Pouring Light
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| Photo by Ralph Olmstead |
POURING LIGHT
They arrive like clockwork, not bound by time
but tethered to ritual.
Some wear cologne too heavy, some wear none at all.
The ones who nurse a beer for hours
are not so different from the ones who sprint through shots—
both are looking for silence, just using different tools.
You learn to spot them.
Not by the tremble in the hand—
though yes, sometimes that too—
but by the way their eyes scan
for the familiar shape of their glass,
like a priest seeking a chalice.
Some talk too much, rehearsing old glories,
telling the story of the time they nearly made it.
Others say nothing at all,
just nod when you set the drink down,
as if you're both part of a well-oiled machine.
They tip in small bills, big gestures, or nothing at all.
They apologize too much,
or not nearly enough.
One man insists on calling me “Doctor,”
as if I’ve prescribed him bourbon for chronic regret.
I let him.
There’s the woman who drinks vodka and soda
and tells me how she’s cutting back,
every night since 2019.
There’s the construction worker who orders
a whiskey neat with a beer back—
the "blue-collar holy trinity" he calls it—
then tells me about his daughter, every time,
as if it’s the first.
They are charming.
Exhausting.
Wise.
Often very funny.
Occasionally cruel.
Mostly just tired in a way
sleep can’t fix.
We don't judge.
We can't afford to.
The bar is a confessional,
a comedy club,
a therapy session without a couch.
We are not friends,
but we are not strangers either.
They don’t want saving,
at least not from us.
They want the illusion of choice,
the comfort of pattern,
the known sting of a familiar poison.
And sometimes,
they just want to sit and not be asked
why they're still here.
So I pour.
I clean.
I listen.
I laugh when it’s appropriate
and sometimes when it’s not.
And when they leave,
I wipe down the bar
and wait for the next sermon.
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