The Bartender
He’d suspected that the center’s clients might make their way to his bar from time to time, looking for a fix of whatever it is that got them sent there in the first place, or whatever they could find that was closest to it.
He imagined one or another of them might find their way to one of his barstools, looking for a sympathetic ear to listen to their troubles.
The thought is nearly enough to make him laugh out loud.
People like that, living such sheltered lives, didn’t have real problems, but rich-people problems. He’d like to be a fly on the wall during their therapy, whining about what drove them to drink and drug.
He’d like to bring their stories back to his own AA meetings—seven years sober—to share.
It’d be good for a few laughs. What does rock bottom look like when you’re one of them?
Barfing Cristal all over the dash of your Lamborghini?
Of course, his patrons took out their phones, snapped pictures, recorded video.
He supposes he could have told them to stop, insisted that even people like that are entitled to their privacy, but why should he?
It was a free country, this was a public place, and the people from the center were making a scene.
The police will ask him for details later, and he’ll tell the truth. He hadn’t interacted with the folks from the center, hadn’t served them drinks or food, hadn’t been close enough to see if they were on something, and certainly had no way of knowing if they’d come to the bar looking to score.
Later, he’ll wonder whether he should’ve called the cops after they stormed out. Inside the warm, crowded bar, he forgot just how cold it was out there. Maybe he should have been alarmed, more concerned for a stranger’s well-being.
Maybe if he had, things would have ended differently.