Say It with an IPA

I loved working mornings at the bar.  It was usually slow until happy hour then I make my money and go home.  In the meantime, I slowly prep the bar and take occasional sips of coffee. It also gives me time to chat with regulars who tip me well.  A woman with neat curls and dark skin comes in and slams her arms down on the sparkling clean bar.   She pulls her petite frame up to lean across the bar. 

                        “I

need a beer,” she says.  Her sentiment echoed through the empty

bar. 

                        “Which

one?” I ask.

                        “Your

strongest.” She plops down at the bar while I pour her an IPA.  

                        “It’ll

be $6.” She pays then quietly sits while I clean glasses.  

I

was trying to gauge whether to start a conversation with her.  Some

patrons suffer in silence others yearn for human contact.  Her

dramatics lead me to think she was yearning, so I ask, “What do you want on the

TV?  You’re the only one here.” 

                        “This

is fine, “she pauses, “I’m not an alcoholic I’m just pissed! I have chronic

pain and I don’t have the money for my meds and my prescription is being held

up and I don’t know why.  I just need something.  Anything

to get me through my shift at work today.” 

She

continues a long uninterrupted rant about living with pain and the corrupt

American medical system while she drinks her beer.  How she feels

abandoned by the system she pays into, how she suffers in pain every day and

how she musters through because she has to   How she’s jealous

of people that don’t live with pain on a daily basis.  How she’s

barely holding on to sanity as her body aches.  She hands are waving

in the air.  She’s smiling but in that awkward way where I can tell

she’s trying to not cry.  She keeps darting her eyes down at her beer

as if hoping each drop would give her relief but of course it’s not

enough.  I nod along while cutting up citrus for the

day.   She finishes her beer then she puts the empty glass down

and sighs. I reach across the bar, grab her hand and say, “I’m so sorry you’re

experiencing all this.  No one deserves to feel that

way.”  And she looks at me shocked. We sit in silence for a moment.

My hand on hers, my eyes looking into hers, a moment to connect.  It

was just a moment between two humans trying to get through another day we

didn’t ask for.  

                        “Wow,”

she says, “That was so kind.”

                        “Have

the next drink on me and have good day's work.  I hope it helps.”

I

pour her another beer and hand it across the bar. 

                        “That’s

really so nice.”

                        “We

all need a little help sometimes.”  I go to the clean the keg

room.  When I come back, she’s finished her beer.  She

says, “Thank you. I’m not used to people being nice but thank you.” I could

tell it was hard for her to say thank you.  Clearly, she’s not a

woman that feels like she can ask for help. The way she paused, and the

gratitude in her eyes told a story of giving more than she had to this cruel

world.  And when the world gives back it’s a shock.  My

benevolence really didn’t take much. 

The

beer is just a band-aid.  My kindness was not a

solution.   But sometimes people just need to be seen and it

doesn’t take a lot of money or words to do that.  It just takes

patience to understand, that we all have bad days, but they can be better if we

are all just kinder to one another.  

It’s

slow.  The kitchen staff has prepped everything and their standing

around.  Dan, the shift manager, comes up to me to choose the music

selection of the day.  He’s a short, ripped guy with hazel eyes and

all his tattoos are based on Bible verses.  I sip my coffee while he

scrolls down all the Spotify selections. 

                        “How’s

your mom doing?” He asks.  He’s still trying to gauge my personality

because I only started 2 weeks ago.

                        “She’s

handling the chemo as well as she can,” I say.

                        “How

does that all work?” he asks. 

                        “I

drive her to the hospital, and she gets her own little booth with blankets and

snacks.  Then they inject her for like 45 minutes.  I

usually go home.  She just watches the crown.  Everything

is fine until a day or two later then she’s sick and exhausted.  At

least she’s retired and I live at home,” he nods.  Then he chooses an

Alternative Rock playlist. 

                        “Weren’t

you in Spain?” He asks.  Essentially, he’s piecing together all the

random things he’s heard about me from co-workers, regulars, and the owner to

figure me out.  

                        “Yeah,

I was teaching out there and moved back to take care of her.”

                        “Man,

you’re a pretty interesting person.”

                        “I

mean I really wish I wasn’t.”

                        “You’ll

be okay.  She’ll be okay.  Don’t worry about it. I’ll pray

for your family.”  He gives me a big bear hug.   And I

know he’ll pray because half the restaurant is in a Bible study group

together.  They literally lift weights and read the bible then work

here.  

For

me, I work, take care of my mom, and must look my high school friends in the

eyes when they come in.  I was the overachiever in high school and

now all anyone sees me do is slinging beers in my hometown.  It’s not

what I imagined at twenty-five years old.  But I’m happy to sling

beer and take care of my mom.  I’m glad my parents asked for my help

instead of just lying to keep me happy. 

I’m grateful to help.

But sometimes looking at people that thought I was the smartest girl in school in the eye and asking for their order makes me feel like I’m not living up to my potential.  But then again, I get to touch lives.  Because it’s not just about a beer.  It’s not just about this building filled with people trying to survive.  It’s about human connection in a world that’s void of hope sometimes.  It’s about sharing moments of purity knowing that we all have struggles but here, we can pretend for a little bit that everything is okay.  We can numb ourselves and hope for the best.  It’s not a perfect world but it’s all we have.