Feeling The Sulks

I've had a lousy week.

One week ago today one of our regulars committed suicide. Eric was an unemployed brick mason who took to drinking in a big way. His staple was vodka. It might be mixed with soda water and a splash of cran or with basic tomato juice ... no horseradish, or tabasco or worchester, no pepper or celery. But add a lemon and a lime and he'd light up. When feeling more adventurous on a hot summer day he might go for a tanqueray and tonic. Such a simple soul.

The bar I work in opens at 8am (9am on Sunday) and if Eric wasn't there by 8:05 it was highly unusual. And he'd stay for the duration, finally heading home in the late afternoon or early evening. An alcoholic. But one of the funniest and smartest gentleman I've ever known. And he held his drink like a stiff-necked ox. He and I would battle it out over "Cash Cab", shouting out answers as fast as we could. I usually won only because I was louder and, well, sober. But he was a force to be reckoned with even after numerous adult beverages. And he was a storyteller. Tales from the work sites slinging brick and mortar, to the deaths of his parents in a car crash when he was still a baby, to his days strung out on heroin and his wife who never kicked (he got custody of their children), to his time living in a shack on Mount Desert Island, to following the Dead from state to state, to whatever he was reading at the moment or new recipe he'd tried. Didn't matter what it was. You listened.

You really can't help but get attached to some of the regulars at a place like the bar I work in ... I refer to it as The Sulky. Everyone is a character. And, by "regulars" I'm talking about the day drinkers and not the hipsters and college kids I serve on weekend nights. Regulars don't order jager bombs or kamikazis. They drink budweisers, PBRs, sombreros and booze from the well, served stiff. Most of these regulars are fairly rough around the edges. Some are homeless or on disability. I know some drug addicts and a couple of prostitutes. Some of these folk I don't care for too much ... I just roll my eyes when I see them coming ... they're crass and they never tip. Maybe they smell or let their boyfriends beat them up on a regular basis. Maybe they refer to the increasing population of Somalian immigrants here in derogatory and racist terms. Whatever. Most are just ordinary spirits with everyday lives. But they all have stories to tell. And tell, they do.

Yesterday one of the originals came in. She's pushing 80, a white-haired sweetheart. And just in time to reinvigorate a lately morose bar wench. Val's order is usually the same. And is sung like a cherub with a high lilt, "Black Velvet and water ... but not too much water, dear". Like I don't know that already. Every now and then she opts for a shot of the Dr. But not yesterday.

After a few sips, Val leans forward to me and whispers, "Can I ask you something, dear, it's kind of personal ..." Oh no. I hate that sentence. Turns out she wants to know if I smoke pot. I say not really, it's been a couple of years since I've even had one hit off a joint. And I'm a one-hit wonder. No more is necessary, two at the most. Val says her son and daughter-in-law smoke it and she is interested in trying it out. She's nearly 80, after all, and hasn't tried that yet. No time to waste.

I had to laugh.

I am far from an expert but gave her some pointers on inhaling and holding and waiting ... Val is often emotional on cheap whiskey alone. Giggling can turn to tears in seconds. I can't imagine adding another intoxicant to the mix.

God. Sometimes I hate my job like anyone else. And I know my mother doesn't get why I work in what she calls a "bar room". But where else could I experience these insights to another side of life? Most people turn their noses up at these alcoholics. They are drunks and low-lifes milking the system. But where else could I become the confidant of a 79-year-old first time pot smoker? And where else could I have met Eric?

Yeah, these people are worth it. I needed to remember that.