As much as I love my bar regulars, I have come to terms that no matter how interesting, how witty, how intelligent, or how wealthy they are that they are all socially retarded and thus the reason they have very few friends and thus the reason that they sit at the end of the bar each night.
Most of my bar regulars are men, and at first thought it would appear it is because I am a woman, but most bar patrons are men - so I don’t know if being a woman has much to do with it. But I do take on a matronly role for most of them as I am their confidant, their advocate, their shoulder to cry on, their favorite person to complain to, their fashion advisor, and their cheerleader. To many of these people I am their best friend, and for some the closest thing they have to a wife. Which is absolutely bizarre, but I understand this role and I play it well, so I let it pay the bills. Furthermore, I am a bartender and I truly believe that a bar is nothing without its regulars.
But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about these strange relationships as I had a recent break up with a bar regular M, who frequented the bar every night. He was not a great spender, but I still liked him because for the most part he was funny, intelligent, opinionated, and always up for interesting conversation.
About four months ago, he bought a new puppy and somehow decided that it would be a good idea for us to go for a dog walk together. I don’t do things outside of the bar with my patrons. If I happen to see them out I might sit next to them at the bar, but I don’t have their phone numbers, we don’t go for lunch together, and we certainly don’t go alone into the woods together so our dogs can become friends. I blew off the walking request and M let up, I think he knew it was slightly inappropriate. But I could also tell he wasn’t sure why I wouldn’t want to spend even more time with him (especially time where I wasn’t getting paid).
One night he came in and sat in his usual seat, ordered a beer, and asked about the absinthe. It was Friday and I was slamming jamming busy, but he sat in a place where I could talk to him no matter how busy we were. In reply to his question, I told him how absinthe was illegal but recently allowed on the market, that it was distilled from wormwood, and that it supposedly had hallucinogenic qualities. And he asked again, “But what is it?” And I didn’t understand what he was getting at, so I answered that it was it’s own thing, that it wasn’t a type of any liquor. And he asked again, “But what is it? What is it? What is it?” Fortunately, the guy next to him was more annoyed than myself and the guy answered, “It’s fucking absinthe, let it go.”
M is often times annoying, as are all socially incompetent people, so I didn’t think much about it. The next night he came in and asked if I had seen his friend and I hadn’t, so I replied no. He asked again if I’d seen him and again I said no. Again he asked if I was sure I hadn’t seen his friend, and once again I replied that I was absolutely positive that I hadn’t seen him.
He sat down ordered a beer and asked me if I have been to the Thai restaurant around the corner and I told him that I had. He asked me what was good there and I told him that I really liked the yellow curry. And he asked me what it was and I told him it was not as spicy as Indian curry with lime and coconut. And he asked me again, “What is it?” Once again, I had no fucking clue what he was asking me. I asked him what he meant and he said that he didn’t know how to order food there and I told him that it was very easy, especially at this restaurant that specifically caters to white uncomfortable people ordering foreign food.
I told M it was as simple as choosing a meat (beef, pork, chicken, or seafood), a sauce (in this case the yellow curry), and either noodles or rice; that it would be impossible to mess it up. That corporately trained servers would rush to his side and walk him through every single menu item. But this answer did not suffice, just like every answer I’d given M in the last two days and he asked again, “But what is it?” and at this point I wanted to pull my fucking hair out because I literally felt like I was dealing with a three year old, why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why?
I answered one more time with every ounce of patience left inside of me and again he asks, “But what is it?” and I couldn’t take it anymore. And I looked at him and said, “I’m not a fucking Thai chef I don’t know exactly what it is, but if you want me to I will go right now and buy a Thai cookbook and list off each ingredient word by word so that you can be ensured that you know exactly what you are getting before you ever set foot in there.” And he looked at me and replied, “Someone is cranky today.”
I seriously wanted to shoot him at this point. I replied that I wasn’t cranky, I unfortunately didn’t have an answer to his 60th why question being screamed in my ear. That if he spent $12 on a noodle bowl that all of his uncertainties would be answered. M drank his beer and has not been back.
About a week ago, he opened up the door to the bar and glanced in and I joked with him that I thought he and I were broken up and he looked at me, stomped to his car, and drove off.
And that is the fucked up thing about the relationship I have with these people is that it is absolutely one sided in every way because I am always in an amazing mood, I always care about their problems, I always will listen when they’ve had a hard day, I always tell them that they look healthy and well-dressed. And they think that they know me, but really they know only a very small part of me (which I would not have it any other way) but sometimes I’d like to scream, I’m having a shitty fucking day too for reasons much worse than your own. Or you are annoying the fuck out of me today - so if we could just give one another a little space that would be fantastic. Or seriously, just fucking get over it.
There’s no doubt it would take a toll on my loyal bar regulars but for a moment, just for a moment I might actually believe they care.
Pete and Repeat are on a boat and Pete jumps off. Who is left on the boat?
Pete and Repeat are on a boat and Pete jumps off. Who is left on the boat?
Pete and Repeat are on a boat and Pete jumps off. Who is left on the boat?
