Little Steve

Little Steve had been missing from the bar for two days. This was highly unusual. Steve is like clockwork. He arrives every morning when the bar opens at 8am (9am on Sundays) and stays until 3-ish in the afternoon. He resides at one of the shelters in town which kicks everyone out at 5am and doesn't allow them back in until 5pm. This made for lots of time to kill. Steve is not a lush. He drinks three or four tall-boy PBRs in the course of the seven or so hours he stays at the bar. He smokes lots of cigarettes. Usually he smokes only half saving the rest for fifteen or so minutes later when he'll venture back out to the parking lot to complete the deal. Sometimes I make him toast. He's quiet, never nearing that I'm-beginning-to-get-drunk-now shrill rant which sometimes plagues drinkers (I could name names here ... ).

He does like to watch the tv and I will usually let him choose the programs which, then, the entire clientele of the bar will be subjected to. At 9am, we watch Walker, Texas Ranger. I have actually come to enjoy this ridiculous show which is an absolute hoot (in each episode Walker kicks lots of ass, violates many civil rights and brings the perp to justice, but with bolo ties and tight pants). At 11am we move on to The Price is Right. Little Steve really gets a kick out of that one. Then comes a bit of news perhaps. And around 1pm I'll switch over to NESN for the Red Sox which will usually be the game from the night before. No bother. None of us have cable anyway so we haven't seen it yet.

The absence of Steve for two days in a row caused quite a stir. Everyone asked after him. Where is Steve? Everyone had a theory. He's out of money. He's in jail. He's died. He's in the hospital. Finally, I grew concerned and called the hospitals in town. In fact he was/is in the hospital. He's in his late sixties after all. We were put through to his room and spoke to Little Steve. They are doing some tests and he may or may not have to have surgery based on the results. He seemed happy to hear from me and those of us at the bar, all of whom couldn't wait to speak with him. And we, of course, were relieved to know he was somewhere being taken care of and would most likely be back in his usual chair drinking his PBRs someday soon.

Now I know as well as anyone that neighborhood bars which are open in the morning and cater to the drinkers have a bad reputation. I see these folk on a daily basis. Most of them are alcoholics. Most smoke. I know some who smoke crack. I know prostitutes. I know those who sometimes have blackeyes at the hands of husbands or boyfriends. A couple are HIV positive. Some have many children all of whom are now wards of the state or in some form of foster care. Considerable are veterans who often recall the horrors they witnessed in Vietnam or Korea. Most hold down good jobs and have families. I've seen a few arrested or busted for OUI and some have died. Most I've shut off at one point or another, sometimes taking car keys when necessary. I know what each and every one of them wants to drink before they tell me. It is always the same. They tip what they can. On Friday and Saturday nights I work the party gigs with younger, prettier customers drinking more sophisticated drinks, tipping better, looking better, dancing to the music of djs or bands. Perhaps they'll be the day crowd in ten or twenty years.

But say what you will (my mother still doesn't believe I work in a "barroom") -- the regulars of the neighborhood bar in any town in any city across this country and probably the globe is largely comprised of people who haven't always had the best of luck but are still thoughtful and caring people. They notice when the guy who always sits in that particular chair day in and day out and drinks PBRs is not there for two days running. They care. They noticed when Little Steve went missing.