This bartending job was my first experience with people that had serious drinking problems and forced others to share their problems in public places. I had been a cocktail runner some years previous at the Elks Club in Sandpoint Idaho (on the weekend) but I was exposed to people who came in on Friday and Saturday night, mainly married couples, that wanted to dance and party, not sit at the bar and bludgeon their bodies and brain with alcohol. This was a very harsh environment and spiritually depressing but it was a job and I had kids at home and rent to pay.
Too many times some guy would come through the door, his appearance shouting that he resided in a dumpster, and hold up a watch, then proudly tell me that as soon as he sold it, he would be taking me out to dinner! His words (no matter which mouth said them) had a defiant ring…I always wondered if the thought ever crossed their minds that I might not go. But it was portrayed as if they sold the watch, I was obligated. I used to just stare at them blankly and they went on into the menagerie of bodies at the OX and I ignored the trail they left behind. And of course, none of them sold the watch…or they were just bluffing because not one of them ever came back and told me he was ready to take me out. Phew!
It was a strange time and a strange place. If cockroaches could stand the freezing temperatures in the winter, I’m sure they would have outnumbered the patrons a million to one on the busiest day. I grew to realize that I hated bartending. And there is no place to go when you’re stuck with one or two patrons that sit all day and stare at the wall behind your head, just there for the booze, no conversation, no fuss – unless your name was Chubby, no mess – unless your name was Karl. And then there were those that knew you couldn’t escape and you had to talk to them.
Chubby, dear Chubby, you dear departed asshole. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have such harsh feelings for the way people behave – I do see his plight, I understand his loss and inability to move on, I could feel for him except I had to serve drinks to him and I ended up dealing to him later on. Chubby had been a traveling musician – he played the trumpet or the sax or the ??? – and his wife was a piano player. They used to travel around (I never heard how far, perhaps they traveled the US, perhaps just Montana) with a band. Then his wife died. Then he became what he showed me every day. An alcoholic that didn’t give a shit about anything but his next drink…or maybe he was already like that and her dying just sent him off the deep end.
Chubby sat at the bar and counted the rings on the cash register, he had competition of course, that 10th ring was going to get him a free drink. The problem with the 10th ring was you could only get what you ordered and paid for. Chubby liked Blackberry Brandy with a mug chaser. It was around a buck a pop but even at that price it was a good deal because most of the shots were served in a glass about the size of an ‘old fashioned’ glass, perhaps a tiny bit smaller, called a kazoony, so it was more like a shot and a half. But Chubby’s monthly income was probably Social Security since he, like others, were hot and heavy at the bar in the first few weeks of the month and thinning out in the last part. As his funds decreased, he would order the 50c mug of beer. If he thought he calculated correctly on the cash register ring, he would order both – the brandy and the beer.
Did I forget to mention that he looked like a rat? Literally! He had that kind of face. He did wear some type of a suit jacket though it had probably hadn’t been to the dry cleaner since back when he was a musician.
It was customary to give the boys at the bar a free drink for every eight or nine they bought.
Chubby happened to grace my bar on Christmas Eve. It was fairly quiet and cold and snowing outside. I wanted to be home with my family. I had given the three or four customers at the bar a free drink about 20 minutes before and Chubby’s rat eyes were glued on the cash register, waiting…waiting…waiting. You should have seen the arms start waving to get my attention when they knew the 10th ring was approaching…thinking about it now sends me into gales of laughter, but in those days I didn’t laugh. I was completely unbiased, the first person I saw raise their hand got the drink. Then as I hit the sale key for the 10th ring, it was his. He had only ordered a mug of beer, so when I took him his free mug, he argued with me. He wanted the Blackberry Brandy too. I told him I was sorry but, no. He started whenging and whining at me. I told him I’d just given him a free drink a bit before and it was the brandy. I just walked away rather than listen to it. He yelled after me, “Everything was alright before YOU started working here. But you won’t be here long.”
That pissed me off. I went back. “What are you going to do? Buy the place and fire me?”
He snorted, “Kiss my ass!”
I replied, “I can’t stoop that low old man and if you talk to me like that one more time, I’m going to have you removed.”
He shut right up and sulked in his beer.
It was a long night. Merry Christmas!
*It’s a Montana Daze run – catch up with the last few posts*