RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,084
(bernadette or not)
So, wowie-zowie, that
previous chapter really
was something else, right?
I love stuff like that - that
was an out of the pocket,
billiard-table roundabout for
sure. You may just think it
was charming, but it was
quite skillful as well. I don't
care if you don't agree, I'm
just stating my case.
-
Bernadette will be my case
in point, in order to speak
for enthusiasm and heart.
Last I knew she was in
Hawaii somewhere, married
to a person she'd met, at
Swift's. I guess while on
the job. That was reported
to me by one of the other
bartenders in there since her.
I fully expected one of the
distended Irish bar-guys
who hung there for their
long afternoons reading the
Irish papers and magazines,
and the racing sheets and all,
to speak up and say yet another
rude and rousing thing about
her. It was always like that,
and she could take it and lash
it all right back. A real trip, and
an extreme example of bartender
sharpness. She once got me good;
knowing well the habits and the
motions of my alcohol states as
they rolled along, ever watchful,
as any sharp bartender or barmaid
is, she knew the moment when
I'd start getting sloppy and
confused, and pounced once
she saw it. She was good. My
mistake at a five-dollar tip being
a twenty instead meant nothing
to her. She scapped it up that
quickly. At a bar such as Swift's,
let me add, you don't ask for such
things back. Mistakes or not.
-
Those grimy guys reading the
papers were always a trip. At
some point they'd be facing out
(glass-front) and at others, most,
they'd be, at the corner, facing in
and being able to survey the whole
rest of the place. It was (and is,
though I've not been in there for
probably five years, at least), a
complicated bar-scape. The place
went deep, into a darkened and
deeper rear area, which had some
tables and a better foodservice
set-up than did the front. The
front, all along the right, was
bar. To the left was a wonderfully
woody, clubby area, with a large,
broad, reading table, really a
huge chop of closiered-looking
blond, well-worn, wood and some
benches. Enough space for probably
twenty people, at ease. There were
books on the wall, and, printed
onto the wall, were various quotes
and images of Johnathan Swift
himself. You kind of felt smart
just sitting there, even if it was
just a big bar. People often sat
around reading - NYU kids,
New York intellectual types,
the wild and the wasted too.
One time I, along with a few
other friends, walked in there to
a row of some 8 people or so who
were already out of their minds,
were already out of their minds,
but in that morose and sorrowful
way, not the loud, crazy drunk way.
All of them, right down the line.
Before I knew it, another good
hour had passed, they were part
of some 'tomorrow' wedding,
which had just had a rehearsal
or something, and we'd gotten
invited somehow to this Class A
NYC wedding. Then they all
turned into the soft and lovey-
dovey kind of drunks and lushes,
and the rest was all hugs and
smiles, unfocused, sure, but so
what, and alcohol. No, we never
went to any wedding.
-
One thing I'd noticed, or learned,
over the months : regular people
suffer from 'boredom.' Intellectual
types and cafe people suffer from
'ennui.' Tiding the French style
of 'discontent,' hip or not, ennui
one-ups boredom by having the
smarts and the elan of a style of
existential waiting. Whenever I
went into Swift's the tide of ennui
was more pressing, for sure,
than was the tide of boredom.
Workers, it is, who get 'bored.'
50 hot rivets and hour, an 8-hour
day, with nothing to do but rivet.
That's boredom. Teaching school,
over and over, the same rot to the
same 30 kids. That's boredom -
cooking and cleaning for pay.
WHILE, on the other hand, the
morose, cafe brooding, Sartre
(no, NOT satire) reading psuedo
crank intellectual staring into
his Bass Ale or his Guinness,
or whiskey with both - that's
ennui, while expounding on
the stars, the universe, death,
politics, and the afterlife, all
in one long, dull and dreary
string of sentences.
That's ennui.
-
Me? I mixed it up. I'd always
have coffee with my beer. It
was a sideline gimmick of
mine. I never really noticed
anyone else doing that. I tried
sitting there reading; even writing.
At that large table. It wasn't really
conducive to much, for me. I always
got too distracted by those around
me, or those entering or leaving,
or by some gashing comments or
an argument, or some crazy fool
weaving another Irish tale of
Lucy Luckinbill and her four-leaf
clover Johnny-come-lately. If
they threw the story out, I most
always fell for it. It surely was
an interesting place. One time a
girl came in, sat down near me,
and once we got to talking, after
some time, she perplexed me
to no end, by telling me how
pleasant it all was because she
had her Ben Wa Balls in at the
moment and enjoyed that very
much. Of course I nodded, and
played along, as if I even had a
clue as to what the heck she
was talking about. Man, you
learn a lot in a joint like that.
Bernadette, or not.
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