I did it. I asked her name. I didn’t realize that I had been so negligent as not to ask a new patron their name, and seeing the solution in front of me felt so obvious.
She came in at her usual time, the same way but this time, she looked…different. She looked happier, but still, something seemed off. When I woke up this morning, something had changed, leaving me less certain than before and now looking at her, I no longer held my original sense of conviction. Before I felt so sure of my truth, indignant at the audacity of this woman who insisted she knew me but now…
The past few weeks of her interrupting my routine was making me reconsider whether or not she was a regular. I would swear on everything I hold dear, that I had never met her before she started this odd pilgrimage. I would swear on my mother’s grave. Wait, do I have a mother? I think I do. I must have. Everyone has a mother but whenever I try to picture her, I picture Bruce. I picture myself pouring a drink while he goes on about how his office is automating something and that means less work for him but also less pay. Why do I know Bruce’s work struggles but not my mother? I must be a really good bartender. I am really good at remembering people’s names and orders, did I tell you that? Sometimes I take extra steps, a twist of lime here, an extra cherry there, and people love that. People love me.
Anyway, onto Sandra, the woman formerly known as Crazy Lady.
She came in and finally, I asked her what her name was. You would think I told her that I had just discovered a food source that would end starvation and wouldn’t she like to come see it, it’s just in my closet here. She lit up and took my breath away. For a second, I thought I could clearly hear her in my head saying, “Don’t forget to make sure the oven is off, remember you left it on that one time?”
“No, I didn’t.” I grumbled, startling both myself and her.
She looked at me, cocking her head to the side, eyebrow raised in a questioning lift. We stared at each other for a second before I coughed and shook myself to clear out the cobwebs.
“What is your name?” I repeated, wanting this weird moment to end.
Again, the light from within like I had promised her the treasures of a lost city.
“Sandra,” she beamed, “Sandra Jones.”
“Well, Sandra Jones. I apologize for not asking sooner. I assumed you had mentioned it, but I don’t recall you doing so. Now I should remember. All these weeks of us doing this and I could have just cut it off by asking,” I laughed.
Her smile didn’t fade and she bid farewell before I even realized she hadn’t asked for anything to drink.
*****
Bruce’s office is downsizing. He’s worried for his livelihood, how is he supposed to support his family without a job? His wife cannot work, she’s been out too long and he was raised to never let the woman worry about a thing as silly as a job. Beside him, Barbara is moaning about her husband being too lazy to go see his doctor for that annual checkup he needs; he’s been having trouble remembering and gosh, she just knows if he would see a doctor, it would all be okay. I wish they would stop. They both keep going on and on and I am trying to focus on them but it is becoming harder. I begin to excuse myself to take a break, something I rarely do when I hear, “Where do you go when you leave here?”
Whipping around, I see Bruce, his eyes blank and dark; his slack mouth hanging open.
“Excuse me, that’s not really-”
“Where. Do. You. Go.”
He starts rising off his barstool and my pulse is quickening. I wish Sandra was here. What? No, I don’t. Fuck Sandra and her intrusive questions. Why was it so important to her that I know her? It’s not like she even orders anything. Just another woman up on a high horse, wanting me to cater to her for no reward. Do I want a reward? Yes, I answer myself. Being rewarded means being recognized for what I do. Being recognized means I exist.
Bruce advances and leans over the bar top, beergut pressing at the buttons of his shirt, “Are you safe? When you leave from here?”
The question, as I had earlier hypothesized, does not hit the same way as when Sandra asked. There is no hesitant hopefulness or angel soft voice cushioning the weirdly invasive question. Only his hot breath on my face, the stench of liquor curling into my nostrils. His voice is dark and robotic, devoid of human emotion. He leans further and further, hands clenched into fists over the edge of the bar. The sudden intrusion into my safe space feels cold and I am suddenly bare for this man to see. The usual barricade between bartender and customer, therapist and client is gone and in the wake of its departure, I am afraid.
This is not Bruce. Bruce likes me. Bruce laughs at my jokes, often offers his own about joining me to tend bar if his company doesn’t get their act together soon. The black eyes in their cruel set are not the warm brown ones that crinkle at the corners when I offer him an application to call his warmhearted bluff.
Scrambling backwards, I glance at Barbara, praying she intervenes on my behalf. Barbara is gone. I begin pleading with this mad man, begging him to let me call him a cab and get him home safely or hell, even an ambulance to get whatever is happening to him evaluated. I just want him gone. I do not want to be here anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that he comes to his senses and that whatever part of him that sought to commandeer my space has taken its leave. When I open them, Bruce is no longer there. My only companion is the suddenly clunky wheeze of the AC and the no longer pristine bar top. Where Bruce leaned has two dark handprints, staining the bar and mocking my endless attempt to keep everything clean.
I’m alone.
*****
After Sandra’s visit and the overwhelming fear I felt with Bruce, I felt listless. The bar no longer felt like the warm womb in which I had ensconced myself in and I was beginning to notice all of things that desperately needed fixing. The handprints from Bruce’s mental break refused to come off, the floor was beginning to squeak, but the worst part was the door.
The door used to be my pride and joy, a nice solid oak that had a brass handle and matching locks. I could sit for hours and stare at that door, pretending I was Alice trying to get into Wonderland. Now, it was beginning to warp. The door needed a firm hipcheck to stay closed and I could no longer look at it with the same internal joy. It was just another thing around here beginning to break.
For a couple of hours, I stood and drummed my fingers on the bartop. I refreshed the garnishes. I wiped the counter numerous times. I fiddled with the chain that Sandra had pressed into my palm what felt like ages ago. I began a routine of picking the chain up and putting it away. It brought me comfort to grab it, then disgust when I realized it was doing so. To halt what seems like a blooming, potentially problematic coping mechanism, I took to looking at the phone, willing it to ring, practically begging it to be Barbara or Patrick, telling me they were running late but were on the way.
What a silly thing to expect from them. I would never call my bartender to let them know I was late. A true sign of an alcoholic, I laughed to myself. I am being silly, just a silly little woman.
“So silly a goose could walk by wearing suspenders and a tophat and I would still say you were the more obnoxious one.”
The words rang clearly out, loud and clear with a tinge of mirth. I jumped, glancing around, looking for my would-be companion but no one was there. No one was with me and once again, I was alone. I hate being alone. All my life I hated it. I was always alone until Sandra came.
That can’t be true. I had Bruce and Barbara and Patrick and any number of the other barflies who hung around, bending my ear for an hour or two. I have always considered them my family, you know. I never had much of a family, myself.
Am I repeating things? Sandra says I repeat things often, memory of a goldfish.
NO. She doesn’t. I don’t know her. I don’t even know her drink order. How can I know someone if I don’t even know that they like gin on the rocks, rim lined with lime juice, sprinkled with pickle salt of all things?
I paused. Now I know something is wrong. Well, more than that ludicrous drink order my subconscious just spat out. She has never ordered from me. She always comes in so early, too early for most to drink. She is always dressed so nice and looks so put-together, she would have been a funny and surely memorable sight if she had been here hitting gin at 9am everyday.
Why is nobody here? Why am I still alone?
I begin ruminating on things I shouldn’t, trying to avoid digging at the scabs of my psyche that beg to be picked and opened clean for all to see. Why can I not remember anything? Where do I go when I leave here? Do I leave here? Surely I must, nobody lives in a bar, right? I could, though. I am very good at my job so if I lived here, it would make sense. Silly Sandra, making me question this. Of course I am safe, I am always safe.
A tinkle above the door and my head snaps up. Patrick! Patrick is here, what a relief. I start to get his Coors and Vodka ready as he marches to the bartop.
Thud…thud.
Thud…thud.
Thud…nothing.
Hearing his steps stop, I look up. He is standing, staring at me. His expression is not the usual jovial one, it is shockingly similar to how Bruce looked before and yet somehow more worrying. His mouth stretches down and I wonder how he even made words come out with how long it looks, drooping to his chest. “Where…do…you…go?”
My gut reaction is to flatten myself against the back wall, lest he decide to go the Bruce route and invade my sanctuary. However, before I can stop myself, I hear my voice respond, “I don’t know. I am only here.”
Patrick nods and it’s almost as if this didn’t happen. His mouth snaps back to its normal resting spot and his shoulders relax. The easygoing smile I have come to associate with him is back and he’s prattling on about how he’s pretty sure his kid’s soccer team is gonna make it, his kid is the next star of soccer, mark his words. I do not know his kid’s name. Why don’t I know his kid’s name? If you exist, you have a name, and vice-versa. What. Is. His. Name.
I begin to panic, grasping at straws in my head, trying to remember. Ohnoohnoohno. If I don’t remember his name, then I have forgotten something. If I have forgotten something, a sacred piece of information that one of my regulars has imparted upon me, I am not a good bartender.
I AM a good bartender, I just know I am.
“Brad.” Patrick’s voice breaks my runaway thoughts.
I look at him, thankful for the assist but I wish I didn’t. His smile looks plastic upon his face. It’s stretched far too wide and looks too perfect to be on a human face. It makes me feel unsettled, like when you see a stretch of sky too picturesque, too blue and you begin to wonder…Is this too good to be true? Nothing could be this perfect and be just for me at this moment.
“My son’s name is Brad. You should see him chase that ball around, a natural star.”
I commit that to memory. Brad has a name. Brad exists.