Bar Cheating 13
The secret of how it went...
I was lucky, in that, over the course of my career at the bar, I was never subjected to anything serious in the way of crooks or criminals; never had a robbery, no one ever hit me, pulled a gun, or knife, or waited for me after work etc. I never got took for change on a hustle. Yes, I had some walk-outs, but those folks are probably drunk… Did they mean to do that? I like to think they didn’t.
But one time… This happened…
It was a hot Friday-evening in the summer of 1992; it was gonna be a jammer-of-a-night.
I had just gotten into the door at 4:55, ready to go “live at five.”
I grabbed some extra-stuff from the liquor-room as I clocked-in, and then headed back to the bar and hopped under.
It was already picking-up by then, as Happy Hour had rolled-on at four.
I started to straighten, and set-up, even while getting a few drinks together, and transferring some tabs, to get the day-guy out of there and on his way.
That five o’clock transition is like jumping into a wave; you just gotta be ready for anything, even as you’re getting ready for everything else.
On the other hand, being behind the bar is a little bit like being in your living room: You feel good about what goes where, and why; it’s pretty comfortable; your brain goes to ease; no big trick, yer just prepping-and-pacing your mind to run-hot for the next eight hours.
Truth: A good bartender is aware of most-everything in his purview, even in the peripherals, he knows.
He hears it, sees it, senses it, whatever, but to be sure, most good bartenders know what’s happening, even as it looks like that they are in a whirl, and couldn’t possibly be aware of specifics.
Case in point:
A guy came in, and walked over to speak with the hostess.
In the middle of my aforementioned hectic transition, I just happen to clock that in my mind.
I was getting done with cutting some of the extra-limes that we might need for the night.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that this same guy had stepped-up to the bar.
I sensed that he needed something, and so looked over to inquire as to whether I could be of service to the man.
“Good afternoon! What can I do for you?”
He looked me square in the eye: “Hello, I’m Clancy Silvers. I’ve got a package for Bill Wilkes who owns the lighting-place across the street… You know Bill right? Says he’s a regular here. Says talk to Brennen, he knows me. And that’s you, right?”
He had just the slightest pearl of a brogue at the ends of his words.
But my thoughts raced with this question he’d posed:
Sure there was a lighting-place across the street… But who in the hell was Bill?
How embarrassing to get caught-out not remembering a regular.
Bill?.. Yea maybe… Yea, probably Bill…
I said: “Yea, I know Bill…” I was always pretty good at winging-it, so I winged-it.
Clancy suddenly looked WAY-relieved.
“Wonderful, I’ve got a package for him. I’m gonna be meeting him here, can I have an ice tea, and, I’ve got to go to the men’s room; I been drivin’! Could you point me in the direction?”
“Sure, man! Right down the hall.” I said, as I put his iced-tea on the bar.
And then I got into cutting the lemon twists. I love to cut lemon twists.
I’d made an art of it; long thick diagonals; sweet, clean, sharp, bright-yellow, and full of flavor.
It was a zen moment for me to slip the rind with a spoon, and make a biased-cut to the hard-inside of that ring.
I was in the middle of that long-slice, with my favorite knife, when the hostess called out to me: “Brennen; Line one.”
I went over and picked up the receiver from the phone around the other side of the bar.
“Hello, this is Brennen, how can I help you?”
The sound from the other end was a little scratchy, and muffled, but I could make it out:
“Hey, Brennen! It’s Bill! Bill Wilkes, listen, I’m at a pay phone off the side of the road, and I gotta guy comin’ by in the next hour ta drop me off some stuff, and I was wondering, it would…”
It hit me all of a sudden. I was shaken from my lemon-twist reverie:
“Hey! Bill! He’s here already I think! He just walked in about five or ten minutes ago, and he’s got your package, and I think…”
“What?”
“Yea, I think the guy came in, and he’s in here now, and he’s trying to…”
“No, Brennen, it’s me Bill! From Trella light-works across the street, Bill! I have a fella named Clancy coming-in to meet me in the next hour or so, and I…”
His Philly accent was rising with his tension.
“No Bill, He’s here now, and he’s waiting for you!”
All I heard was a growl at the other end of the line.
Suddenly he began to enunciate as if there had been a misunderstanding “No! It’s BILL! BILL WILKES From TRELLA! And…”
I was getting a little exasperated too, and so I started right back at him-
“Listen! BILL! the guy CLANCY! He is HERE. NOW!”
There was silence. He was stopped short. In a desperate voice he began:
“Oh no! Are you serious? Clancy is there now?! I am… Oh my God, I’m supposed to meet him in half-an-hour!” He, he has my microfiche, and I’ve got to have them for the Sunday tear-out sheet!” He continued getting even more torqued: “I can’t get there for another, like, ninety minutes; I’m stuck on this 91 freeway!” "And… Oh, Jesus, Brennen, You don’t understand! Those are my life! Those are my bread and butter for the week…!”
Silence ensued.
Before I could comment, the voice brightened:
“Hey, listen, I wouldn’t do this with just anyone, I mean anyone I didn’t know as as well as I know you, but I trust ya! If you’ll pick ‘em up for me, I’ll drop you an extra twenty-bucks over the top of the delivery fee.”
Well… That’d be cool! OK! Hey, if I’m anything, I’m trustworthy, and it made me feel good that Bill knew it, besides, twenty-bucks would buy my gal an OK bottle of Champagne.
I went Joe-cavalier: “Come ahead Bill, I’ll take care of this end.”
“Ah, Brennen, you’re a good man.”
I hung up with a big smile. I love it when things work like that; man to man. Straight-on.
I got back to work with the twists, and a few minutes later, looked up to see Clancy drinking his iced-tea.
I took a break and sauntered over.
“Hey Clancy! Bill called, and he’s running ninety-minutes late.”
Clancy jumped up and began looking right and left; he appeared to be both excited and relieved at the same time.
“Where? Where is he? I gotta get goin’ soon!”
It was clear that he’d misunderstood me.
“No, he’s stuck on the road, and he can’t be here for another hour at least…”
He looked at first confused, and then downtrodden and beaten, as if he might start to cry.
The shock of this reality struck him mightily. He began to speak before I could get the rest of the story out.
“He’s not here?” He said it in the saddest tone that I’ve ever heard. Poor guy. Poor hard-workin’ Irish-fella. I felt terrible for him.
He continued- “I got to get all the way back down to Orange County by six-forty-five tonight, and I can’t leave until Bill gets here, and I…”
‘Oh, wow,’ I was thinking; ‘Orange County by ANY time on Friday is gonna be a battle!’ The poor man!
But I had the solution up my sleeve, and was thrilled to present the option:
“Hey Clancy, buck-up; Bill told me to have you leave the stuff with me, no problem.”
It didn’t register with him at first, and he continued to look at me in that forlorn way, when suddenly, the thrill of the realization of what I’d said began to sink in, and a smile of pure joy spread over his face.
“You mean I can leave it with you?!”
“Yep. No problem at all.” I smiled big.
He smiled big then too, and breathed a sigh of relief, starting to nearly guffaw with happiness: “Oh, man, Oh boy… is that great?! I can finish my tea! Oh, that’s wonderful news!” He toasted me with his tea-glass, and took a long thirsty pull on it.
But a few moments later, he went all-business, and deathly-serious, as he reverently pulled the envelope out of his coat, and, as though handling diamonds, very-slowly offered it over to me with both hands; palms-up.
It was clear that the transfer was being made, and I took the thick envelope gingerly.
It was clearly marked: For BILL WILKES: TRELLA LIGHT-WORKS- PHOTOSENSITIVE: “Microfiche.” Ads: Week of 7/14. “Microfiche.“
I set it carefully on the back bar.
He quickly piped-up: “Hey listen! Those are photo sensitive! Do you have a cool-place out of the light, and away from any possible electricity, or static, where you might keep them? I can’t leave those with you if you don’t have a safe place for storage!” He suddenly looked worried and doubtful.
I opened a cupboard above the back-bar, and asked “How’s this?”
He looked concerned “I don’t know, it looks a little close to those lights attached to the wood below it.”
Well, he maybe was right on that count; I wasn’t exactly sure what “static” was, but, yeah, maybe if it goes through wood, the lights might be a problem. Hmmm…
Suddenly I began to consider: What had I gotten myself into?! Whatever happened, Jeez, I did NOT want to risk damaging Bill’s microfiche! What a disaster and embarrassment that would be!
I had an idea; I hopped to the left of the back-bar, and put the negatives into a little-used, deep-dark-drawer.
“How’s that?”
Clancy smiled and nodded. “It’s a job well-done!”
The tea was finished, and a dollar was laid beside the glass.
“Hey listen Brennen, you really don’t know what a help you’ve been. Thanks again.”
He smiled broadly and headed for the door.
Just before he made the exit I remembered and called out:
“Hey Clance, Isn’t there a delivery-fee I need to fix you with?”
He stopped sheepishly in his tracks, his face turned red as he put his hands over his eyes.
“I don’t believe it, I would have had to drive all the way back here. Man oh man!”
He pulled a paper out of his pocket and perused it.
“Nineteen…no, no., seventeen twenty-five.” He flipped the paper over to show me.
I got out a twenty and made change at the register.
He said: “Let me just write you a receipt, And I’ll need you to sign for them as well.”
“No, don’t worry, Bill said he’d get it.”
“I insist! I mean, I like Bill, and I trust him, but I gotta have someone acknowledge that I left those with you in good-faith. If anything happened, it would be my “you know what” on the line! I mean that’s the guys lifeblood!” The brogue made it sound like life-blwood; all reverent and stuff. He tossed-in a slight chuckle for emphasis.
The gravity of his situation came clear to me then; what if he had entrusted them to someone who might be careless with them, or worse, have lost them?!
I could see that this was important, and so I waited while the receipt was written for seventeen-twenty-five, and then I counter-signed an acknowledgement that I had received Trella’s microfiche.
Clancy handed me the receipt and put the acknowledgement in his pocket.
We were both happy, and he shook my hand warmly.
“I can’t thank you enough, man.”
“No problem Clancy, it’s been good to meet you.”
He split; Into the warm of a summer-evening, and out onto Ventura Boulevard.
It felt good; I liked being the hero.
The five-thirty rush hit, and I sailed through till closing.
As I wiped up the counter I looked at the tip jar, and for some reason it reminded me of Bill, and his twenty-bucks.
I had only the split second to think “I wonder where Bill’s gotten off to…” when it hit me like a ton of bricks; the whole thing suddenly showed like clear-glass, and ran through my head like a lightening bolt.
I opened the rarely-used, deep-dark-drawer.
The envelope rested there, heavy-thick, all lousy with the “microfiche” markings… Here was Bill’s “Lifeblwood."
Hell, it was two a.m. Where WAS Bill?.. Yes, I sorta knew.
I opened one end of the envelope slightly, like Charlie looking for the golden-ticket.
By then I figured Bill owed me at least this opportunity to SEE the “lifeblwood…”
And, yes, there it was… several-layers of carefully-torn pages from yesterday’s newspaper.
What had happened..? It must’ve gone like this:
The fellow, as “Clancy,” had gotten my name from the hostess.
Then he’d made the initial set-up with me; ordered the iced-tea, and gone to the men’s room, where he’d waited a bit to give me plenty of time to focus on other things.
He then made the call as “Bill,” from the payphone in the back, to get me all hooked into THAT craziness, and then, casually walked-up-front a few-minutes later and finished the gig.
Seventeen bucks in twenty minutes.
I was in awe, and I felt only a little like a sucker…
Mostly it felt like I’d seen an excellent magic trick, and I love being fooled.
Or maybe it had been like a cool parlor-theatrical, wherein I’d been the focus of the entire presentation: It thrilled me that I’d been so naive, sucking down the bait; hell, I’d practically begged to pay that guy! Heading down the rosy-path to learn that con-artists really are artists.
As I drank my employee beer, I reasoned cost and value; I could never have seen a better show for that much, and I had certainly spent much-more on lesser things; I felt I’d come out ahead in the long run. Not bad at all.
Today I laugh as I remember pretending that I knew some character named “Bill,” and God knows that that envelope could have contained any number of things beside clean scrap-paper; Clancy was at-least decent in that regard... And there is one more thing that I know is true, and will admit, here thirty years on: He could’ve hit me for more, and I’d have done it. Thirty... Thirty-five…? Forty? I don’t know.
That night I paid for a cheaper-bottle of California Sparkler, and went home with my seventeen-dollars-worth of the lifeblwood-scrap-paper-garbage, and receipt for same, to tell a funny story to my gal.
But then… Maybe Y’all saw that coming!
Back next week for more bar silliness…
Hi-Ho Silver… Away!