You Are A Bartender, Part IV

[Dear Booze]

It's almost midnight when you walk through the doors of the Stardust Room. There are already a dozen or so people who you know by name or face. They are all wearing white tuxedo shirts and black slacks. Some are still wearing their black bow ties, and some are still wearing aprons. They are all bartenders or waiters and this is the place to be.

How was your night?” someone asks. “Dead,” “slammed,” “busy,” “fucked up,” “great,” and “slow” are a few of the answers which erupt from small crowd.

At the end of the bar, where it turns and meets the wall under the outdated 27 inch Panasonic television set, sits The Pope. He's the only customer in the place who doesn't work in the food and beverage industry. He's a Yugoslavian immigrant who has been operating A-1 Tuxedo and Men's Wear since he came to America 30 years ago. The story is that he was the first tenant in Highlander Village, the strip mall where the Stardust Room is located. His real name is Giro, or something like that, but his customers call him George. Years ago, the regulars at the bar started calling him "The Pope of Highlander Village." He works late altering suits, and making custom tuxedos, and then spends the later hours of the night drinking vodka and holding court the Stardust Room. He's easily old enough to be the father or grandfather of every one of the late-night customers, but he is respected and held in high regard by every one with whom he shares the bar. He always has a new joke to tell, is always ready for a game of dice - as long as a drink is on the line, and is always gracious when he wins and gracious when he loses. He calls you and the other food service regulars his "puppies" and treats all of you well.

Some time ago, The Pope had an apprentice named Nick who worked at his shop. But nobody really liked him. Nick was a know-it-all who told bullshit stories, was a name-dropper, and claimed to know many famous people. He just got under your skin and rubbed everyone else the wrong way too.

One night a year or so earlier, you and another drinking buddy decided that it would be funny to throw an entire pitcher of beer in Nick's face. So you made drunken plans for a week. "Next time Nick comes in," your buddy said, "we'll wait for him to start talking shit and I'll calmly douse him with a pitcher of Coors Light." It seemed like a reasonable plan.

Finally, the night came. Nick had come into the Stardust Room after a late night at the shop. The Pope wasn't there that night and Nick sat at the end of the bar, in The Pope's regular spot. Within minutes, Nick started in on a tale of growing up in the Seattle area, and how his mom used to be friends with Kurt Cobain's aunt and how he used to "jam with Nirvana before they hit it big."

You looked over at your buddy as he finished paying for a pitcher of Coors light. Then, he calmly walked to the side of Nick and listened to the yarn grow longer and longer. Then, at what seemed to be the perfect moment, he dumped the contents of the pitcher over Nick's head.

Nick was surprised at first. Then, when you expected the punches to start flying, he stood up. For the first time since meeting him, Nick was silent. He wasn't angry at all. Instead, he looked hurt as he calmly and quietly walked out of the bar.

You were drunk. Your buddy was drunk. Everyone at the bar was drunk. So you all hooped and hollered and laughed.

But the next night, when you showed up, The Pope was there. He wasn't mad, but he was clearly disappointed in you and your stupid friends. You immediately knew that you fucked up. You felt exactly the same way that you felt when your father was disappointed in you when you were a kid. You felt like shit. He gave you a slight talking to, but you don't remember anything he said. But you don't have to.

After a week or so, Nick showed up at the bar wearing a yellow raincoat, galoshes and big yellow rain hat. It was funny and you thought it was a classy move. You also figured that The Pope instructed him to do that. The Pope knew what it would take to win you and your drinking buddies over and advised Nick accordingly. It did the trick.

Funny thing was, Nick cut way back on his tall tales. You decided that he must have got an earful from The Pope too.

But that all happened a couple years ago. Nick eventually moved on to bigger and better things and the rest of you still show up every night after your last customers are gone.

[oettinger]

His real name is Giro, or something like that

Oh shit, to all you drunks who know my real name: This is not me!

[Dear Booze]

His real name is Giro, or something like that

Oh shit, to all you drunks who know my real name: This is not me!

Well, I would embrace it. The Pope was/is a tremendous lover of drink, a generous soul, and an all around good egg.

[oldsmartskunk]

Pope seems like a classy old drunkard. They are dieing breed. You are fortunate to know one. When i read your stories it felt like a picture of happyness. Working and feeling good about it. Late night drinking sessions. It hits me that something is missing in my life. More booze is one thing,but i can't quite figure the the other...