The Man Behind the Bar

It felt like my own private bar. It was a tiny pub located inside one of the local hotels. I could sit and listen to quiet jazz without fear of being disturbed by other customers who entered the door. It was the room where I discovered myself during that decade in my life, and it was tended by Al, who became my friend over the ten years I haunted the place.

Tuesday evenings I would take pencil and pad and sit at my favorite table - one of the few with a light over it - and compose poetry. Some works would be inspired by my trips to New England from 1997 - 1999 while enjoying a time of new-found love and adventure. Other pieces came from everyday life, and then there were those that poured out of my heart when that new-found love was dashed on the stones of time and distance.

We had a code, Al and I. Al would keep watch. If I was approached by some well meaning gentleman who thought I needed to be rescued from the plight of boredom, or who thought the other chair at my table needed to be filled by the masculine ability to provide me happiness, pleasure or any other misguided notion popping into the minds of men, I would tap my glass on the table. Al would soon be at my side with the information that I was needed at the front desk. I would pick up my purse and politely excuse myself for enough time that the errant suitor would find other entertainment. While the act may have shortened my stay for the evening, it did not occur often enough to dampen my habit. Regulars knew the drill, or Al clued them in when newcomers added the pub to their routine.

Al was one of those gentlemen who wore the pleated tux shirt with stud buttons and bow tie every night. He took pride in his skill as a listener and a mixer. He often commented on how so few of the youngsters behind other bars really didn’t have the “art” in them. Sloshing together liquids for the popular drinks of the day was the norm, and the gift of knowing a customer really well enough to nail their taste to perfection was a total loss on youth laying claim to the title of Bar Tender.

When I wrote Al’s piece I was pleased he liked it well enough to post it on the wall of the bar. For those noticing it, he made it a point to tell them it was written in that very room at the table under the light to the right. One evening the hotel manager noticed it and asked if it was okay to send a copy to the home office. In a day and age where there are few places women can be alone and feel safe, especially in the nightclub industry, the manager wanted to let the corporate suits know what kind of establishment their hotel could boast of. I said yes to the request and later learned it had been published in the company magazine for its employees. The corporate office wrote to me, informing me how much they appreciated the piece. They had never had a customer submit anything other than the stock courtesy letter.

But I didn’t’ write it for my own recognition. I wrote it for my friend who listened to me whether I was giddy with inspiration or down on the waves of approaching fifty years old. Other friends have input, sympathy, can share like circumstances. Not Al. He merely listened. It took many years before I learned about his personal life, his marriage to only one woman, his bout with cancer and heart problems. I learned to listen from Al. I learned to observe people from Al. I attended the school of marble and mirror and saw myself through the eyes of someone else and not the eyes of the woman in the glass staring back at me.

When Al’s heart stopped, my heart stopped beating for a moment also. Gone was an era that cannot be recreated. Gone was the dapper little man with the silver hair and the twinkle in his eye. Gone was my friend from a time period in my life that was like no other.

When I walked out of that room, the news of his death draped heavily upon me like a mantle of sorrow. The door shut behind me slowly and quietly as if closing the cover of an old, familiar book for the final time. I have never gone back, for that dimly lit space with music playing soft and low in the background will not feel the same without Al. Al was its spirit. Anyone following his footsteps would merely be a slosher of liquids into the glasses of future hands - hands that will never have the opportunity to experience the kinship that comes from knowing a real bar tender, a real ‘tender’ of souls.