Bar Heart
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Except when the neighbors have an all-day party with mariachi music playing at 8,000 decibels. People talk about sun exposure and too many cheeseburgers leading to premature aging, but all it takes for me to go from 26 to 86 years old is three straight hours of "festive tuba" and I'm standing at the window grumbling and brow furrowing and teetering on the precipice of calling the police, or at least shaking my fist in righteous ire.
And speaking of premature aging, I have a very sad premature death to report. Just yesterday Simon found out that our favorite career bartender died about two weeks ago; we don't know how or why. It sounds so silly and cinematic, but I asked Simon to repeat himself several times because I couldn't believe I'd heard him right. Dead? No. He couldn't have been older than forty.
This bartender worked at the club that's hosted most of Simon's band's gigs and, in Simon's words, aside from girlfriends and boyfriends, this guy was easily their biggest fan. In addition to arranging for the band to get more gigs and on better nights, he offered huge moral support in the form of wearing his cowboy hat during shows, filling the tip jar with bar tips, and singing along to their Hank III with a huge smile on his face.
The last time the band played there, I almost didn't go, but then I thought about the possibility of all those free Diet Cokes and I couldn't stay away. At the end of the night, I was hanging out at the bar while the band packed up and Yo, the bartender, offered me a shot of whatever I wanted. I told him I was too tired and it was too late to start that sort of thing, and also that I didn't do shots. "But whisky's my drink," I said, as much to save face as anything. He pulled up a bottle of Jack, and I scrunched my nose at it and pointed at the Maker's. He set up a shot for himself and a shot for me, his generous pour spilling over the lip of the glass onto the bar. We cheersed. He swallowed his all in one gulp, and I sipped the shot for the next fifteen minutes and probably left some in the bottom when I walked away.
Even though it was around two in the morning by that time, I wouldn't let the band leave before I took another eighty pictures of them sitting around being all cool and musical together. I herded them onto the patio couch and ordered them to be animated in a candid sort of way. Yo stood by and laughed the way he did the time I took the band's picture standing in a line in front of the bar urinal--girl drummer included. He kept heckling me, so I took his picture too.
Photos taken, equipment stowed, 3 a.m. glaring in the near future, one by one we filed out the back door, which Yo held open for us. He shook J's hand, shook A's hand, shook Simon's hand, then kissed mine and wished us all a good night. And then we were gone. And now he is. I'm glad to know now that even if we'd heard about his funeral in time to attend, there wouldn't have been room for us because apparently the whole city turned out for it. I've thought again, as I've thought upon many deaths, that he should have held his funeral while he was still alive so that he'd know exactly how loved he was. Yes, loved. And I met the guy what? four times?
It's just a damn shame. RIP, dude. And cheers.
No. Way.
So sad.
Oh, I hope it wasn't too tragic. At least you can be thankful that you even knew him the short time that you did. He must have had one hell of a life.
And I meant "hell of a life" in a good way. ;)
That was a lovely tribute.
Life is too damn short so much of the time.
Wow. Sweet tribute.
Old bartenders don't really die. They just go to a place where everyone knows their names.