Behind the Bar
Last Saturday, a millennial drinking his beer at the bar was left momentarily alone with his friends while Josh stepped outside to investigate a popping noise. He returned to find the man behind the bar, charging his phone while taking selfies of himself sitting in what is, essentially, the boss’s chair. We weren’t sure which was more disturbing—his lack of boundaries or his inability to live without a powered-up smartphone—but I’m willing to forgive the transgression if it was the former because I still feel the thrill of standing on the other side of the bar after nearly two years. The ding of a cash register being popped open has a different sound when heard from this side (the sound of success); the purr of under-counter refrigerators a certain secrecy (the promise of an illicit stash). Then there’s the view of the world that’s microscopically sharper when everything is your responsibility, from the napkin that falls to the floor or the leaf that blows in on the wind to the presence of the police outside the projects for the past 24 hours—their red, white and blue lights flashing the message that there will be no more shootings, at least not while they’re on the beat. That afternoon, customers who had also noticed the popping noises flocked worriedly around Josh, asking him to confirm what they already knew in their hearts, and in a flash the bar lost its temporary status as an extension of their living rooms as they fled to safety. The selfie-taker might have taken his shot with the street behind him, rather than the mirrored bar, because that’s where the story was. It’s where it always is, when you’re looking beyond yourself.
The next day, with the sidewalks washed of their grit and the graffiti painted over, the sirens faded into the distance and we opened as if it were any other ordinary day, performing once again the courtesies and traditions of those who stand behind the bar. I got a lesson on using the taps and learned that the act of washing out the inside of a beer stein isn’t just something you do to make sure there’s no dust in it, but something that helps to create a good pour, with a head that foams just enough to make it look fresh but not so much as to make it look like you’re cheating someone out of a full drink. You pour while spinning the glass and tipping it sideways, waiting for the crazy foam to subside and letting a substantial amount of it drip into the overfill drain. Through it all, your focus is out over the bar, on the next person who slides onto a stool, on the emptiness of a glass on a table outside, and especially on the tale you’re being told by a person who wants your attention to be on him and him alone.
My daughter and I didn’t have to climb onto the bar to reach the lights where we were hanging Halloween decorations, but it was more fun when it felt like a transgression. (Selfie-taker, you’re forgiven again.) A customer replaces the toilet paper on the dispenser when we should have done so. Another flips a record then it comes to the end, also our job, and then leaves to DJ a neighborhood party so loud we can hear it from our back kitchen window. The roles of proprietor and customer, host and guest, are played out on this stage, and we blur those public and private lines them from time to time as we step out in front of the bar, or retreat behind it.
