Scotch

“Scotch.” He sagged onto the barstool like a bag of feed sags onto the floor. I watched his face as I poured him a double. The bottle stayed.

“Got your day in?” A tiny twitch around his eyes told me it was too soon for that question. His beefy fist thumped the bar in exhausted disgust, and he proceeded to answer.

Now as much as I like to tell a story straightforward, the ensuing stream of profanity, vulgarity and obscenity would not better you in any way, and so will be mentioned, but not repeated here. I poured again.

Yes, his day was in. All twenty-eight hours of it. And more to come tomorrow. The tyrannical boss was the subject of his next tirade. I learned three more word combinations. I poured once more.

“How’s the rest of the crew taking it?” A shot in the dark, but I guessed he wasn’t in this alone. I was half right.

To spare your ears, the “women and children” version involved incompetence, irresponsibility, inexperience and idiocy. He had run out of obscenities, and was now recycling. Another pour.

"Sounds like the place would fall apart without you." The weathered face eased just a bit.

A humorless chuckle, followed by good-natured profanity rewarded my effort. He lifted his glass and groused, "Here's to all the #%$&*es and all the *&%^#es. They make us look like geniuses and saints."

"Hear, hear. So what'll you do after this job is done?"

Every line in his face relaxed. There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes gave him away. "Flower beds. My wife and I work in the flower beds. Greatest thing in the world, your hands in the dirt."

He drained his glass, and got up with a crooked half grin. "Time to sleep." He tossed a bill on the bar. A C-note. He waved off my thanks. "You're a good man. You listen."

Do bartenders listen because they care, or to wangle tips? Yes.

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