March 1999 mysterydate Steve Gilliard |
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You've probably never seen a bar after closing.
Working in a bar is working. It's fending
off drunks, running along the bar for hours,
serving drink after drink, sucking down your
cigarette fumes, handling cash.
When closing time comes, the one thing
they want most on earth is to see your ass
move out of the door. They don't care
about your hook ups, your puking, your
drowning your sorrows. It is 4 AM, they are
tired, and they want to grab some
sleep before the sun comes up.
Some nights, its a grind. There's money to be
counted, bottles to be wiped down. bars to be cleaned,
all at the end of the day. No turning off the computer and
walking away. No kicking back.
A closed bar feels empty. The lights are all up, the gate
down, the mystique that dim lighting and smoke brings ends.
It is often seedy, worn, every imperfection examined
in the light, glaring down on every stain, rip and nick.
The floor of a bar grows black over a night. Beer spills,
cigarette tar, money, dirt, everything. The Mexican guys
who take care of the cleaning, run brooms up and down
the floor, then the mop.
The bartenders, the managers and owner count
the cash , pay off the bouncers and staff, since bars are
cash businesses, and then relax. Some nights, you just want
to go home. The night has kicked your ass and you just want
to close your eyes and go to bed.
Other nights, well, they are a bit different. You have
a bar to yourself and that is a dangerous thing. Free beer,
shots and only the morning to deal with.
In a closed bar, the porno comes on, because porno
is the only thing worth watching at 5 AM with
a black box cable descrambler. Then, its time
to drink. The draft beer gets filled, the shots
poured and the stories get all crazy and dirty.
Nothing like an empty bar for a dirty story or
drunken argument. Everyone is a buddy and
the hour is late.
Most guys think, if they work hard enough,
that they can pick up a bartender. They have
a better chance winning Lotto. The owner and
manager check everyone out. That is if one
of them isn't trying to make time with her first.
The only guy that is going to get a shot is one
they either like or know. Leaving with some
drunken asshole just is not in the cards. No
matter how hard you play it.
At some point, the sun will rise. Sunrise
is a good time. The streets are empty,
except for the bread trucks and newspaper guys.
The occasional bus passes by. It is quiet, but clean,
the mystery of the night gone, replaced by the hope
of a new day.
It is time for eggs.
Eggs are the only way to end a night of drinking.
Usually scrambled, with bacon or, if you're lucky,
Kielbasa. Nothing too heavy. A bacon cheeseburger
after a night of drinking will sit like an anvil on your
stomach. Forget calories. Forget cholesterol.
If you wanted to be healthy, you would have left after
two beers or drank club soda all night.
Scrambled eggs, when done right, are soft and fluffy.
The butter on the whole wheat toast with a slight
smear of grape jelly, or maybe if truly lucky, apple jelly,
some hard fried bacon or Kielbasa cooked with the eggs
and some fresh orange juice are the perfect post drink meal.
Sometimes, you can get that thick bread French
Toast instead. The thin syrup running over the
bread cut into big chunks, sitting there, waiting
to get devoured.
Eggs are to the morning what scotch is to the
start of a steak dinner, a perfect compliment.
Finally, the night is over. It has to end because you
need to sleep. No, you are about to fall asleep
and your bed is calling you. Most mornings, and by the
time you're read to leave, its morning, you're
in a cab. Forget the train. There is nothing like
missing your stop and ending up at the other end of the city, tired
and unable to sleep. The money saved just isn't worth it. Not when
your bed is calling you.
Crawling into bed isn't a choice, but a mandatory act.
You are spent, the booze in every pore of your
body. The room is no longer spinning, but doing a
samba. You drift off to sleep knowing you have seen
what few others have and if you can recover, you'd
like to do it again.
in the junk drawer
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