<![CDATA[you me and the gatepost - Cuarto4]]>Sat, 11 Apr 2020 12:31:09 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Cuarto4]]>Thu, 07 Jan 2010 07:21:49 GMThttps://www.youmeandthegatepost.com/cuarto4/first-postMerry Christmas to all of my distant Ukrainian relatives; their festivities follow the Julian calendar and thus run from the 6th of January until the 19th.  Either way, it is loyal to the birth story of Jesus, and to a differing degree, the ensuing legend (legend? take it up with my agent; oh, wait - I don't have an agent!).

I am, as per usual, writing this from the confines of a bar, blending in with the music and the background.  Why here and not at home, or a cozy coffeehouse?  For one - I don't drink coffee.  Moreover, having thought about this, unlike Henry I am from a large family (2nd youngest) and used to constant noise - if not having to fight for my pirogi and cabbage rolls and slice of shepherd's pie (Scottish mom).  When things are right, all crowd sounds become one complete wall of sound, if not a rhythm track for me to riff on top of.  As long as there is no cackler or outbreak of melee, all is conducive to creativity. 

For the most part, it works out; but what always amazes me is the amount of people that are of the belief that I am somehow copying down their conversations through eavesdropping, or interrupt me to tell how much they admire the process they are currently interrupting me from completing: "I used to write poetry in high school.  Maybe I should have stuck with it.  What do you think?"

I don't know; but I digress.  It's funny that I mention the Ukrainian Christmas because eventually the book will delve into the workings of Las Fallas, that which I made mention of at the beginning of this all; every crack of this world has their very own way of celebrating a particular tenet or point in their history and the more that one studies or travels tends to colour that view of the world - and personal history or own belief system.

The world should be simple - but, thankfully, it is not.

They've just dimmed the lights in the bar, so, in the words of Bugs Bunny: "On with the show, this is it."




Chapter 5:  Montreal.  Dorval Airport.  

 
Dernière Chance.  Last chance to smoke before Paris.  Envision X power-stroking a litany of du Mauriers in the glassed smoking lounge of Dorval before the flight.  She’d found it on pure instinct; I’d demurred and preferred a befriending of stool at nearby bar to fill my belly with a forget, one shot prophetic and one shot thankful for the bubble view of her and the spent lives of the cigaretted air surround her. 

I sipped and tried an open concentration on my beer, begging mental diversion from this part of my gathered knowledge: the draught, the pour, the difference between an ale and a lager.  I pondered the barely legal guy serving me, his thoughts his level of experience, whether he was maybe aware of the right girlie cocktails to suggest: Sex on the Beach can either be juicy or creamy - a sort of summer/winter drink.  I drank my Beck’s and stared the floor, strayed a guilty peek into the smoky terrarium housing my former lover and found the reminisce for me being a bartender.  The story behind a smile that is neither fake nor forced, one that involved a squinting of the eyes as opposed to movement of mere grin only: the things one learns when having to serve others; the observations one hears from a chatty bartender.

I once happened into a lounge bar with a dance floor on Elgin Street and had me a brief sit down at the wood.  The girl tapped the last of a cloverleaf into a creamy head of Guinness and poked her eyes around the draft tree, smiled most beautiful.  It was a quiet night, a Monday that enjoyed the ability for actual room temperature talk.  Pleasant, and I plucked X about the industry and her side of the bar, something that never occurred to me to do while sucking back suds at the one of two particular Royal Oak pubs on the length of my Bank Street.  One of my bestest friends was a bartender there and in all my years of going there, never the once did the mechanics or misery cross the mind.

A Freight Train: Jack Daniel’s, Grand Marnier, maybe even Southern Comfort.  Warmth to the cockles.  A Fonzie special he was wont to pour and call his own, especially to those who didn’t know.  Tricks and pick-up lines.  My side of the bar at the local pub in Ottawa’s downtown area of Centretown was never the same once I became a bartender.  “You look at me different.  You, uh, watch me now,” Fonzie would tell me and my occasional after-hour pinners.  “You freak me out a little, Hen.”  But I was on a crash course of knowledge.  There was nothing worse than knowing next to nothing more than the ball-capped Blue Bud Ryes watching the hockey game.  “Relax,” I told him, “this is for the good of humanity.  We are all God’s children …and …so thus …all share a common aim of a sorts.  I suppose.”  I licked the tip and passed it to the right as always; he grinned and took it all in for the nothing that it was.  He was, is, old and aware of the things that go on inside to make the occasional happen.
Picture
Oak Bartender (as portrayed by the Fonz)
Editorial: When I wrote this there were but two Royal Oaks on Bank Street.  Those of you living in Ottawa, or having visited there recently, know that the Oak has gone Octo-mom, and at last count there are approximately 23 Royal Oaks on Bank Street, with plans for three more at press time.

A la prochaine, boys and girls.
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