A Guy Walks into a Bar but He is NOT a Joke!

Week One. She sits waiting . The bartender’s rough hands are gentle when he serves her. He flirts. She smiles. I have yet to stay long enough to find out whom she meets. I’m always called away. She keeps glancing at the massive glass doors, their gaudy gilt handles less function more form. A hint of self-doubt covers her face like the thinnest veil.

Week Two. How does this end? How does this begin? Clients come and go. I despise my puppy dog expression when deals are left ajar. Some clients commit. Some just go home. I’m so bored I could just drink but I’ll drink slowly and eat whatever Jay makes. He’s an injured construction worker from Brooklyn with a gift. They hide him in the kitchen but he sneaks out to feed me.

I’m not the most eye-catching with all the facial hair. Intentionally off-putting but it makes me more interesting in my plain vanilla finance world. I just want to sit and wonder about her. I bet she could care less about money and it’s dirty, mere means to an end. I’m incredibly fit. Thank you, Fear! You are the ultimate motivator! I don’t want to end up like my dad or my uncles who didn’t make it past fifty.  

She’s talking with a tall couple she knows in that superficial former PTO membership way. She graciously engages in the customary, casual chit chat. I loathe customary, casual chit chat even though I’m an expert. As Tall Thing One and Two head to the dining room, she turns back to her drink. The bartender’s elbow rests close to her ringless hand. He gets as close to her as he can. She’s no threat to his bodily fidelity. She’s not one of those anyway. Otherwise by now, I would be the prey. Speaking of prey, my client is checking his coat. This is the rare second meeting. He’s considering staying for dinner.

Eleven o’clock and all is...Damn it, she left!!

Week Three. I hate the ‘still friends’ ex-spouses. That’s not a real divorce. Real divorces burn forever. Real divorces are like phantom limbs that hurt like hell, the frontlines hazy. Your vision blurs with tears you despise. My ex, Lisa, has OCD. Her car, condo and lap dogs are all immaculate. And so I cheated on her, while refusing to shave my erroneous facial whiskers. She would have retracted it all if I had been clean shaven that day. She failed to keep me immaculate and that failure was too much. Because I cheated, I’m in my own little mental monastery. I’m working all the time anyway so no time to make promises I will eventually break. 

Week Four. She’s back. She’s pretty. I was gazing into her soul but now I can’t ignore the dark brown eyes and curls. She’s eating at the bar instead of just drinking. Wait! She’s eating the special steak Jay only makes for me! She’s eating steak alla scruffy me! My client just texted to cancel. I knew it! He was too eager and nonchalant during our first conversation. 

“You look like your dog died…again,” Jay teases, delivering gratis cracked pepper sliders. Sliders are Jay’s latest fixation. I’m the lucky guinea pig.  

“Client is a no show, huh?”

“No show but I’m still crushin’ it!”

“You eatin’ or you on a diet?” 

“I’m eatin’ if you’re cookin’.”

“That’s all I do.”

“You do it well, Jay. You’re the best.”

I see her eyes follow the back of Jay as he stomps off. She heads over to me, drink in hand, wearing a playful smile.  

“How are they?” She asks, motioning to my slider remnants.

“Good. Very good. I give it many stars.”

“I see Jay takes good care of you.”

I laugh nervously, extending my hand as she softly says her name. Lily. I play with the idea of her name as a flower. Peace Lily, Lily of the Valley, Tiger Lily! Grrr! Stargazer Lily. Sigh. Even if her name was not Lily, I would call her Lily.

“And you are?”  

She asks me twice but I sip silently playing with her name. She must think I’m a bit off. Grant. Gerard. Gatsby! I like the sound of Gatsby! Everything sounds like the right answer except…

“George.” 

“Do you live in the area?”

“Yes. Main office in Manhattan but I meet regional clients here. What about you?”

“I’m taking care of my aunt. Then I’ll head back home.”

“Home is where?”

“Manhattan.”

I excuse myself as my cell rings and head to the foyer. I don’t get a break! God, I need a break. I hate this job. Three calls later and the bar is empty. Back to my lackluster thin walled condo with noisy neighbors. As I plop down on the ugly couch, Lisa calls to ask a favor. A date. I don’t want to go but I owe her. She’s been my intermittent plus one when business dealings called for it.

I shave every last whisker. Whoa! I’m better-looking than I remembered. Is it the salt and pepper? She’ll think I want reconciliation. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I ambivalently want whatever she wants. Maybe I’m doomed to ambivalence. If it finally happens, I’m gonna miss the bar and Jay. I’m gonna miss Lily.

Lisa carts me around like an oversized lap dog. I can’t remember if I liked this. Did I? Tonight the food is incredible. I can’t wait to tell Jay. He craves culinary inspiration.  

She kisses me goodbye and lingers a bit. She hasn’t said boo about my clean shaven face. I know she likes it. Why don’t people say what they should?  

Week Five. Lily sits across the bar tolerating a one way conversation with an overly emphatic chatty woman. Lily feigns enthusiasm. She looks over at me brow furrowed. Hmmm. I think this is my cue.

“Lily! Sorry I’m late.”

“George! You made it!” she responds sounding comically animated.

“Hello George,” the friend says in a sing-song voice.

The friend introduces herself while exiting in a flurry of air kisses. 

Lily smiles at me, head tilted. “Thank you! You rescued me.”

“I’m glad. You had this sincerely pained look on your face.”

Lily suggests getting a table. I feel comically awkward in a real chair. The scratchy white cloth napkin is such a commitment unlike the little paper bar napkins. I have to now care for this real napkin and keep it safe on my lap and do what is expected of a grown man at a real table. My ex-wife would be so proud of me. Lily is tasting the wine I ordered. I’m so busy overthinking, dinner abruptly ends. If her aunt recovers, Lily will be gone. If her aunt dies, Lily will be gone. She’s here for her aunt. She's not here for me. She doesn’t belong to me. I don't belong to her. I don’t belong to anyone. I have no control over her or anyone or anything. Why would I want to control anything anyway?  

Week Six. Lily is gone. Jay’s gone. Where is he? Things look different. The vibe is off. Two men are waving at walls saying words like focal point lighting. A scowling sous chef peeks from the kitchen and annoyedly waves a new kid in my direction.

Haltingly, the timid kid says,  

“Watch. Plate. Hot.”

A verb, a noun and an adjective. Sometimes that's all you need. 

The bartender heads over to me in his strained way with red wine. Odd. He usually ignores me. 

 “This is on me. These new yuppies, man. Place is goin’ to the dogs. I know how to take care of the regulars. These knuckleheads don't know shit. You’re Rick, right?”

Rick? The bartender rarely talks to me. He just looks at me from the corner of his eye and probably says things under his breath about me.  

“They treated Jay like shit,” he gruffs. “It's our loss though.” he adds in a solemn whisper.

What is he talking about? I am clearly not in the loop. 

“You’re Rick, right?”

“No. George.”

“George, that's right. I call you Clooney when you shave. They want signature cocktails. I don’t make those. I'm too old to pretend I’m something I’m not.”

“What's going on?”

“Place is sold.”

The bartender flies back to the bar mumbling about a refill but I can’t hear him.

Week Seven. My ex-wife needs me! We drive out to the house I conjured up out of thin air. Massive fireplace overlooking woodlands. Lisa cared for it, never loving it the way we intended her to. What a waste of secluded, soothing space. I want her to keep it. I want her to keep me. Polish the hardwood. Shave my beard. Clean out the gutters. Throw out my old running shoes. We can. We can’t. I know we can’t yet I’m feeling the gravitational pull back into her perfect world. 

Week Eight. Lisa tells me there are two types of people in the world: slobs who eat at the bar and the well-bred who understand fine dining. Well, Mr. Slob wins tonight! I choose the bar and she lets me, a first for us. 

I haven't seen Lily or Jay. Now that I know the place is sold, I understand why Jay is gone. But Lily? I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Wait! I see Jay hovering by the kitchen. He glances over, looking puzzled. Lisa doesn't look like one of my usual clients. I bet I look different too. I look like a kid. I look like a voiceless, invisible kid. 

Jay approaches the table with a tray.

“Enjoy.”

He races away without a hello. The dull dish is nothing like what I’m used to. 

“Rough around the edges embodied,” Lisa snickers through a sinister smile.  

I don't respond.

“This is delicious!!!” She sounds shocked by the delicious dish made by rough around the edges Jay.

Lisa begins her usual scathing barrage of criticism aimed at any patron in sight. I forgot all about the accompanying deep pain in my throat when she does this. A particularly vicious monologue describes a beautiful yet flawed woman. Lisa claims this pathetic woman solely relies on her God-given looks to get through life and nothing else.

“Probably out on good behavior after winning first prize for her rhubarb pie,” Lisa laughs, feigning a southern accent. 

I tune her out as I finish off whatever's left of the small plates. I catch the back of a woman as her hand grasps the large golden door handle. Wait! Was that Lily?!

Week Nine. Ichabod. Doors are locked! No sign. No cars. What the hell? I don't have Jay’s number. I don't even know Lily's last name. I start to walk over to FEDEX. I’m an idiot for not taking my car. Thinking it was within walking distance was just another illusion. 

The nicest guy in the world works at FEDEX with his award winning pristine goatee and unnerving facial tattoos. He’s my expert in the ancient art of faxing. This kombucha selling gentle giant who knows everything happening everywhere tells me the owner went bankrupt, the bank took over. Sans a renowned chef or a Zagat rating, the bank says it’s just another old building. Just another old building?! Painful string of words. Jay, Lily and my ideal spot for clients all things of the past.

Week Ten. The lobby of the run-down Marriott where I once met clients when I first came up here is just as depressing but what choice do I have? The company insists I stay. Clients love how available I am. I’m currently in hot water for blowing off a client. What are they talking about? I am famously fastidious, checking email obsessively. I may hate my job but the only one who knows is me.

The neglected party is a new LLC. The shabby lobby smells like old yogurt and I hearing screaming kids in the pool. Marta. who worked her way up from room service, calls me Mister Jorge. I Google translate my order to her and overtip her weekly. Go, Marta, Go!  

Giovanni C. Greco walks towards me with a boxy briefcase, a big smile and teary eyes sparkling. He drops his briefcase abruptly, delivers a vertebrae crusher of a hug. I wince, laughing in disbelief. Without a bandana, stained apron and beady, sweaty brow, Jay is unrecognizable! 

 “I shoulda brought a lawyer because what I’m gonna ask is gonna put us in a precarious position. I’m buying the restaurant! Bastard wouldn't sell it to me! After thirty years! But the bank wants to.”

Week Whatever. I don’t count weeks anymore. The article says we started a chain reaction with local business. Beautiful, color photographs show the property extending past the old farm, soon to be a protected preserve. “Boasting the most pristine bucolic overlook” in New England. All thanks to Valentina Caruso Greco of Sicily, who ran a small family restaurant in Coney Island.     

Valentina raised her nephew Giovanni, from the time he was eight years old, and his sister Lily, who was just an infant when their mother died. Skipping college, Giovanni a.k.a. Jay worked for the family, with the ultimate goal of providing his sister with the best education sweat, tears and Bolognese could buy. Valentina, a creative cook, gardener and renowned watercolorist, taught plein air painting at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden until the age of eighty. Valentina’s deteriorating health led her nephew to move her to Grove Assisted Living just walking distance from the restaurant. When the burden became too much for Jay, he called on his sister to help.. Lily lovingly cared for Aunt Tina during her final months. Jay recounts learning to cook from his aunt who also taught him to never be wasteful, feed the less fortunate and show generosity in all things. Aunt Tina’s guiding principle of “Good Measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over” taken straight from Luke, directed her every endeavor.

A portion of Aunt Tina’s money went to the neighboring farm to convert it to a nature preserve as well as a fledgling organic vineyard. Proceeds from her posthumous cookbook “Good Measure” would also be earmarked for similar future projects.  

I watch Lily. She’s interviewing a woman hiding a heavily inked arm. At the wrist, a bit of a lacey tattoo peeks out. The former establishment never had a female bartender. Lily confesses this candidate knows more about running a high end bar than Lily does.  

Lily eyes the new rustic door made of wood from the neighboring farm’s collapsed barn. Lily’s childhood friend, delivering it in a bittersweet moment, said his only comfort was that remnants of his family’s heritage would live on in some way.

 She has already decided on the female bartender. A hint of quiet joy emanates from Lily’s face. I smile and nod my approval.

The cheese stands alone and it’s my job to accept this new artisanal, goat cheese encrusted with pignoli nuts or reject it. The young farmers obsess over their goats, gushing about the shy, funny and rebellious ones instead of pushing their cheese.

My old clients don’t miss me and I no longer suffer from the soul-crushing guilt of leading vulnerable investors down a yellow brick road of uncertainty. I just eat cheese and decide if it pair well with Jay's vineyard picks or not.

Silent partner. I like it! As Lisa’s silent partner, my own silence was unwarranted. Now I'm only silent because I can't talk and eat.

Jay gets lost in the herb garden coddling the basil. The oregano however is cursed at and all but spat upon. Jay’s crudely scrawled sign hovering over the mint emphatically states bar staff MUST check with him before mercilessly muddling away all his beautiful mint. 

Jay won't listen to Lily but he listens to me. Soft-spoken Lily refuses to reprimand Jay. To her he is father figure and living martyr all rolled up into one sweaty chef. 

Wordlessly, Jay drags himself back to the kitchen. He has new staff to teach. Jay vehemently insists the kitchen be his domain. Jay is the walking, talking, autentico cookbook alla Aunt Tina. He is her culinary torch bearer. And don’t you forget it!

 Lily stealthily slips into the garden as I adjust the string lights. When Jay is not around, we remove his empty industrial size cans. Trash the Stash is what we call it.  

“George,” Lily whispers. 

I join her on the worn bench, as I let out a satisfied sigh. Fully staffed and six weeks past the soft open, we both know such seamlessness is otherworldly. I catch a glimpse of my distorted face in Jay’s garden mirror ball. Lily laughs too at my carnivalesque reflection. I start to get up to head back in.

“Wait!” Lily touches my arm. “Sit for another moment.” 

It’s a learning curve, all this relaxing, but I like it. The new bartender walks in and places a bottle in Lily’s outstretched arms. Lily silently cradles the bottle as she gazes at the label depicting a young woman with a flower in her hair. The woman looks like Lily. The wine is named En Plein Air. The back label praises Aunt Tina’s years of dedication to her restaurant and then to her art students at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

The self-portrait of Aunt Tina looks like Lily. Only the old building in the background proves it isn’t. The building was constructed and subsequently demolished long before Lily was even born. I reread the beautiful label in joyful disbelief. Somehow, I am part of all this!

What am I? Who am I? I don’t know but I belong with Jay and Lily. I don’t belong on a gray couch waiting for an angry woman to give me a reason to exist. I’m not a joke. This is my life. Short. Precious. Not perfect. But not over yet.