A Stranger Walks Into The Bar

If I’ve done it once, I’ve done it one thousand times. I’m in a new town. or an old town, or any old town, and I walk into a bar. Alone. The bar might be new to me. I could have been here a dozen times. Even then, I am mostly a stranger. The bartender might be recognize me. I might get a nod from another drinker. They have no inkling of who I am or what I’m all about. But they think they do. I have that face that everyone thinks they know.

What can I say? I like bars. I like the feel of a bar. I like the sights, the smells, and the sounds of random conversating all around me. I like polished wood, scarred wood, no wood at all. I like a busy bar. Not crowded, per se, but busy enough. As long as there’s at least one empty barstool, I’m happy. If there is less than one empty barstool, I may walk out. I’ve done that in the past.

Walking in, I scan the bar for an empty seat. If I have options, I pick the seat that is least intrusive on the other patrons. I give them space. I give myself space. I’ll order my one draft beer and nurse it while I peruse the menu. If there is a QR code for a digital menu, I’ll pull it up. I want the bartender to know I’m cool like that. An insider. Even if I’ve never been here.

So I sit, nursing my one beer. With any luck, I have a glass of water in front of me. Note to my service workers, a simple glass of water will increase the enjoyment of all your patrons. Don’t make us ask for it. The tips will fly in. But I digress.

Invariably it happens. Someone sits down next to me and starts talking. It could be a business owner in New York City. Or a retired farmer in North Carolina. There was a school administrator in Phoenix. And the day drinking construction worker from Leningrad who has been in NYC since the Soviet times. And those are just the recent examples. It could be you. We’ll talk sports or weather, news or weather, geopolitcs or philosophy, books or movies. I get a sense of who you are. We get around to “what do you do?” question.

I’m an equal opportunity storyteller. I’ve been listening. Depending on your vibe, you’ll get the basic version of me or the one with all the bells and whistles. I can be as interesting as you want, or as vanilla as you need. I give as much of myself as I think you can handle. I don’t embellish. No need to. I got stories for days and days.

The other day, for the thousandth or so time, I was a stranger walking into a bar. It was an airport bar. Did I mention I travel a lot? I love to get to the airport early enough to hang out in a bar and chat with other farflung travelers. Two strangers meet in a bar? Maybe I should rename this piece. Nope, I think I’m good.

So I walk into this airport bar. It’s one I’ve walked into at least five hundred times. Maybe more. I told you I don’t embellish. Way back in the dark ages, I used to manage this bar. It was one of a half-dozen that I managed on this airport concourse. It was also the spot of one of my happiest days in this job. The day I got fired. That was twenty-three years ago. This is my first time back. Anyhow, I walked in and sat down at the bar.

It was the day after Christmas, and the place had yet to fill up. I had my pick of eight different seats at the bar. I choose the second seat from the end. If seven more people walk in, the last one will sit next to me. I check the taps and see the elegant tapered neck and yellow beak of the Goose Island goose. Not the greatest beer in the world, but it’s been at least twenty years since I drank one. It’s nostalgic.

The bartender materialized in front of me. It’s a young woman, perhaps thirty. We chat about the menu. I order a sandwich. Somehow a tiny pizza for eighteen dollars does not appeal to me. Wolfgang Puck may have invented the gourmet pizza market, but I’m a pizza guy. I’ve worked in four different pizza chains. I can make a better pizza than his in my home kitchen.

My food arrives. It’s a good looking plate. Overpriced, but everything is overpriced in an airport. The bartender hovers. I can tell she’s bored and wants to talk. I remember being in her position. Once, on a slow Saturday evening, I spent a good four hours in the bar watching football with Brent Musberger. When the barstools are full the tips roll in. But sometimes a slow day is a good day.

I initiate the conversation. “I used to work here. I haven’t been here in over twenty years.”

“Really?”

“Yep. In fact,” I look over my shoulder and point to an empty table. “I was sitting on that table right over there when they fired me. It was one of the best days of my life.”

She nodded. “I’ve been there. Sometimes you need someone to push you out the door or you will never leave.”

“Exactly. I was a hot mess back in those days. I was reeling from a big break-up with a co-worker. I was working too much, drinking too much and partying too much. Getting fired was a much needed wakeup call. It forced me to grow up. I moved to New York, and I’ve been on the move ever since. In fact, I just moved to Phoenix a month ago.”

Her face lights up. “I’m on the move too. I left LA nine years ago. This is my fifth different city.”

“Wow. How did you end up in Columbus, Ohio?”

“I got tired of Florida. A friend told me about a job in Columbus. I applied and got the job. I moved to Columbus right before the pandemic hit. I need to figure out my next move.”

“What was the job? Did you move here for this job?”

“No. It was what I thought I wanted to do. I was managing a night club for a cokehead who was twice my age. He had no business sense at all. I had to deal with late rent payments and disconnected utilities. I started hiding money just to keep the lights on and the coolers stocked. If he had access to it, he would spend it.”

“That sucks.”

“That’s not the worst part of it. The guy’s wife thought I was sleeping with him. I was just ewwww. She also thought I was lying about my identity. She ran a background check on me and couldn’t find anything. Like every chocolate girl has a rap sheet.” (Her words, not mine).

“People who live right don’t have much dirty laundry.”

“Right? It’s not easy being a chocolate girl in a vanilla world. Everyone expects me to be the life of the party. They ask me if I can get them drugs. I don’t even like to drink. Columbus is so weird. I don’t know how to describe it. Segregated, maybe? It’s so hard to date here.”

“I grew up here. There are all kinds of communities in Columbus. But I could see how it is for someone new to come here and try to fit in. A lot of people come to Ohio State for college and never leave. So what’s next?”

“Somewhere out west. When you live in the east, it’s too hard to go home to LA. Too expensive. I was thinking about Las Vegas. I can transfer there. ”

“Vegas would be fun. There are pros and cons to every city.” I tell her about my journey. Columbus to Denver, Greensboro, Cleveland, Philadelphia and my experiences in those cities. I tell her why I moved to Phoenix. “I’m in love with the desert. I never want to go back to the East Coast.”

The bar starts to fill up and our conversation fizzles out. I order my dessert. Always a Scotch, always on the rocks. I put my bill on the card and tip with cash. I always tip with cash. As an old bartender, I appreciated keeping the IRS out of my tips. I shoulder my pack and walk down to my gate with forty minutes to spare.

I’ve made another friend I’ll never see again. I’m blessed to have heard her story. It was nice to absorb the perspective of this young woman who is half my age. It will sustain me until the next time.

This stranger walks into a bar.