The Bartender

My relationship with Joel is strictly business. I wouldn’t necessarily call it restrictive, although I only visit him when I’m feeling particularly lonely; towards the beginning, that seemed to be once or twice a week. Usually on a Monday night.

We met a few weeks after N and I ended our relationship. I was sitting across the bar, wearing my favorite baseball cap. Playing it safe and incognito. Feeling lost and confused as ever, ready for a drink, or two, or three.

Among the ocean of crowded men and spry conversations, Joel spotted me in seclusion. He smiled in my direction and I reluctantly gave him the cold shoulder. The first attempt can always be a bit exciting, especially when you’re on the other side of the playing field.

After a few sips, Joel made his way over. He introduced himself and in his hands were two shots of tequila. Apparently he mistakenly poured two and now had an extra. I noted this as a foul ball. A complete lie. I’ve seen this approach many times over. And oh how convenient it must be to somehow have an extra pour. Nonetheless, I agreed and accepted his gesture, with a suggestion of salt and lime.

He handed me several martinis throughout the evening. It’s difficult for me to recall our initial conversations, perhaps because most of the words coming from his lips were uninteresting or meaningless, however, I still enjoyed his company and kindness. (I’m well aware of a bartender’s charming nature, so I proceeded with caution.) Joel would buffer from one point of the bar to another - returning to his friends and then back to check on me. Yes, I was still there. I watched the time as a few hours started to pass by.

I bravely stood from my seat and felt all of the alcohol rush to my head. I made my way to the restroom and of course Joel happened to be waiting in line as well. He was a lot shorter than I anticipated. He whispered hello, grabbed my hips, and began kissing me against the door. His lips bit onto mine and I pushed him away and entered the restroom without him. I composed myself and looked in the mirror. After a few breaths I swiftly left and made my way back to the bar. Another martini was already waiting for me. With appreciation, I finished my cocktail and fled the scene.

The following night I decided to try out another unfamiliar bar at the opposite side of my neighborhood. During the height of heartbreak, I did not care where I went, and I did not care if I went alone. I just needed to keep moving.

There was a short line at the entrance, I wasn’t aware there was some sort of event happening. As I made my way to the front, the host asked for my name. I admitted that I was not on the list nor did I have cash on hand to enter. He smiled and said, “not a problem, I think I see your name on here.” After a few moments of feign checking, he aimlessly pointed to a name, “Alex, right?” I smiled back and nodded. I don’t believe it suits me well enough, however it was the name I was given for the evening. He stamped my right wrist with a black star and I mouthed a grateful ‘thank you’ as I walked in.

I was briefly anxious while maneuvering my way into the maze of eccentric pants and metallic shirts. I realized it was disco night as soon as I heard Diana Ross’ It’s My House roaring through the dance floors.

To my relief there was a single seat at the bar calling out to me. I planted myself, seated shoulder to shoulder with strangers. I heard a friendly voice and looked to my left. The bartender’s silhouette was familiar, his back facing me. I removed my jacket and waited patiently. “What can I get for you?” he asked, turning around. It was Joel. I smiled and replied, “dirty martini, please, with vodka.” We were both surprised to see each other again. “Well, hello again,” Joel said.  

I asked him how his night was progressing, “Better now that you’re here,” he replied. He leaned over the counter for a kiss. I rolled my eyes blithely and settled this surprising second interaction with my lips. 

The both of us were quite fascinated to see eachother again so soon, remarkably in a new environment. I would later come to realize it wouldn’t be as ridiculous as I would think, as the two establishments are in fact sister-bars - the only strange detail was how peculiar it was for me to visit these two bars in just a few days without any knowledge of their relations.

He prioritized my presence for the rest of the evening. Smiling at me from both ends of the bar, excusing himself when he had to help another patron, acting as if each new order was an inconvenience. We chatted through cocktails and shared a handful of Ferrari shots, which I learned from Joel is a perfect combination of fernet and campari. It took me some time to get used to.

Eventually, he was able to convince his colleagues to allow him to end his shift early. He gathered his belongings and I watched him closely as he took a seat next to me. We were now on even playing grounds.

The intimacy was well needed, notably since I just had my heart shattered into a million fragments. As the night progressed, I understood Joel’s popularity with both the regulars and newcomers. He had left to use the restroom and a man seated to the left of me introduced himself. “I’ve never seen Joel with one of his boys before,” he shared. “He seems to be the unattainable type.” I wasn’t sure what to do with this unwarranted commentary, so naturally, I ordered another drink.

Joel offered me a ride home. I expressed how unnecessary it was, but he insisted. We left together and I could feel the heaviness of stares around us. 

This dynamic of ours went on for several months. We exchanged phone numbers but never called, never texted. We would only see each other at his place of work. I grew accustomed to his schedules and came to either bar depending on my many moods. I preferred it this way. Entirely by chance. Never usually planned or expected. Our meetings were oddly therapeutic. After a dreadful day, an unpleasant date, or a manic moment, I could relax and visit Joel.

As I mentioned before, these early interactions would occur frequently. At times twice a week. But excitement tends to fade, doesn’t it? One terrible night I was having, I visited Joel, looking for any form of comfort. He greeted me with warmth and more alcohol. I was conditioned to this. Once I settled in, he confessed he had something he needed to admit. I knew it would be devastating news and at that moment I regretted coming in. He came clean, telling me had a new partner. “Oh wow,” I cheered. “Joel! I’m so happy for you!” My pride wouldn’t allow me to imply any expression of disappointment. I am overly-emotional, but never weak - at least that is what I was attempting to convince myself of.

He began to show me photos, explaining their history, their quarreling situation and where I stood in this story. I gripped my drink harder and drank faster. I needed to leave immediately. I could feel my posture tense and my face stiffen. I was too embarrassed to let my true colors appear, so as soon as he was distracted, I walked out the door.

That night, I walked home and called my sister. It had been one year since I’ve known Joel. Which also meant it had been a year since N and I’s breakup. Everyone, including the bartender, seemed to be moving forward except for me. When I returned home, I ripped all of N’s love letters, I threw away the lasting remnants I had of him, and I shattered all the jewelry he had ever given to me. It all felt so cruel yet crucial.

Now, I rarely see Joel. Perhaps it’s been a few months. I’ll bring my close friends with me to visit here and there, but it seems far too inappropriate to arrive alone. I’ll introduce him to my circles as we all share laughs and drinks together. We’ll continue to smile at each other from across the bar, but instead of lingering I’ll join my friends instead. He was the first of many, After You.