We ordered beers and shots and sat at the bar on the tall chairs with our feet off the floor.
"What a shit show. I thought that shit would never end," my colleague said to me.
I nodded and picked up my shot. "Cheers"
The man in the jean jacket was on the stage again, singing a song that Metallica later covered. I watched him while my friend checked his cell phone. The only other people in the bar were a young couple sitting on the same side of a booth near the back who were both silently looking at their cell phones.
The large man could really sing.
The large man could really sing.
"It's really gone down hill man. I mean, it was never like this before. People used to, you know, work." I turned back to face my friend at the bar while he continued talking.
"Seriously, these kids, they don't get it. I mean, you get it, and Nick gets it, but some of these kids, man, just don't get it, you know. Another shot?" I nodded.
He looked at the bartender and held up two fingers. She nodded. He went back to his phone.
I looked at my phone and only a minute had passed. I opened Facebook; no new updates. I dragged my thumb down to update anyway, scrolling past posts I had already seen.
He finished texting and looked over at me and said, "yeah, um."
I put my phone down on the bar and took a drink from my beer. He said "Cheers," and held up his glass so I clinked his bottle with mine and took another drink.
I looked back at the couple in the back. They were still on their cell phones. "Relationships these days", I muttered to myself.
My colleague looked up from his phone as the shots arrived. Clink, bonk, swish. I had ripped the label off the front of my beer bottle and rolled it and then unrolled it. I wondered who the man was the invented the machine that put this label on this beer bottle, or how iterations of the logo were presented to a board room before someone smarter than me with soft hands made a decision based on statistics to use it. I handed hundreds of these to customers every week and never noticed how some of the letters were different sizes.
"How is your kid?" I asked.
"Katie's about to enter 1st grade. I dropped half a pay check on her school supplies and some dresses. Lizzy is about to start pre school."
"I forgot you had another one."
He looked at his phone, then picked it up and started typing. I glanced back at mine. No updates.
The guy singing Metallica finished and the MC asked for applause. I clapped three times and was the only one clapping. The singer walked off the stage without looking over at us and quietly walked past us towards the bathroom.
Far across the bar on stage, the MC put on a hair metal song, since there was no one else on the karaoke list, and went back to his cell phone. The song played and segued into another song. There was nobody else on the list.
"Shots?"
"I gotta piss first," I replied.
He didn't look up from his phone, "Well hurry up!"
I walked past empty tables and counters and barstools and the couple in their booth, still on their cell phones.
There was graffiti on the wall above the urinal. I found myself smirking at the bad grammar. Guess the joke wasn't in my hands but actually on the previous defacers' elementary school teachers. Maybe even their high school teachers. Although honestly, why is grammar important? The 4th Reich grammar Nazis always lose, otherwise we'd still be speaking English like Chaucer, and Microsoft puts a red line under the month of Aprille.
I looked at my phone and only a minute had passed. I opened Facebook; no new updates. I dragged my thumb down to update anyway, scrolling past posts I had already seen.
He finished texting and looked over at me and said, "yeah, um."
I put my phone down on the bar and took a drink from my beer. He said "Cheers," and held up his glass so I clinked his bottle with mine and took another drink.
I looked back at the couple in the back. They were still on their cell phones. "Relationships these days", I muttered to myself.
My colleague looked up from his phone as the shots arrived. Clink, bonk, swish. I had ripped the label off the front of my beer bottle and rolled it and then unrolled it. I wondered who the man was the invented the machine that put this label on this beer bottle, or how iterations of the logo were presented to a board room before someone smarter than me with soft hands made a decision based on statistics to use it. I handed hundreds of these to customers every week and never noticed how some of the letters were different sizes.
"How is your kid?" I asked.
"Katie's about to enter 1st grade. I dropped half a pay check on her school supplies and some dresses. Lizzy is about to start pre school."
"I forgot you had another one."
He looked at his phone, then picked it up and started typing. I glanced back at mine. No updates.
The guy singing Metallica finished and the MC asked for applause. I clapped three times and was the only one clapping. The singer walked off the stage without looking over at us and quietly walked past us towards the bathroom.
Far across the bar on stage, the MC put on a hair metal song, since there was no one else on the karaoke list, and went back to his cell phone. The song played and segued into another song. There was nobody else on the list.
"Shots?"
"I gotta piss first," I replied.
He didn't look up from his phone, "Well hurry up!"
I walked past empty tables and counters and barstools and the couple in their booth, still on their cell phones.
There was graffiti on the wall above the urinal. I found myself smirking at the bad grammar. Guess the joke wasn't in my hands but actually on the previous defacers' elementary school teachers. Maybe even their high school teachers. Although honestly, why is grammar important? The 4th Reich grammar Nazis always lose, otherwise we'd still be speaking English like Chaucer, and Microsoft puts a red line under the month of Aprille.
I took a pen from the apron I was still wearing and was about to write a reply when I heard someone singing major scales coming from the stall behind me. It was the karaoke artist.
"I believe in a thing called love, just listen to the rhythm," and then a cough came over the stall door. I had finished my business, but paused, waiting.
"I believe in a," followed by more coughing from the dark stall.
I flushed the urinal and washed my hands. There was silence from the stall.
I went back to the bar where my colleague had likely not looked up from his cell phone. The TV's were playing replays of the sports game that had been on while we had been working, and although we hadn't watched any of the games, we knew what had happened. Working at a sports bar is like going to a ninety minute movie at the cinema on a first date in high school, trying to figure out how to make the first move, and then being asked about the movie later.
There were two shots on the bar. I sat down and opened my cell phone. Nothing.
I finished what was left of my beer. The couple in the back were still on their phones.
The song the MC had on ended and he spoke into the mic, "Ladies and gentlemen, up next we have Michael, singing The Darkness!"
The large man appeared from the bathroom and ambled up to the stage. He took the mic from the DJ.
The song started to play and I felt myself nodding as I knew this one. The fat man's voice reminded me of a skinny hippie I used to play with that would make up his own parodies to pop songs; a socially cool Weird Al that swapped a tuba for a guitar so he could get laid in college. He moved to Denver years ago, and I wondered what he was doing these days because his Facebook hadn't been updated since he updated his profile picture to a shot of us on the green during finals week.
I finished what was left of my beer. The couple in the back were still on their phones.
The song the MC had on ended and he spoke into the mic, "Ladies and gentlemen, up next we have Michael, singing The Darkness!"
The large man appeared from the bathroom and ambled up to the stage. He took the mic from the DJ.
The song started to play and I felt myself nodding as I knew this one. The fat man's voice reminded me of a skinny hippie I used to play with that would make up his own parodies to pop songs; a socially cool Weird Al that swapped a tuba for a guitar so he could get laid in college. He moved to Denver years ago, and I wondered what he was doing these days because his Facebook hadn't been updated since he updated his profile picture to a shot of us on the green during finals week.
We took our shots.
"Dude she's coming out!" my colleague declared.
"Emily? Really?"
"Yeah she just got off her shift. Going to swing through."
"Dude she's fucking hot."
"Oh yeah. I want to hit it so bad. Been working on this forever!"
"Good luck brother," I smiled. He didn't need luck. Emily had just started at our restaurant two weeks ago, hired for her looks by a married 43 year old assistant manager who didn't like me or my colleague, because sleeping with my friend after getting hired had become a rite of passage. The inner social politics of a restaurant are only important to those that care about them; like a high school environment grew up into an adult but forgot to evolve. Interactions between employees limited to happening in small flashes during the rush, most of which was gossip from what happened away from the place.
I looked over to the bartender, who was also on her phone. I waited to make eye contact and held up 2 fingers. She nodded and continued to type on her phone.
The large man on stage was hitting the falsetto notes. Under normal circumstances, there would be people dancing.
Our shots arrived and we ordered two more beers. Despite knowing us and that we were in the industry, and thus higher society than random drunks, she flicked us an annoying glance for not ordering the beers with the shots. I glanced down the row of empty seats, and then turned my head back and apologized. She had been pretty but as her weight and ego simultaneously grew exponentially over the course of a decade, her usual clients had grown less tolerant of her once well received breaks in decorum.
"What about Cindy?" I asked.
"She's in Atlanta with a friend."
I smirked. The kid never lost.
A thin, attractive, red haired girl with bright tattoos on one arm and black and white outlines on the other walked in and I watched the MC looked up from his phone to see who came in and if they were going to force him to spend monumental seconds looking up a song that annoyed him personally but adored him professionally. His eyes watched for two seconds before going back to his cell phone, but then returned to linger after she had had walked past the stage. She came to the bar and hugged me with one arm and then hugged my colleague with both arms, holding him slightly longer. The scent of sweat, cheap perfume and fried food loitered under my nose and tickled the memory part of my brain that stored the smell of recognition.
Without being summoned, the bartender brought a beer and a shot for her.
"I thought we would never get out of there," she said as she set her purse on the bar and looked at her cell phone.
"How'd you do?" I asked.
"Three twenty" she said without looking up.
"Not bad. Don't spend it all in one place," I replied.
"I wish I could spend it. Fucking rent."
"Such is life." I lifted my shot.
"Cheers."
The song ended and the MC said "Ladies and Gentlemen, Michael!"
The large man shuffled off the stage and back down to the bathroom.
One of the kids in the back booth stood up and made his way to the bar to pay his $12 tab. His lady friend was still on her phone. He gave the bartender a $20 bill, and she asked if he wanted change to which he replied, yes. She gave him eight single dollar bills, and he started counting them in his hands while leaning towards the empty tip jar. He waited for her to turn away to walk back to her cell phone, before shoving all eight in his pocket.
I felt good and at ease with my feet off the floor. Twelve hour days are long regardless of the shoes you wear. I took a moment to think of the inevitable throbbing they would emit when I lay on my back in bed that night.
My colleague and Emily were talking and I stopped paying attention. It was the same conversations we all have had before, during and after work. Spending too much time with the same people is the death of novelty. I don't know how people keep the same groups of friends from elementary school their entire lives. Perhaps that's why he went through so many women; he didn't get tired of sex, he got tired of boring conversation. After you've interacted with the same person twenty times, conversations become like sex; monotonous grinding of the same positions and everyone already knows what to expect. Small talk and one night stands only pause for cigarettes and refills and then we drift to the next repeat, barely making eye contact.
I turned my head towards the bartender when she got off her phone, and moved my empty bottle to the edge of the bar. She nodded and got me another one.
Michael came back out of the bathroom and the DJ announced his arrival. This time he sang something by Pearl Jam, or Stone Temple Pilots, whatever, same thing. I wondered if he sang these songs to impress us, his non listening audience, or to remember a feeling he had felt a long time ago. Were they for the girl that got away? Did she leave because he was boring, or didn't pay her enough attention? Maybe he had an addiction, or she found someone with more money? Maybe she just wanted out of the town she was in, and felt like leaving him there like a 10 year old appliance in a just sold house. My mind wandered as I felt the alcohol slowly making my mind forget the throbbing feet and tired muscles.
My colleague turned to me and said he was headed out. I quickly glanced at Emily's tight black jeans and ugly non slip black shoes and I couldn't blame him. I stood up to give him a hug and nodded goodbye to Emily who didn't notice because she hadn't looked up from her phone.
They closed out and I sat at the bar. Michael finished his song and came down from the stage to sit on a bar stool at the other end of the bar that barely contained his large frame. He ordered a Michelob Ultra. The MC put on another eighties rock song.
I looked at my phone as the couple shambled out the door behind me, both of them still looking at their cell phones while they walked out.
"Dude she's coming out!" my colleague declared.
"Emily? Really?"
"Yeah she just got off her shift. Going to swing through."
"Dude she's fucking hot."
"Oh yeah. I want to hit it so bad. Been working on this forever!"
"Good luck brother," I smiled. He didn't need luck. Emily had just started at our restaurant two weeks ago, hired for her looks by a married 43 year old assistant manager who didn't like me or my colleague, because sleeping with my friend after getting hired had become a rite of passage. The inner social politics of a restaurant are only important to those that care about them; like a high school environment grew up into an adult but forgot to evolve. Interactions between employees limited to happening in small flashes during the rush, most of which was gossip from what happened away from the place.
I looked over to the bartender, who was also on her phone. I waited to make eye contact and held up 2 fingers. She nodded and continued to type on her phone.
The large man on stage was hitting the falsetto notes. Under normal circumstances, there would be people dancing.
Our shots arrived and we ordered two more beers. Despite knowing us and that we were in the industry, and thus higher society than random drunks, she flicked us an annoying glance for not ordering the beers with the shots. I glanced down the row of empty seats, and then turned my head back and apologized. She had been pretty but as her weight and ego simultaneously grew exponentially over the course of a decade, her usual clients had grown less tolerant of her once well received breaks in decorum.
"What about Cindy?" I asked.
"She's in Atlanta with a friend."
I smirked. The kid never lost.
A thin, attractive, red haired girl with bright tattoos on one arm and black and white outlines on the other walked in and I watched the MC looked up from his phone to see who came in and if they were going to force him to spend monumental seconds looking up a song that annoyed him personally but adored him professionally. His eyes watched for two seconds before going back to his cell phone, but then returned to linger after she had had walked past the stage. She came to the bar and hugged me with one arm and then hugged my colleague with both arms, holding him slightly longer. The scent of sweat, cheap perfume and fried food loitered under my nose and tickled the memory part of my brain that stored the smell of recognition.
Without being summoned, the bartender brought a beer and a shot for her.
"I thought we would never get out of there," she said as she set her purse on the bar and looked at her cell phone.
"How'd you do?" I asked.
"Three twenty" she said without looking up.
"Not bad. Don't spend it all in one place," I replied.
"I wish I could spend it. Fucking rent."
"Such is life." I lifted my shot.
"Cheers."
The song ended and the MC said "Ladies and Gentlemen, Michael!"
The large man shuffled off the stage and back down to the bathroom.
One of the kids in the back booth stood up and made his way to the bar to pay his $12 tab. His lady friend was still on her phone. He gave the bartender a $20 bill, and she asked if he wanted change to which he replied, yes. She gave him eight single dollar bills, and he started counting them in his hands while leaning towards the empty tip jar. He waited for her to turn away to walk back to her cell phone, before shoving all eight in his pocket.
I felt good and at ease with my feet off the floor. Twelve hour days are long regardless of the shoes you wear. I took a moment to think of the inevitable throbbing they would emit when I lay on my back in bed that night.
My colleague and Emily were talking and I stopped paying attention. It was the same conversations we all have had before, during and after work. Spending too much time with the same people is the death of novelty. I don't know how people keep the same groups of friends from elementary school their entire lives. Perhaps that's why he went through so many women; he didn't get tired of sex, he got tired of boring conversation. After you've interacted with the same person twenty times, conversations become like sex; monotonous grinding of the same positions and everyone already knows what to expect. Small talk and one night stands only pause for cigarettes and refills and then we drift to the next repeat, barely making eye contact.
I turned my head towards the bartender when she got off her phone, and moved my empty bottle to the edge of the bar. She nodded and got me another one.
Michael came back out of the bathroom and the DJ announced his arrival. This time he sang something by Pearl Jam, or Stone Temple Pilots, whatever, same thing. I wondered if he sang these songs to impress us, his non listening audience, or to remember a feeling he had felt a long time ago. Were they for the girl that got away? Did she leave because he was boring, or didn't pay her enough attention? Maybe he had an addiction, or she found someone with more money? Maybe she just wanted out of the town she was in, and felt like leaving him there like a 10 year old appliance in a just sold house. My mind wandered as I felt the alcohol slowly making my mind forget the throbbing feet and tired muscles.
My colleague turned to me and said he was headed out. I quickly glanced at Emily's tight black jeans and ugly non slip black shoes and I couldn't blame him. I stood up to give him a hug and nodded goodbye to Emily who didn't notice because she hadn't looked up from her phone.
They closed out and I sat at the bar. Michael finished his song and came down from the stage to sit on a bar stool at the other end of the bar that barely contained his large frame. He ordered a Michelob Ultra. The MC put on another eighties rock song.
I looked at my phone as the couple shambled out the door behind me, both of them still looking at their cell phones while they walked out.
John Steinback would not have been surprised that cell phones had reduced "[conversation limited] to a series of laconic grunts" to no conversation at all. Why talk to the person next to you when someone far away is saying something you disagree with? Perhaps because we have become unskilled in rising above the art of repetitive small talk with those around us, and can only engage deeply with those we cannot smell or see or taste. Is it safer or cowardly or tactical to say how you really feel to those who can only immediately react with printed words, so you can control if you feel bothered to even read the reply? Communication has evolved into a rocket ship to Mars and the return flight can then be downplayed amongst a million self induced distractions.
There were no updates on my phone. I finished my beer and closed out.
I walked down the length of the bar and murmured, "nice singing" to Michael's back. He didn't respond because he was looking at his cell phone and scrolling. Or maybe I didn't say it loud enough because I didn't want to be noticed.
Outside, night was closing in and the sidewalks were empty. The homeless were asleep outside because the air was warm and there were no bugs yet. I started walking home with my hands in my pockets thinking of her and what she was doing. Nine months flies by with no communication, and while I thought of her less and less, the short memories could sap my motivation for the following days.
I got home to my apartment, and took off my coat, but not my shoes, shuffled past the clothes heaps and shoes and sports equipment and a dog bowl with dust in it that were lying on the floor, moving towards the kitchen to mix myself a drink. The counter was cluttered, so I moved a large pile of mail to the stove top. I had been out of mixers for four days, so I drank it neat, then maneuvered the glass to an empty spot on the counter. I put my apron on the counter and removed a thick wad of cash from my pocket and looked at it, then put it back in my pocket.
There were no updates on my phone. I finished my beer and closed out.
I walked down the length of the bar and murmured, "nice singing" to Michael's back. He didn't respond because he was looking at his cell phone and scrolling. Or maybe I didn't say it loud enough because I didn't want to be noticed.
Outside, night was closing in and the sidewalks were empty. The homeless were asleep outside because the air was warm and there were no bugs yet. I started walking home with my hands in my pockets thinking of her and what she was doing. Nine months flies by with no communication, and while I thought of her less and less, the short memories could sap my motivation for the following days.
I got home to my apartment, and took off my coat, but not my shoes, shuffled past the clothes heaps and shoes and sports equipment and a dog bowl with dust in it that were lying on the floor, moving towards the kitchen to mix myself a drink. The counter was cluttered, so I moved a large pile of mail to the stove top. I had been out of mixers for four days, so I drank it neat, then maneuvered the glass to an empty spot on the counter. I put my apron on the counter and removed a thick wad of cash from my pocket and looked at it, then put it back in my pocket.
Turning on a bluetooth speaker, I opened Spotify, and after looking through my list of playlists, I tapped on "Liked Songs", but didn't let any of the songs play for more than 8 seconds before hitting next. A Thievery Corporation song with no lyrics came on, and I paused my finger above the next button for 20 seconds before I turned off the speaker.
I got into bed just as the room started to get slowly teeter and spin. My clothes smelled equally awful of restaurant and delightfully to me of my own sweat but I would maybe clean them tomorrow, if I had time, even though I had planned on doing nothing. When you talk for a living, sometimes you need the silence before that too, gets boring. I looked down by my feet and there was an empty soup can, which I kicked off the bed. I'll pick that up in the morning too.
It was finally Monday morning, and my weekend was just beginning.
I got into bed just as the room started to get slowly teeter and spin. My clothes smelled equally awful of restaurant and delightfully to me of my own sweat but I would maybe clean them tomorrow, if I had time, even though I had planned on doing nothing. When you talk for a living, sometimes you need the silence before that too, gets boring. I looked down by my feet and there was an empty soup can, which I kicked off the bed. I'll pick that up in the morning too.
It was finally Monday morning, and my weekend was just beginning.
