I’ve been having this issue for a while now.
Every day, a woman comes in and insists she’s a regular.
Now, I have worked at this bar for longer than most people would be proud to admit. However, I am not most people. I like knowing the people I know. I like getting to say I have changed people’s lives with my company or even have just been a small stop on their way through. Sure, I’ve had my creeps who overstay their welcome, leering and leaning close to me, their teeth and fingertips stained yellow from the cigarette butts they fish from the gutter when they think no one is looking. I handle them and move on. Really, the regulars make it worth it. They are the only family I have and I would wager that I am the same to some of them.
But what I am most proud of, is that I never forget a face,name or order.
I know every regular and what they most need after a long day of whatever it is they do when they are not darkening my doorway.
Bruce, two fingers of whiskey, right at room-temp. Sometimes, if the bar gets too cold, chilling the glasses on the counter, I run the glass under a warm stream from the faucet and it makes it just right. It’s the little things that make me good at what I do.
Barbara, a glass of white wine with a splash of water. No water, her teeth hurt for the rest of the day.
Patrick, the cheapest vodka I got on the rocks with a Coors back. Not the classiest but I am not here to judge…much.
My point is, I KNOW these people. I know that they hate their jobs and their boss is a prick or that they love their jobs and they’re the prick. I know their kids are disappointing/too good/too neutral for them to form an opinion on. I know which people haven’t seen their wives in two weeks but needed this stop to deal with her ongoing but well-meaning questions about what they ate, who they saw, what they did, how many times they shit, did they floss, etc. I know these things and I am good at this. I have never not been good at this. People are my job and sure, I’ll never cure cancer or find the answer to the meaning of life but here, in my dark corner of existence, I am needed. I am loved. I am revered for the small things I do to make people able to go on another day.
So this bitch- this absolute Karen- who keeps coming in and insisting she’s a regular? No. She is not. I do not know her. I will never know her, because quite frankly, she is beginning to get on my nerves.
Every day it is the same story. I open at 8am. I wipe down the counters. I cut the limes and lemons and whatever the hell else I need to do before my REAL regulars start drifting in. But everyday, at 9am on the dot, she comes bursting in, a flurry of movement and LOUD that sets my teeth on edge.
“Please!” she begs, pleading with me.
“You must know me! You have to!”
I always shake my head and offer empty platitudes.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but that’s okay. Everyone was new sometime”
“No, I’m afraid, I still don’t. Give me a few times to remember your name, okay?”
“No. I don’t.”
The answer is getting more and more terse. Shorter and more rude as the days go on. She never even orders anything! She just gets more emotional at each rebuff and storms out. The audacity. The straight entitlement of people nowadays to just assume their existence is known, that they are the precious thing held in a box of cotton, stowed away as an heirloom for future generations to bicker over.
Oh, and another thing! An absolutely maddening, infuriating thing! She has never told me her name! She just expects me to know it! I have looked to make sure she doesn’t wear a name tag, a badge, a fucking glowing neon sign with her contact info. Nope. Nothing. I may be good at remembering things, great even. Not even I can remember things you don’t tell me. I am not omniscient, I am just a woman who is reaching the end of my admittedly very short tether.
So this woman interrupting that? Taking my pride and squashing it beneath her shoe like it was nothing? She can pound sand for all I care. She has never tried to give me anything, not a name, not a job, not any scrap of information and at this point, I am pretty sure it would be undeniably rude to start addressing her as “Hey, crazy lady, what’s shakin’?”
Today, though, today was different.
She came in at her usual time, already red around the eyes and wringing her hands. She timidly approached the bar, which I secretly took some sick pleasure in because it means she’s finally getting the hint that her presence may not be wholly welcome.
Clearing her throat and adjusting her shirt, she took a deep breath and stared deeply at me, like she was watching for any hint of recognition or maybe even deception.
“Where do you…go when you are done here?”
The question threw me off and I huffed a short laugh, one of slight disbelief that she felt entitled to such odd and private information.
“Home, obviously.”
Her eyes darted between mine, brow furrowing in concentration.
“And where is that?”
I began to feel uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable. Usually, a man asking this question would send my stranger danger through the roof and I would have swiftly ended the conversation. Her being a woman didn’t make it much better but still made my hairs stand up on end. Why did she need to know this? Who is this woman to demand such information from me?
“I don’t really feel like you need to be hip to that, ma’am.”
Her eyes watered again and she exhaled shakily.
“Please. I just…I just want to know you’re safe.”
More disbelief on my end. I stared at her and started to take in small details that I hadn’t really gotten before in our normally much shorter interactions.
Her blonde hair was brushed but windblown, like she had rushed to be here on time for our perverse little routine. Her eyes were still watery but now they looked alive with determination and honestly, they were the most beautiful shade of blue I had ever seen. If she hadn’t been a crazy stalker, I could see myself being attracted to her in another life.
I awkwardly shifted to my left side, reaching for a glass and a rag, just to have something to do with my hands that had been digging into the bar top.
“Well. Despite the quite frankly, intrusive and uncomfortable nature with which you have been coming in daily, if it helps get you off my back, yes, I am safe. I go home and I am safe there. I come here and I am safe here. Minus the crazy lady who keeps bursting in.” I said, attempting some humor to make myself feel like this wasn’t getting to be one of the more unsettling days I have had.
She nodded, reaching her hand into her shoulder bag and rooted around before pulling out a small chain and handing it to me.
“I want you to keep this and please keep trying to remember me.”
And then she was gone.
Again, reader…I must feel the need to point out:
SHE NEVER TOLD ME HER FUCKING NAME.
I am livid, I am tired, I am frustrated. There is no reason for me to know who this woman is, despite her insistence and yet here, she is, day after day after everloving day.
That night’s bar shift starts off as my usual ones do. I pour drinks for Bruce, Barbara and Patrick. I listen to their woes and offer comfort when needed. I am just starting to watch them leave and drift back into the night when I start hearing it. There’s an insistent rapping on the walls, beneath my feet, in my head. Everywhere and nowhere is overwhelmingly loud and I don’t like it. I search fruitlessly for the sound. If there is someone here messing with me, I need to find them. I have never liked being alone and the end of shift is always my least favorite part. I can’t recall another time this has happened though. All my memories of the bar are wholesome and rose-tinted but at this moment…someone is trying to infringe on my peace. Someone is trying to scare me and unfortunately for me, it’s beginning to work. I go from corner to corner, searching for who could possibly be there. Who doesn’t have something better to do than bother a single woman in her business?
I find no one and nothing there.
While I am searching behind the bar, I hear the door slam open, hitting the wall with a loud BANG. The door is too heavy to have opened on its own and all of my patrons know to make sure it clicks when they leave. I can’t let the door stay open too long. You never know who might try to come in.
I run to the door, shutting it firmly and take in the room. It is finally blissfully silent but the unease remains. Regardless of if they are here now, someone was here. They had to be. Idly I debate with myself if the crazy woman has gone from being a petty irritant to actual physical harassment but she doesn’t seem the type to do so. I glance at the clock and though I still have about 15 minutes left, I lock the door and turn out the lights, wanting to maintain any sense of security I can get. I don’t want to believe someone is still in here but the discomfort and fear does not fade.
I hate being alone.