Nothing changes; people are people. We used to be people hunting and gathering. Then, we were farmers and hunters. Now, we are cogs. Same deal. Just trying to not die. There are a lot of ways to do it. Keep doing it, otherwise you have nothing to worry about anymore.
Don't let the whole thing get you down. That's the main thing. You just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep on cogging. Keep your nose to the grindstone. Someday, they'll let you trade in your life savings for a slightly less painful death.
If that ain't motivation, I don't know what is.
Nothing ever changes. Tell that to the icebergs. Tell that to the poor penguins. They're just doing their thing, too. We all are. Stumbling onward, ever forward.
Hugs for that one. From the penguins.
ReplyDeleteThey ask you, you don’t know. Private party, is all you say. That’s why we were closed. Nice folks, tip well. Then you change the subject, or they do, and life goes on. But sometimes you think about them. What they’re talking about after you bring in the drinks and leave. Because you’re not one to eavesdrop. Your uncle Earl was stern about that. Bartender’s code, and all that. You’re there for their troubles, he said, should they ask and you choose to engage, but what happens in the bar stays in the bar. Like Vegas, he said. And you’re Vegas. You’re the vault. You know how to stay quiet. Even when you’re throwing back a few with your boys. You’d never insult Uncle Earl’s memory that way.
ReplyDelete“I saw Secret Service dudes ‘round the place couple nights back,” one of your boys says.
“It’s DC,” you say with a shrug. “They’re all over the damn place. Maybe President Joe went out for ice cream or something.”
“Something,” he says, then you go back to playing Mortal Kombat or whatever.
The boys drop by the bar some nights. A couple of them aren’t old enough to drink yet, and you won’t serve them. Rules are rules and you’re in charge now. Uncle Earl sometimes looked the other way on you before your twenty-first birthday, gave you a beer on the sly, said “Don’t tell your mother or she’ll have my ass.” You didn’t like the taste of it at first. Thought maybe he was doing it to take the forbidden fruit aspect out of it. So you wouldn’t go nuts on it once you turned legal. When you did, it was like every other weekend. Maybe a beer or two, but that’s it, and never when you had to drive.
You eyeball a knot of them over at a corner table while you’re wiping down the bar between orders. Younger guys taking slugs of the older guys’ beers. You can’t stop that from happening, but you can say for a dead-ass fact that you didn’t serve them. It’s quiet now and you join them for a bit.
“We heard a rumor,” one of the guys tells you, “that Obama used to come here. You know anything about that?”
President Obama was there only a couple days ago, having that meeting of his, and you quickly school your face not to give you away. You try to look like you’re thinking. “Don’t recall Uncle Earl ever saying. Where’d you hear that?”
“Just a couple older guys from the neighborhood. Back when he was in the White House, they said they saw the Secret Service car, saw him walk in here, easy as pie.”
You shrug. “Huh,” you say. “How about that? Uncle Earl always had the basketball games on, and Prez Obama was a big fan, so maybe that did happen.”
“And your uncle never told you?”
“Uncle Earl was never like that. He didn’t talk about the customers. You know. Old school.”
One of the boys leans closer. It’s Freddie, hasd one of those sideways grins that made some folks want to punch his lights out. But you never minded him. Freddie says, “But you tell us, though.”
You take a stab at looking affronted. “You know I do. Like when MVP came down here with her husband. I told y’all. How fine she was, and the fancy beers they ordered. Big tippers, too.”
“See,” one of the guys says to the others. “He wouldn’t keep nothing like that from us.”
You smile. “Nope. I would not,” you say, and return to the bar.