Wonderful People in Bars.

Whenever my institutionally dysfunctional academic program has been getting me down, I think of all the people who have been nice to me in bars for no reason.  I find that very heart-warming, and inspiring.

The other night I was 1^st at this one older bar by an industrial park with factories and slaughteryards that used to be manned by working class whites and Poles, and is now only open weekdays and into some evenings, for the few workers who still work nearby from the dying industries... 

The place had high wood ceilings, and smelled a bit damp and woody and like cigarette smoke too, and through an open door off to the back end of the bar you could see  up some steps to a bare 1950s kitchen, with a cheap light fixture made of plastic to look like stained glass overhead.

Two (older) (white) men were watching “Wheel of Fortune” on TV, and another 2 (white) guys were outside smoking, and had told me which door to go in when I asked (what looks like the front door is locked; you actually have to go in a door on the side, but it’s not clear which one if you've never been to the bar before, since there's not much sign of activity).

This one old short (white) woman who looked taciturn and moved slowly but showed no particular signs of arthritis got my order – the draft Miller Lite turned out to be $1 – but didn’t seem particularly chatty.

I sipped my beer, and looked at the shit on the shelves behind the bar, mostly random junk, though there were a lot of plastic statuettes of cartoon characters, and also at the small handmade red-and-white paper sign, like 2” x 2”, taped to the front of the old metal register –

WHAT HAPPENS IN POLAND – 

STAYS IN POLAND.

After a bit of that, the old taciturn woman slowly and quietly crept  up the bar, and then stopped just to my left and gestured to this small table of coldcuts by the door, and whispered to me, “Please help yourself.”

So I did.  There was a few plates with bits of ham and salami and even like half a loaf of cold homemade meatloaf sliced up for sandwiches, and bits of cheese and some olives and pickles, and an open plastic bag of bread, and a blue-and-white pewter nestling bowl where you put ice in the bottom and something that has to be chilled in the bowl that’s set on top, which was full of ham salad, and was set beside a small tray of Saltines.

I had a few Saltines with ham salad as I made myself a meatloaf sandwich with mustard, and then took that on a napkin back to the bar along with a pickle...

Across the street and like half a block up was a Mexican bar with pictures of busty women and pesos under the glass counter, and like halfway through my beer this young unblinking tense-looking (very dark black) guy with very heavy stubble comes in, and sits 2 stools down from me at the bar, and I can see out of the corner of eye that he has safety pins in his ear, and a bit of tissue hanging out of his nostril and it's like half soaked in blood...

The bartenders and patrons looked nervous - there were a couple (Mexican) women behind the bar, and the bar was almost full with (Mexican) patrons and a few tables nearby had (Mexican) people at them - and the 2 (Mexican) (women) bartenders found some meaningless busy work at the the far end of the bar in order to stare at their hands and pretend they hadn't noticed him and not serve him, so he sits there looking up and down the bar, and then goes in back to where there’s a pool game going on, and I hear a loud clash like a poolstick was thrown on the floor.

Then, the guy paces out from there, looks around, and leaves the bar.

“What the fuck,” I asked the (Mexican-American) plumber who was on my other side, who I had been talking to.

“He wants trouble,” the guy was like.  “You saw him, he comes in here, sees who’s drunk, sees who he can get when he leaves.”

“That was weird,” I was like, “What was up with the tissue hanging out of his nose?”

“And there was blood on his hands,” the guy was like.  "You didn't see that?"

Then, he paused and added, “When you leave here, be careful.”

...I feel so much like in grad school I try to do right by people, and by the institution, and my concern is so rarely acknowledged or reciprocated, that I’m touched when other people I meet – and so many of them, too!  - just reach out when they don’t have to, and show thoughtfulness and even concern for me...