From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

Welcome to part 9. Once again, if this is your first time here, you may click on the following link(s) to catch up on Part 1 thru Part 8.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

**** THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK OF FICTION.  Any semblance to a person, place, or experience is 98.8% fabricated. 

****  Also, I’d like to call attention to the featured image, by the very talented, Chelsea McKenzie.

 

Charla

The three of us sat there. If we’d been in an actual “group session,” I think that we would all agree that we’d experienced what is referred to as a “Breakthrough.” I say this facetiously, only because I am an owner of a bar and I’ve listened to many drunks tell their story. But generally speaking, I’ll just say that references to any form of psychological treatment, any talk of appointments with a counselor, my earlier mention of “Couch Sessions,” well, consider any mention or thought of it as being nothing more than “tongue-in-cheek.” I have always failed to see the need for anyone to “dig deeper,” to uncover “suppressed feelings.” Hell, we are human, and suppressing feelings is a method of self-preservation. Not that there isn’t a need for mental health professionals, for sure, there absolutely is. Certainly, we are all at least a little screwed up by the time we reach the age of 30. But the good Lord gives the ability to press down, cover-up, replace and move on. I don’t know, but maybe the last thing the world needs is for a crutch to be issued to anyone who presents with a limp.

At any rate, back before psychology was big business, before mood stabilizer medications were all the rage, people only knew to press it down, or talk to their pastor. Nowadays, it is like it is politically correct to have a prescription or two and for people to openly admit that they see a therapist. As it is with everything “PC,” it starts and before anyone knows what has happened, it gets taken too far.  From my way of thinking, a good barroom therapy session will fix you right up.

Charla excused herself to wait on a few customers before her shift ended. I made a point to watch Cullen as she walked away.  The change in his expression, though ever so slight, confirmed what I had known for a long time. The look was nearly always the same, I’d seen it many times. His eyebrows raised a little, his head tilted to one side, a faint smile came to his lips and finally, I saw the clincher, his chest rose, as if he filled his lungs with the scent of Night Blooming Cirrus, then exhaled long and slow. His eyes held a lingering and faraway gaze.  As if he had experienced a sudden recollection of a long since forgotten and fond memory from his past.  I recognized the look and though I lack video evidence to prove it, I feel certain that it was the same look I had that night years ago as she opened her first paycheck and she saw a second check there in the amount of $250 and a note in the memo section saying “sign-on Bonus.” She had a look of surprise, similar to when one sees the Taj Mahal, or when a person hears for the first time after receiving ocular implants. As I said earlier, I know next to nothing of her story. But regardless of any skeletons in her closet or of demons left behind, I have seen her walk away a thousand times and I’ve seen the same response from every man, child, or boy who had been graced with her presence for more than a few minutes.  That was Charla. She possessed an ability to extract a response from those who paid attention and though she exhibited the physical attributes generally found favorable among the male of the species, she also carried a certain confidence that commanded respect from the word go. The extraordinary aspect about her though is that she seems to be oblivious to the effect she has on people. Men especially, but not just men. I would argue and possibly even fight anyone who claimed she was just working it for tips. I’ve seen her early in the morning running on just a few hours rest and I’ve seen her after a night at the bar when we’d had an all-day event with bands, food, and fundraisers, and she was always the first one here and one of the last to leave. She’s been here for so long now she’s like family to me as well as to the regulars and other staff. I’ve continued to raise her salary over time as she has taken over more and more of the daily duties to the point that I basically just come by, usually by mid-morning, check the accounts, and sign a check or two, but other than that, I’m usually just a customer.

I’ve observed Charla for years and over time, formed a story for her life. Based on things that I know, in part, but also huge gaps are filled with hypothesis and conjecture. In particular, she has certain idiosyncrasies that I’ve noticed over time. One afternoon years ago, I was working the bar on a weekday afternoon and I looked up to see Charla crossing the room and although she smiled and spoke, I could tell by her expression that she wasn’t interested in a conversation. “You ok?” I asked as I slid a frosted mug across to her. She responded in the affirmative, but I knew I’d be prying if I inquired further.  She said, “I think I need a shot of the Don Julio.” I poured the shot and made a motion to set the bottle down in front of her, but she waved me off saying that she would only have one. I turned to replace the bottle and busied myself with my back to her but watched in the mirror. She stared at the glass momentarily and threw it back. Then she sat in silence while she sipped on her beer and after an hour or so, she gave a little wave and left. Since that day, I have witnessed this little ritual several times, and of the billion possible reasons a person might have for performing such, I could only speculate as to why. I doubt that anyone could quibble with such a ritual, especially since it involved the most expensive tequila stocked in the bar. Other than Charla, we probably don’t sell more than 3 shots of Don Julio tequila in any year, but every time she partakes, she always slaps down cash and starts for the door. I have pondered the ritual and though I could be a mile off, I have surmised that given the more expensive tequila, the scene signifies that she is not drinking to forget. My guess is that Charla’s peculiar ritual is a requiem to good things left behind, and a promise of hope, and of more positive days to come.

I am getting ahead of myself. To know Charla, or at least what I know of Charla, I would have to start from the beginning. As I mentioned earlier, she has been with me for eight years. I had owned the bar for a little over a year and was still learning the “ins and outs” of ownership. I was working the bar on a Monday evening when she came in and ordered a Miller Lite. The “after work” business had died down some and football season had not yet started, so typically, Monday nights were slow. I started the conversation by asking where she was from. It’s a Southern thing, if you don’t know someone, you automatically assume that they are from somewhere else. She told me that she was from a small mining town in Kentucky. Naturally, my follow-up question was where she was headed. She responded that she had no destination in mind. If I live to be 120 years old, I will never forget what she said next because it became the launching point for our friendship. She stared at the gold liquid and melting frost on her mug and without raising her head, she took a breath and said, “Not much farther unless I figure some things out.” We went back and forth for a bit with me assuring her that I did in fact want to know more. Finally, I said, “Hey, I’m a bartender, if you can’t talk to a bartender, then you can’t talk to anyone.” She smiled but then frowned and said, “What I kept when I left Kentucky is in my truck, I probably shouldn’t have splurged on this beer, and for the last several hours of driving, I have made a game called what will give out first, my money or the tires on my truck.” I passed it off with some barroom wisdom that went something along the line of, “Surely it’s not that bad.” At that, the expression on her face disclosed that it was most certainly, “that bad.” I filled another mug and slid it to her and she tried to turn it down, but I said, “Didn’t you know, today is Kentucky License plate day. Anyone with a Kentucky tag drinks free.” At that, I received my very first “true Charla Kentucky comeback”, when she said, “Bulllll shiiiiittttttt!” I was hooked right then and there. I offered her a job, along with room and board, in a small apartment behind the bar. This led to some discussion about me being “a perv” and having the equivalent to “Bates Motel” in the back. I assured her that she could start in a couple of days, in order to allow a day or so to get settled and I wrote down the name and directions to a local tire store where “I’d read in the newspaper that they had a ‘Free Tires for Kentuckians’ program going on this week.” She argued that she had never accepted charity in her life and wasn’t about to start. I said, “Fine, I’ll deduct it from your check.” I convinced her that she was not indentured to me in the least, that I saw someone who was in need and that I was a pretty good judge of character, and that I had a good feeling about her. We finally settled on the theme, “what’s life without chances” when I convinced her that I was taking a chance equal to her.

So that is how we made our start and in the months following, she paid me back for the tires and rent for the apartment, most of which, I snuck back into her tip jar. She had no idea, but it turned out that my intuitions about her were correct and as it turned out, I saw an increase in business after she established herself at the bar.

As time passed, I realized that I loved her and that I was sometimes haunted by whatever it was that chased her from her home. I loved her not in the sense of romantic love, but not quite in a fatherly way either, if I’d known what that was like. I found myself keeping an eye on her while she worked, watching the guys as they hit on her while she served them.  I saw when the stupid frat boys from the college up the road would come by, fall head over heels in love with her, and make complete fools of themselves. But I watched her as well during these times and she was polite, efficient in the carrying out of her duties as a waitress, but proved capable of handling the situation if a patron got out of line. My bouncers watched after her as well, as they did all of my waitresses, but I couldn’t help but feel they were more protective of Charla than the others because, hell, they loved her too.

Early on, I often noticed that every time the door opened, her head would wrench, almost involuntarily in that direction. She seemed hyper-aware of her surroundings as if she expected someone to walk through it, or other times as if someone may jump up behind her. As time passed, she began to relax and gradually, became less jumpy. By practice, I made certain of a male presence in the bar at all times and made sure that everyone looked out for everyone, as I often hired wait staff fresh out of a bad breakup. Often I was the authoritative male and at other times, I had bouncers who worked peak hours. But other times, it might come down to my regular male customers, who, without question, would look after Charla as if she was their daughter. My guess, based purely on supposition, was that a man precipitated Charla’s hasty exodus from Kentucky. I mean, usually, that would be the case. It was fairly obvious that she wasn’t running from the law, somebody would have come looking by now.

Over time, I have pondered Charla’s presence in our lives around here. Not only did she stop here that day, but she stayed. I consider it divine providence that of all the places in the country, she chose the exit that led her right to the front door.  But I have said before that this area more or less chose me, rather than the other way around, so I assume that some providence was involved there as well. As I said before, I have established a story for her life and part of that story involves a mental image of a younger Charla and of the influences that shaped her and molded her into the person that she is.  I picture a young lady in “East BumbleFuck” Kentucky, and though I know little of the state, I’ve formed a mental image of the mining town along with poverty-stricken residents and of the schoolgirl there, being told of the promise of a future filled with possibilities, all from a teacher who doesn’t believe it herself. I imagine Charla five or six years post-high school and in the infancy of a concept and the beginning of the question: “Is this all there is?” Then she took the “tried and true” route of all of her classmates, all the while, doubting every bit of the “true” part of the equation. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned her doing her due diligence to make the best of the situation while a man, whose world revolved around the mines, drinking after work every day and then coming home half in the tank, to his woman who absorbed the blame for every wrong in his world, both emotionally and often, physically. Of course, this is pure cerebration on my part. Charla’s story could be, to quote the Bible, “as far as the East is from the West,” from the scene I have fabricated in my mind. It only matters that she was brave enough to cast off whatever chains that bound her and to jump into the old Ford and drive. I’ll never know the truth because I respect this young lady to the point that I will never ask.

There was a night some time ago when one of the other waitresses had to be off to care for a sick child, leaving Charla and me to close. We were washing the glasses, sweeping the floors, and all of the “behind the scenes” details that come with bar ownership. I kept the jukebox playing and Charla fixed drinks and soon we found ourselves working together like a well-tuned machine. As the drinks did their thing, we got more into the music, put more energy into the work, and we found ourselves alternating between dancing with our brooms, using the brooms like guitars, and holding the brooms like they were microphone stands.

Somehow, we managed to finish the work, amongst the singing, the dancing, and the laughter.  I took the last bag of trash to the dumpster out back, while she turned off the overhead lights and fixed us another round. I came back in to see the neon beer signs on the wall, the neon lights of the Jukebox, and Charla selecting more music.  I’m sure I looked like a fool, an old man dancing with a girl 20 years my junior, but she had a way of making me feel like a young man. We talked, joked around, and acted silly I suppose, as we sipped on our drinks. The jukebox was momentarily between songs and we stood at the bar, facing each other, the sudden silence filled the room in sharp contrast to just seconds before. We said nothing. Then the jukebox shattered the silence with the intro to the song “Slow Dancin” by Johnny Rivers. Charla took a few steps out onto the dance floor, she pulled the ball cap from her head and threw it onto a table, turned, and said, “Well mister, are we gonna dance or what?” Holding her in my arms, I felt a little awkward, as if a school chaperone might appear and separate us to an allowed distance for slow dancing. Charla leaned back at the waist, looked up at me, and gave me a little jerk. “Come on old man, loosen up. Relax,” she said with a smile. “I promise I won’t break, and I won’t bite; … hard.” I did loosen up and we danced slowly, her head against my shoulder. I could smell the scent of her shampoo, her perfume, and I felt her breasts against me. My hands found the curve of her lower back, then I dropped my right hand lower and hooked my thumb through a belt loop, leaving my palm to rest along the top of her butt. As the song says, we were “swaying to the music” but midway through, we slowed to the point that we were barely moving at all, just taking micro-steps. The song ended and for a while, we stayed locked in each other’s arms, swaying a little as if the song was still going. Once again, silence enveloped us, the swaying stopped, and we just stood there, caught up in the moment, neither of us willing to uncouple. Maybe a full minute passed, and although I had alcohol on board, I wasn’t at all incapacitated by it. I had complete control of my wits and as wonderful as she felt in my arms, I had to step back. As I eased away, she took her cue and separated some as well, but she kept her arms across my shoulders and fingers latched together around my neck and my hands on her waist, my thumbs just under her T-shirt against her skin. My mind raced and I searched for the right words and she looked me straight in the eyes. We held a brief gaze into each other’s eyes, and almost simultaneously, we both started laughing and she leaned in again and squeezed me tight. “Whew,” she whispered. “It’s been quite a long time since my last slow dance. You know how to make a girl feel real good, Boss.” I returned, “I can’t even remember the last time I slow danced. But I will just say, it might have been the best slow dance of my life.” We separated and walked towards our drinks, stood with our backs to the bar, and sipped our drinks in silence for a while, both decompressing a little. Finally, she said in that slow Kentucky drawl, “I’m proud of us Boss.” “How so?” I responded. She hesitated for a bit, motioned towards the dance floor, and said. “We both made a solid, grown-up decision right there. That could have gone in a totally different direction and it would have not been a good idea.” I dramatically wiped my hand across my forehead and slung it down and out to my side, feigning a motion of wiping sweat and slinging it. “Ain’t that the truth? Whew! Not that it wouldn’t have felt good, mind you!” We both laughed and in a moment, she leaned in and kissed me first on the lips and then on my neck and squeezed me tight and said, “Thank you for everything. I’m a much happier person than the one that left Kentucky in a rush.” I kissed her cheek and the nape of her neck, and replied, “Thank you for brightening this old dull place up and thank you for making me feel much younger than I am.” Since then, Charla and I have slow-danced many times to different songs, and when Johnny Rivers plays on the jukebox, she stops whatever she’s doing and yells from the dancefloor, “Hey Boss, get off your ass and come dance with me!”

One night last spring I watched Charla and considered all of the possible influences that made up the person that she had become. She is a constant in my life and on occasion, the thought occurs to me that someday she might leave me. After all, being a waitress in a bar in South Louisiana cannot be the goal for anyone. Short of that one night, I have adopted the role as father to her more or less, and, well, sometimes more like a big brother, and certainly, she is one of my closest and most trusted friends. I began to think about her future and an idea began to take root. I never had children of my own and at my age, well, I know that I am closer now to the end than to the beginning.

The next day, I made an appointment with my attorney and had my will rewritten. To quote a line from a Warren Zevon song, “There’s a train leavin’ nightly called ‘When All is Said and Done.” So when the day arrives that I find my seat on that train, Charla will be the new owner of her very own bar.

 

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