Today I find myself flying high above the Midwest in a Boeing 737 on a Southwest flight (I hope they are still around when you are flying on your own – they are the model of customer service, and control of your destiny.) You broke a board in Tae Kwon Do (you call it Karate) and we are about to pack up and move again – you are the model of flexibility.
Last night, I had a great dinner and a better lesson. I met up with an old colleague and friend in San Francisco. We went to a place downtown, called Eddie Rickenbacker’s. Eddie Rickenbacker was an American hero flying in defense of our nation in World War I and World War II, and served our country bravely despite overwhelming risks. He is now “honored” by this restaurant. The bar and restaurant has been on my comrade’s list of places to go, because the interior is uniquely decorated. The interior has an old upright piano that is moderately out of tune but supports the college girl who plays for tips and a modest wage. She is no Billy Joel, but far easier on the eyes. The piano is stained with years of water rings from the pints that have rest upon in, and the audio is nothing short of horrendous, but her voice resonated through, and kept the bar (or at least me) in good spirits.
The restaurant’s tables were definitely antiques from their years of service to diners and drinkers alike – Dark brown inlays on heart pine table tops, long fading as their protective finishes had been sanded off by plates, elbows, and silverware. But they brought character to the place, reminding the patron they were there before we were born and will likely be there after our carbon has been recycled.
However, that simply wasn’t enough. The bars plaster ceiling, paint flaking from its surface, holds even more history. From this plaster surface are dozens of antique motorcycles – the kind you don’t see on the road as their value is high and their ride is far too uncomfortable. They sit in cable slings hooked to the ceiling and walls, and float lightly in the air like a Knievel over the Snake River (or as you might think of it, like Indiana Jones and his father in the motorcycle chase).
The motorcycles are magnificent representations of the motorcycle culture over the decades and nations it spans – Moto Guzzis from Italy, Triumph from England and Indians and Harley Davidsons from here in the US. There was even a motorcycle that was built by the predecessor to the Schwinn bicycle company – truly an exhibit to behold and on each motorcycle was a brief history as well as a rough value to show the onlookers of the wealth the owner had.
But that wasn’t truly the centerpiece of the establishment. In the front corner of the bar was a well cushioned and well-used love seat upon which sat a lump of a man. Age and fatigue and years of cigar smoking and hate have formed Lump (his real name is Norman Hobday, courtesy of Google) into an oxygen sucking mass whose role has become to shift positions on the couch while overseeing his establishment. On the dining table in front of him, is an ashtray with a well chomped cigar, and some plates with an assortment of foot scraps. Between him and the table is an old orange tabby cat whose proportional weight is matched by this lump of a man, and I suspect one is racing the other to their grave.
Beside the man are two more modern devices – a television running mysteries on A&E with subtitles and volume roaring over the din of the crowd, and below that is a little pump that seems to pull in air and convert it to oxygen which connects via a hose to Lump’s nose. Beside the pump are a series of askew oxygen tanks that lie dusty and either ready to step up, or recently exhausted.
So – I hope I paint the picture. In the meantime, our piano singer continues to bang at keys singing a tune and showing no formal training, and waiting for salvation through either a job that pays better than tips or an emir from the Gulf region to buy her and take her away for sexual slavery that would be sweet release from the pseudo-job she has today. The bartender and the waitress are periodically beckoned to the lump who now sits behind me at my seat at the end of the bar. I believe these are their names – waitress, bartender – as this is how he refers to them. There is a loathing in his voice that stems not from any incompetence on their part, but from years of a life spent likely wasted as he erodes into his tomb.
These women – these heroines – come to his aid, lifting his lethargic legs onto the comfy but worn love seat, or to prop pillows under the hot dogs of neck fat that roll off of the back of his head. They do so with some compassion or some distinct affection for a man who only treats them with contempt. Remarably, each woman here is lovely in their own right – a little punky, but certainly more normal than not (that morning I saw a 6 foot tall tranny (7 feet with the heels) crossing the street – so who is to say what normal is here or anywhere else anymore).
So my friend and I began to chat with the staff as the bar cleared out and learned more about the scene – but certainly far from all there was to say. Many of the young women were friends and had gotten each other jobs – and bartending paid well for summer work. But they knew of our lump's personality quirks. The one girl told us her name was Charleston, after her home town, but she suspected Lump didn’t know her real name. Bartender stood next to me and wrote “I’m not gay” on a cocktail napkin. When I asked her what the hell that was about, she simply replied “[Lump] likes people to know we’re not gay”. She continued to write on the napkin, adorning the text with shading of different colors and preparing it to be worn proudly. Though you know she didn’t like it, she accepted it as part of her work there, and well, you know, it pays well. Soon the other two women were wearing the signs, and showing off their hetero-pride and perhaps a little humiliation.
We also learned that Norman is alone. And he will die like this. Oh Norman has family – all of whom seem to have walked away or been walked away on. The story is that he has 2 children he never sees, and brothers and/or sisters who have long since shunned him. I suspect that this bar is all he has (plus some mansion paid for by the bar’s revenue, or a shanty above the inn, where he lays on a bed of hay, I imagine). But Norman will die soon, leaving an empty legacy and a bar that will go for sale with all of its contents at auction to pay for his soon to be growing medical bills.
And so we sat there for a few hours, sipping cold beer and I enjoyed a great filet mignon, some potatoes and little corn and peas with a great flavor, and I enjoyed watching this scene unfold. But I am sure by now, you are asking yourself, “But why would you stay.” A fair and good question – I consider myself open minded to all sorts of people. (Except for people with two colors of eye – they freak me out). I think of myself as someone who doesn’t take part in homophobia (I mean seriously, I have a gay friend, so I must be tolerant, right) or this sort of anti-people behaviors. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like a lot of people – but not because they are gay, or black, (I know a black guy or two) or Catholic (I even married one of them) or whatever. I have long had friends of many backgrounds. But the people I don’t like are in this category because they don’t contribute, or they aren’t open minded to change or because they push their views on me, without respecting my thoughts on things.
However, Norman was an interesting slice of reality, and he was dying. And I think that when you are dying, you get to live like you want to live – I just hope that when I am dying, I am surrounded with friends and not customers, and people and not things. Moreover, I hope that my things I do have bring me joy and not bitterness that transforms into hate and insecurity where I keep them on shelves to be watched instead of using them to bring the delight for which they were designed. The reality is that the pale horse will ride into town for Norman soon enough, and when Norman rides out with Death, I think it would be better, as we bounce along on the ass of the horse, tied to the saddle, to look back smiling at those left behind and not with a dead stare and anger and all of the things he should have done right.
The compassion of the women who worked there was remarkable – they knew Norman was dying, and much like the nurse who helps a criminal on his death bed, these angels helped Norman through his disease, and tolerated his behavior to pay the bills. And once out of earshot, which for Norman was measured in inches, they would lean over to the customers and let them know that behavior that would humiliate most, was tolerated to help keep the lights on, and to give an old, dying man a perception of control. Their eyes belied a sadness – but not for themselves – it was for a man whose hair dropped in clumps to the floor covered with orange cat fur and spilled beer and who would soon leave here and leave a legacy of a great bar with a great environment, and with Norman Hobday’s name written in a foot note buried beneath names and years of the hundred motorcycles, the age of the building and even the color of the paint on the walls – for after Norman dies, he will just be dead.
I also think that if you serve a damn good steak, and a cold pint, it might be worth one night of my life. Besides, my tab probably bought him another cigar and another tank of oxygen.
