holiday time companies wanted their office parties early in the week as the latter part filled quickly with business and personal get-togethers.
This was one of those Tuesdays that made the owners wonder. The drinkers were scattered. Some dinner guests. Enough to keep the waiters from checking their cells phone, but not enough to make anybody real money. Just enough to give them time to complain.
The restaurant area, situated behind the bar through a glass partition had a mix of couples and singles, mostly celebrating birthdays that got caught in the New Year’s net. Quiet songs of “Happy Birthday” were sung over chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream and 4 forks.
At the bar, George and Rich stood near each other, finishing their drinks in silence. The stand-up tables were mostly empty. I stood at one end of the bar in my own head deciding how to take down the shot of bourbon on the table in front of me. The anonymous men were watching Wolf Blitzer.
One more patron stood alone at a table like mine, a tall half empty beer flute on top of a cocktail napkin. He appeared to be watching nothing, just scribbling notes on another cocktail napkin.
I ignored the blare of the televisions or the different games, focused on the drink in front of me my hands sliding up and down the shot, warming the liquid inside.
I've been here before. Not to this particular bar, but places like it in dozens of cities. I had certain expectations for tonight, but watching a man die wasn't part of it.
And then there is the person who doesn't realize he was smaller than the rest. Nobody told him growing up that he was shorter and so in some way inferior. He talks big, thinks big, acts big. He is big.
”I'm Rich” the short man said, his arms barely reaching across the space. Even with the overwhelming support of body language suggesting he didn't want to have this conversation, George politely introduced himself and expecting it would be the end of their relationship. Quelling Rich’s interest in his drink choices. But Rich wasn't that kind of person. If there was a void he would fill it. If there was a moment to make a personal connection, Rich would seize it. His eagerness to connect could be construed in any number of ways. Not all of them good.
“You feel better? You seemed to need that drink,” Rich said. George’s previous reaction was meant to shut off further questions, comments and all communication. Rich was impervious. But even Rich couldn't mis-read George’s latest glare.
“No judgement,” Rich said. “I just. You seem better now.”
Next to George, Rich was a shrunken mass. Both men in blue suits, ties, each resting a foot on the bar iron and leaning in, their entire weight on their elbows and right knee. But the difference in the figure they cut couldn't have been more stark.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Rich said, “I'm just interested in people. It’s a Tuesday. I’ve had two drinks. I downed my first faster than you did. You've got a wedding ring on, but it appears you’re not meeting your wife or your mistress. You’re just a guy, at a bar who needed a drink. Alone.”
“Alone, exactly,” said George. “I’m not sure why you think I want to discuss my drinking habits with you. I'm actually surprised you’d think I want to discuss anything with a stranger at a bar.”
“We’re all strangers,” Rich said. “We just happen to be people at a bar who don’t know each other.” Without a response to this he added: “I'm not looking for trouble. I just thought,” and he trailed off.
The door to the Steak House was darkened by a canopy lit only by a flickering candle perched high on a table. The darkness continued into the restaurant and the dimly lit maître d stand which led into the bar area to the right. The broad wood expanse swung around and was densely populated Wednesday to Friday night by groups of 40 to 60 year olds trying to bring some life back into their marriages as their children and bodies aged.
Friday and Saturday nights welcomed a younger crowd in slightly the same predicament. They were newly married, maybe a child on the way. Their evenings were fuelled by fear that their youth was ending, and their freedoms slipping away. The freedoms of a world that began in college or late high school. The world where sex and drinking were new. And once the Christmas morning newness wore off they moved on to new partners, different drugs, more adventurous sex, trying to reclaim the thrill of the first time.
When they realized they couldn't reclaim it, they settled into their lives, with one partner, a drink or two a few nights a week and the acknowledgement that more than two drinks would bury them the next morning. Although they kept up their Sunday basketball games and girls night out, the recovery period was longer. The highs were less so. And the lows were harder to climb out of.
Mixed in with the crowd was an older set, post-sixty, mostly men looking for something new. Sometimes they earned it, sometimes they paid for it. Either way they went away unsatisfied.
The Steak House closed Sunday and Monday and, like some of its patrons, it took a while for the scene to get going when they re-opened Tuesday night. This Tuesday in January was particularly quiet.
Tuesday was the wildcard. The owners debated whether to open, and when they did, they closed up by 10:00. Sometimes a group would come in and make their night. During holiday time companies wanted their office parties early in the week as the latter part filled quickly with business and personal get-togethers.
This was one of those Tuesdays that made the owners wonder. The drinkers were scattered. Some dinner guests. Enough to keep the waiters from checking their cells phone, but not enough to make anybody real money. Just enough to give them time to complain.
The restaurant area, situated behind the bar through a glass partition had a mix of couples and singles, mostly celebrating birthdays that got caught in the New Year’s net. Quiet songs of “Happy Birthday” were sung over chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream and 4 forks.
At the bar, George and Rich stood near each other, finishing their drinks in silence. The stand-up tables were mostly empty. I stood at one end of the bar in my own head deciding how to take down the shot of bourbon on the table in front of me. The anonymous men were watching Wolf Blitzer.
One more patron stood alone at a table like mine, a tall half empty beer flute on top of a cocktail napkin. He appeared to be watching nothing, just scribbling notes on another cocktail napkin.
I ignored the blare of the televisions or the different games, focused on the drink in front of me my hands sliding up and down the shot, warming the liquid inside.
I've been here before. Not to this particular bar, but places like it in dozens of cities. I had certain expectations for tonight, but watching a man die wasn't part of it.
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