For The Experience

Tom Davies stepped into the Harp and Hound Recopub, and was immediately struck by the bluesy bass rambling from a jukebox, accented by the staccato pops of a cue sending pool balls scrambling. The lighting was mute and dusky, even though it was noon; a perfect complement to the wooden floor, and walls draped with team colours. And a waft of deep fried bliss followed a passing waitress.

Well, he thought. I wanted a bar, and you can’t get more barsy than this.

And anyway, any dive was good enough refuge from Nicole.

He approached a barstool and then nearly slipped off it when he saw the bartender. Gangly, pimple-faced, do-it-yourself haircut – the kid looked like, well, a kid.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

Tom started with “Are you–” and ended with a cough, before he blurted out “allowed to be in here.” He cleared his throat. “Is this a family business?”

Maybe it was take your kid to work day.

“Nope. Sole proprietor.” The bartender smiled. “Opened the place right after school.”

Jesus, thought Tom. Fresh out of high school and already running a bar? The weight of his own job, a temporary bathroom fixtures sales gig that was gradually stretching the definition of “temporary” into “career”, lodged itself in his throat.

“Got my master’s and said enough of that.”

Fresh out of university then. Bit better.

“So what’ll you have?”

Right, the whole point of his trip: to drown his worries. To drown Nicole.

Tom frowned. That wasn’t a good metaphor at all.

“I’ll have a pint of lager.”

The bartender poured an extremely faint beer without any head and slid it over.

“That’ll be eight-fifty.”

Tom paid with a ten, begrudgingly remembering when a pint cost you half that. Then he took a big gulp and realized he was drinking water.

“Dude, what the hell, man? This is water!”

“Yup,” said the bartender, without batting an eye. “As are all our beers. Our liquors too.”

Tom blinked. “Dude,” he said, uncertainly. The guy had just admitted to selling him a glass of water for eight-fifty, like it was a normal thing to do. He finished with a whisper, “What the hell, man?”

“We’re a recopub.”

Recreation O’Pub? thought Tom. What the hell is a recopub?

“A recovery pub: a pub for recovering alcoholics.”

Tom looked around the pub, at all the other patrons. People chatting, people laughing, people playing pool and watching the game and relaxing. And all of them, drinking water. Whether from beer steins or martini glasses, champagne flutes or brandy snifters, highball glasses or shots, it was all water. One guy even had a yard filled to the brim with the clear stuff.

“But,” stammered Tom. He glanced at his own glass. “I don’t – isn’t this a terrible idea?”

“Well, the principle was, we’d associate all the positive things drinkers like about drinking – the socializing primarily, pub games, live music on Fridays – with a non-alcoholic context. Water is a substitute for the somatic components. That is, the physical act of drinking. By itself it wouldn’t be enough, but with all the other parts, the hope was we’d rewire the reward circuits in the brain that sought out the drink.”

“Does it work?”

The bartender shrugged. “It was going to be the topic of my PhD, only it turned out trying to get funding is soul crushing, and the prospect of risking a decade of my life on a maybe gave me ulcers. So instead I opened a bar. And I got customers, so…” He looked thoughtfully at the jukebox. “I got into school to help people, but it wasn’t what I expected.”

Tom glanced at his pint. “Dude, you charged me eight-fifty for a glass of water! I want my money back.”

“Can’t do it. See, I didn’t actually sell you water. I sold you the experience. We feel it is critical to remind our patrons of the price of booze – both in terms of health, and to the bottom line.”

“That’s bull.”

The bartender shrugged again. “Can I interest you in experiencing some water from a bottle of thirty year old Macallan scotch?” He reached up and presented the top-shelf bottle, filled with clear liquid. “Only thirty bucks a shot.”

Tom blew a raspberry. “What a ridiculous – I’m not here for any experience. I’m not some stinking drunk–” Then he grew real quiet and looked over his shoulder, but none of the other patrons seemed to have heard him. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he finished.

“You sure? You did go to a bar at noon, after all.”

“No I – that’s not what this is! I just needed to…” Tom took a deep breath.

“To get out of the house for a bit?” asked the bartender.

Tom nodded.

The bartender uncorked the bottle and poured a shot. “Here. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks,” said Tom. He tossed back the shot without a second thought, and only then remembered that the whisky was actually water. “Damn it.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

“Sharing my troubles with a bartender? Isn’t that like the world’s oldest cliché?”

“Okay, then don’t think of me as a bartender. Think of me as a psychology almost-was.”

“That seems worse.”

“Fair.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’re a customer. Oh! How about that. I’m doing market research on my customers. Think of me as a capitalist.”

“Bartender it is.” Tom took another sip of his pint. Was he really going to confide in some stranger? Especially some kid this young? And obnoxious? And so very, impressively, intimidatingly accomplished for his age. Well, what’s the worst that would happen? It’s not like they’d ever see each other again.

“So there’s this girl,” Tom began. “Nicole. She’s my–” He cleared his throat. “Girlfriend, I guess. Yeah.”

“Go on,” said the bartender. “You don’t get along? You want out?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I love her.” It just slipped out, but Tom realized it was true. “I love her.”

“But?”

“But… things are just moving very quickly. We moved in together six months ago – and like, I never really did that before, but I was fine with it. Only, it was a clear sign things were serious.”

“And living together isn’t working out?”

“It’s well enough, I guess. I’ve definitely had worse roommates. Only, like, a few weeks after that, we went and bought a new sofa.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. And then a couple weeks after that, we went shopping for a washer and dryer.”

“Okay.”

“Because the old ones broke. And then–” Tom took another sip “–three months ago, we pulled the trigger and got a dog. And that’s what we called it: Trigger!”

“Right,” said the bartender, his hand fidgeting on the bar. “And?”

“And now she keeps hinting about us going to the next level! And what the hell is that? Are we talking married? Are we talking kids? Twins? Triplets!? Are we getting a cat too, and moving to the suburbs? And buying a van? And soccer practice and ballet and football and swimming and – I don’t know – ping pong probably.”

Tom downed the rest of his pint and wiped his lips on his sleeve. The bartender topped up his glass.

“So you don’t see a future with Nicole?”

Tom’s arms dropped. “I… I don’t know. I love her. I love the idea of being with her. But everything seems to be moving so fast. A year ago I was bar hopping and going on road trips and I still kind of had a shot at being an astronaut – maybe – but this year I noticed a grey hair in my beard, and just this weekend my knee hurt from standing up. And there’s Nicole all chipper and like, ‘Next level! Next level!’ And I don’t know where she finds the energy.” He buried his face in his hands and released a frustrated growl, and then took a long steadying breath. Afterwards, he began on the second pint.

“So let me get this straight,” said the bartender. “You’re getting older and realizing you can’t fulfill your childhood dreams, and you’ve got commitment issues to boot. And you call me a cliché?”

“Not helpful.”

“Sorry. Listen, it’s normal to get overwhelmed by this stuff, and not everybody is comfortable moving at the same pace. Have you tried just talking to Nicole about this?”

Tom stared at the bartender for a moment, drumming his fingers on the bar. “You really think that would work?”

The bartender shrugged. “I think if it doesn’t work, then you might have an answer about your future with Nicole. But you said you love her?”

“Yeah.”

“And you trust her?”

“Yeah.”

The bartender shrugged again, as though the answer was obvious.

“Thanks,” said Tom. He felt light, much lighter than he’d felt in months. “I think you’re onto something.” He finished the second pint, and set the glass down with a whump. “I’m going to do it! We’ll talk and figure this out together. You know, you’re pretty wise for your age.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Tom grinned, feeling the elation growing. He slid off the barstool, looking forward to what the future held, focusing on the open windows and not the closed doors. So what if he lost some old dreams, when he could build a new dream with Nicole? It was time to move forward.

The bartender tapped the pint glass.

“That’ll be eight-fifty.”

Tom dropped another ten, and then left with a wave.