One Last Last-Call

Tonight was my last night at the bar. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have mixed emotions about that. After 3+ years of working there, it was strange to think of leaving. But, as far as last night's go, I couldn't hardly have asked for a better one.

Happy hour was busy enough for me to make some money, then things settled down enough for me to take it easy and goof off a bit. One of our regulars, who sometimes brings food back for the staff, promised me a hamburger if I was still there when he returned around midnight. So, instead of bailing early, I stuck around. After all, what did I care? It was my last night, so staying an extra hour or two didn't bother me.

Mostly average customers, along with a couple who were pests, but I mostly ignored them once they proved themselves to be so, because life is too short to deal with lousy tippers. Especially on one's last night. Around ten thirty I told Laura all the new tables were hers, and I'd just wait for what I already had to clear out. Then in walks a couple I know, and who I know tend to hang out with another couple I know even better, so I snag 'em. They end up being the last table to leave, so instead of cutting out early, I stay until after close (though only part of that is due to the table). I goof off, I chat, and...

I do a few shots. In honor of my last night, Julia and Laura want me to do shots. Since it's my last night, I'm down with that. A few shots, then a "martini" (i.e. a starry night shot doubled and poured into a martini glass), and I've had more alcohol in one night than I've had in the past two months put together (though, that mostly goes to illustrate how much of a non-drinker I am, rather than that I consumed particularly vast quantities). Now, not wanting to have to get a ride, or a cab, home, I cut off the booze early and start on the water. Around this time, the regular returns with food, so I add in a hamburger with fries to keep me from getting drunk, plus a couple pints of water. Still, Julia and Laura are much entertained at the amount of booze I drink.

Laura: For someone who never drinks, you do shots like a champ!

Then I tell her about my first-ever shot. My very first shot was an Andes Mint made by one of my all-time favorite, and since moved-on, bartenders, Paulie. He set it in front of me one night when I was done in the kitchen and listening to live music in the basement with a couple of friends from the university. I sipped that shot for a good ten minutes. Paulie and my friends thought it was hilarious. It's been a while since that first shot.

I do manage to commandeer the jukebox, but I'm not really in the mood for Elton John's Screw You, so I opt instead for softer fare like Billy Joel's It's All About Soul. Though, I do hold true on my goal of playing Telegraph Road. Since a number of other people are playing music as well, so it's not until about 1:45 a.m. that the jukebox actually starts in on my selection.

In the meantime, I've been scarfing down my hamburger and fries, doing a couple of shots, and chatting with my only table. The table congratulates me on my retirement, and then by the time my songs end, Laura and I have cleaned up and closed out and are ready to head for home. First though, I have to open an envelope that suddenly appeared at the server station with my name on it. Inside, a gift certificate to the bar from Julia, Laura, and Brandi, with the note "Come back and see us soon."

There are hugs and handshakes, and well-wishing, and it made me a little sad to think of leaving, even though I know I'll still stop in from time to time to say hello and have a drink or some fries. Still, it's strange to think that the next time I walk through the doors it will be as a civilian only.

It's time for last call, folks, can I get anybody anything else?