I’ve worked both sides of a bar… many a long hour into the night on the working side; but of more recent on the patron side. Spend any amount of time in a bar, on either side, and you hear it all… and if you don’t, just wait ’til the next person with a thirst walks in, and you will…
Tonight finds me on the “50 yard line” of Ash Creek Saloon’s southside… mid-way between Nicole and James (bartenders extraordinaire). The purpose of my visit was to address the unfortunate surplus of Wild Turkey Rye that they had on hand. Since I work just a few doors down, I believe in helping out a neighbor.
The seat to my immediate right was vacant; but this was not for long. I’ve seen this guy walking in… not this guy, rather the type. He was wearing a jacket and tie. And he was wearing a jacket and tie because his work required it and not because he was making a fashion statement (which is a good thing… at Ash Creek we don’t abide folks who put on airs).
It being 9:15PM, this guy probably just wrapped up a dinner meeting and didn’t feel like returning straight away to home. Tie loosened, white shirt no longer crisp, jacket a bit rumpled, hair matted… looks like his appointment just put his feet to the fire.
He was a third of his way thru his Black Label on the rocks when he says to no one in particular, “You know what they always say… ‘take two and hit to right.'” He brings his glass to eye level and makes a self toast.
He takes a good swig of his whisky and then turns to me and asks, “Do you come here often?”
By nature I am polite. On this particular night I was not in the mood for outside camaraderie. I was looking forward to de-compressing from an aggravating day in the “salt mines”, catching some of whatever-game, maybe a grilled wing and scratch out a word or two. Not on my schedule was talking to Elliot. That’s his name. He introduced himself to me after asking whether I came here often.
Even though I offered him no encouragement to conversation he continued, “I’ve lived in Ridgefield for twenty years and didn’t know this place even existed! I was going to head home after a meeting; but I figured that I’d ‘shake off the trail dust’ and let the traffic settle down before I head up Route 7. Route 7, what a pain in the ass that is!” And then, “Well, you know what they always say, ‘Keep your powder dry and save your best shoes for Tuesdays!'”
He raises his glass a bit higher for this occasion.
Great! What traffic? It’s 9:30PM forGodsakes. I scan the bar. Brad is across the way, northside on the goal line defending the east. He is talking to someone… a regular, I just don’t know his name. No open seats to move to. Nicole replenishes my rye. I thank her.
Elliot says, “I wonder if she is a Yankee fan.” The she being Nicole. “It’s a shame we lost this year… I’ve been a fan all my life… I’m telling you it was the rain postponement that cost us…”
He finishes off his Scotch. Maybe he’s here for just one. No luck. He asks James for a second.
“You look like a Yankee fan, too!” he says to me, “And I’ll tell you one thing… if we get off to a slow start in the Spring, George will can Torre’s ass. And I like Joe Torre. Do you like Torre?”
I make a crucial mistake. “Yeah, I do like Joe Torre.” This is true. I think that Torre is a terrific Manager. I just should have kept my mouth shut.
“I knew it! A Yankee fan! You know what they always say, ‘It’s Pin Stripes or Prison Stripes!'”
Oh God… I look at my glass of Rye. I wonder if I can drink in the Men’s Room. I should have said, “James keep my tab open. I’ll be in the john. Wait 15 minutes and bring me another Wild Turkey and an order of plain grilled wings. I’ll be in the stall or standing next to the sink.”
“What are you drinking?” Elliot asks.
“Just whisky.” I should have said a pink squirrel. I should have said, “I love Pink Squirrels, because when you drink a ton of them and get sick drunk, you puke pink… and it’s like Pepto Bismol all over the place.” I always think of good things to say too late.
“Me, too. Johnny Walker Black Label. Joe Namath drinks Johnny Black. But I hate Joe Namath.”
He caught me in a moment of weakness. I respond, “I Hate Joe Namath, too. I hate all the Jets. But Namath the most. The most over-rated QB in NFL history.”
“Yeah. One great game. Do you know that he wore pantyhose for games played in the cold?”
I sip my Rye. “I heard that, too.”
“And why does a guy who’s from Pennsylvania sound like he was a hick from Georgia? Hah! He was a hick from Pennsylvania!”
More Rye. “Nicole… back-up Elliot for me.”
Elliot thanks me for the drink. “I think I hate FDR more than Joe Namath.”
I put my drink down.
“He knew about Pearl Harbor.”
Yeah, this is an old theory. Winston Churchill needed us in the War and FDR was looking for a casus belli. I look at my whisky. I think, “steady Jim… tread carefully… this is how bar fights begin.” I had to break-up a bar fight once. It was over who was the better 49er QB… Joe Montana or Steve Young.
I already deeply regret staking our Elliot to another Black Label. He strikes me as a guy who will slide into hostility as he takes on more whisky. I check the time.
Elliot is just getting warmed-up. “He gave away our Country to welfare cheats and socialism.”
I signal Nicole for my tab.
“Well, Elliot… you know what they always say, in the words of the great 17th Century biblical scholar, Alan Kadansky… and I quote… ‘you never really own a sectional……you are its caretaker for the next generation.'”
I thank James and Nicole for their hospitality. I bid Elliot a good night.
I am reminded of the words of the Great Confucius. In giving advice to the Princes of the Kingdom he said, “A wise leader knows a tactical retreat maybe the best path to ensure an ultimate victory.”