The Bartender

"So, how long have you been working here?"  She asked the handsome bartender.  He was older than her.  Maybe thirty? Maybe forty?  But he was smooth.  He had seen it all before, been through it all before and nothing she could say was going to impress him.  In fact, he didn't really care what she thought about him- his shift was almost over.  Maybe that's why he was so candid with her. 

"You know why I like bars?  You know why I like being a bartender?"  He chuckled to himself as he cleaned out a tall beer glass.  "Its because I don't have to be a nice guy here."

She straightened up, a little frightened by the comment, adjusted her seat and then spoke back a little timid. 

"But you seem nice enough to me.  You've been very polite," she said.  He turned his back to her and started wiping down the back shelves but continued talking as he worked.

"Ahh...you weren't listening.  I said you don't have to be nice.  But you do have to act nice.   There's a big difference."  He was starting to get bored with her.  What was the point in bearing his soul if she didn't understand it?  Then she surprised him.

"Yeah, it really is a predatory kind of place isn't it?"  She said introspectively, looking down at her half-finished drink; she was sorry it had to be that way.  He stopped cleaning and turned around.  He was kind of excited by the fact she seemed to understand.

"Yes!  Yes it is!  It's completely predatory.  There are no rules here.  Everyone lies.  Everyone cheats and everyone fakes.  And in a way, it's the most honest place on earth because no one expects anything different.  People don't expect anything from me but politeness; I don't assume any responsibility for them in here.  They fall apart, they do stupid things, and they ruin their lives.  And I get to just stand by, watch it all, and fill their next drink.  I don't have to care; they don't want me to."  He started to scrub again at a piece of gum that got stuck on the bar.  But he kept talking,

"All that matters in this place is what you bring to this table: how good you look tonight, how much of a show you can put on.   If you can blow a week's paycheck on clothes, hair and drinks for a night then you can pretend you live a better life.  If you can hang in here, then that's enough for people here.  It doesn't matter what the rest of your life is."  He stopped talking, fixated on the piece of gum.  The young woman looked at her glass and then after a few empty moments of silence spoke up,

"Well...how do I look?"  She asked timidly.  He went back to washing out glasses. 

"You look good."  He said.  Then their eyes met and he looked at the wedding band on her left hand.  She caught his glance and where it was headed.

"Do you want the story?"  She said.

"Not really.  It doesn't matter.  I'm sure I've heard it."  He answered. 

"Can I have another drink?"  She asked. 

"Of course."  He smiled. 

John Grace, M.D.

Class of 2000