The Half Full Lapse

Who were you?

A mid-week night at the bar among the typical cast of miscreants and friends and I closed the doors at 2 a.m. with a pocket full of tips and a haunting question. A brief encounter that retains an imprint inside. An unsettling feeling that I had failed in connecting in a basic human way with another. Failed in my duties as a bartender, as the neighborhood’s nightly doctor, jester and psychologist with an ear to lend.

The place was full from left to right, up to down. Late enough in the night where the exhaust fans weren’t keeping up with the puffers and their haze of smoke.

There was Dana at the far end. A sassy little brunette who ‘tends across the street and can out-drink any man. She’ll do it for three days straight with a smile and still retain her classic sexiness. The best kind of drunk, a happy drunk. Her hello kisses are to die for, a wet veil of bliss upon the lips. Drinking her Makers and ginger with a huge pile of singles from happy hour tips in front of her. Always welcome company. A few common friends in tow.

Billy “Four Doors” is the newcomer to the area. He sat three chairs to right of Dana. Rockabilly and loud. I always feel on edge with him, as if he’s on the verge of stabbing someone with a rusty homemade shank. It’s that feeling of unease that makes him so goddamn interesting.

“Far more fun to keep company with the dangerous types than the boring ones,” my old friend Trevor used to say. He was shot outside a south side Chicago biker bar in ’99.

A cute girl here, a chatting couple there and a few others scattered about the forefront. All unique in their own way and on my radar. It’s become second nature to know what’s happening in the peripheral and what someone needs and wants almost before they do. A light for that cigarette? A splash of wine before you go? An extra olive for that martini? A taxi home? Second nature.

It’s was pretty routine that night. Dana and her friends needing a hook. Billy and his buds waiting for me to roll in an ongoing game of bar dice. An empty Schlitz bottle needing a replacement.

Then he came in.

A nondescript man, maybe 30 or 40, but I couldn’t tell. Plain clothes, no real style or trend in the sense that I couldn’t find where he fit in my mental Rolodex of personalities. No real insight as to whether he was a worker, a mid-level management guy, unemployed, a local, a visitor. I had no idea. He slid into no preconceived model that I had created for others. Unfortunately, for quick interactions with strangers this is a necessary skill.

He looked around for a spot at the bar, then paused. That moment when you first enter a place. Your head kind of pans side to side. You might even pretend that you’re meeting someone there by checking your cell for a missed call or text. In effect, you are there alone. I could tell this was the case immediately. Been there many times and will certainly be there again.

There were no open seats at the bar. I waved him up between Dana and her drunk friend Niki, always good to squeeze a solo guy between female friends. A comfortable ice breaker.

I greeted him wholeheartedly with the standard, “Hello friend! What can I getcha?”

At this point there is usually another awkward hesitation, a look for what poison sits behind the glass, on tap or on the shelf. A pause in the action that allows me to further interact and help out with what will fill that glass or bottle in front of you. It’s in these moments that a lasting bond can be made. Instead it was a soft request that came almost instantly.

“I’ll just have a pint please.”

“You got it!”

I grabbed an imperial pint glass and slowly started to tap the dark Irish goodness. I love pouring Guinness. Such a subtle art to it. Fast, then slow, build that head and bubble it over letting the water tension take control at the very end.

I worked my way back to him, quickly rolling a twenty three in one on the bar and passing the cup. I knew it wouldn’t hold up.

“Here you go my friend!” Always a friend.

A quick forced smile from him, another glance down the row of occupied chairs.

“You going to roll or what TJ!?”

I could instinctively feel that he wanted something then, something more. To be part of the fun, how could you not? To tell me of his day’s troubles? Maybe he had managed to sneak out of the house after an argument with his old lady. A shitty day on the job? A cubicle with no sense of individuality or purpose, sucking the life from him on a daily basis? Something.

He turned, and the with sort of a slow sulk he found an awaiting empty table away from the rest of us. All this in what seemed like microseconds.

The people around me started to blend into a chaotic mix of nonsense and cluster-fuck. Blurred into sounds and motions. Not that they had lost their importance, but I felt like I had to connect with this guy. I had to.

“Jesus Christ you fucks, let’s do this!” I shouted back.

He sipped his beer hurriedly. Nothing to read in front of him, as many of my solo traveling bar experiences have been. No cell phone checks. Head down, as if his glass had an unyielding hypnotic pull.

I quickly poured four shots for Dana and her crew– three shots of Powers, one Jaegermeister– and headed back to the game.

Dice in the cup. A quick roll of the wrists and I laid them bare.

Aces all over the place.

“Fifty five in one bitches!”

I was out. The bar was out. Someone was going to be buying a hefty round of shots.

I looked up over the game, the empties, the guys…

A half empty pint glass sat on the table.

A reminder of what I should have realized, what was more important. A fitting monument to my failure of the night.

He was gone.

(Last Call is a weekly column that appears on Thursdays on this website. Illustrations by tomjulio)