lying to me. About what, I couldn’t say.
As I contemplated my brother’s suspicious behavior, the afternoon regulars began to arrive.
Clarence Gilley strode in shortly after four. He pretends he’s on a schedule when it comes to drinking. Four o’clock is his start time and if he shows up any time after that he says, “Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” I like Clarence. He tips well, tells me a single joke each visit, and then he remains silent, studying the sports section of the Chronicle for the next four hours.
Saturday’s joke: An amnesiac walks into a bar. He asks, “Do I come here often?”
1700 hrs
Mom 16 walked into the bar. Whatever my father lacks in good looks, my mother makes up for it. Mom is petite and elegant with long auburn hair that comes straight out of a bottle. From a distance, she appears years younger than her age. In fact, Clarence whistled when my mom entered the bar. (Although I can’t say for sure that he was responding to her and not to some alarming news from the world of sports.)
Like my father’s, Mom’s “casual” visits to the Philosopher’s Club were thinly veiled interrogations. To my parents’ credit, though, they managedto mix things up just a bit. This is a close approximation of my conversation with my mother that day:
ISABEL: What can I get you?
OLIVIA: A daughter with a purpose in life.
ISABEL: Sorry, we’re all out. What’s your second choice?
OLIVIA: I can’t decide between a club soda and a real drink.
ISABEL: I’d prefer you had a real drink.
OLIVIA: Fine. I’ll have a gimlet.
ISABEL: But just one drink. Then I’d like you to be on your way.
OLIVIA: I’ll leave when my business here is done.
[The drink is served; the patron takes a sip and grimaces.]
OLIVIA: It needs more booze.
ISABEL: When I serve it to you with more booze, you say it needs more lime juice. Has it occurred to you that you just don’t like gimlets?
OLIVIA: I used to love them.
ISABEL: Sometimes we need to accept change.
OLIVIA: Is this what you’re getting out of therapy? Learning to embrace your inner bartender?
ISABEL: I’m just doing my time, Mom. That’s all.
OLIVIA: Tell me something. Do you talk about me with Dr. Ira? 17
ISABEL: We talk about everyone in my life at one time or another. It’s possible I haven’t mentioned Bernie 18 yet. But I’m sure it will happen eventually.
OLIVIA: Are you blaming me for all of your troubles?
ISABEL: No. Actually, I’ve been blaming David.
OLIVIA: Fair enough.
[Mother/patron crinkles nose when she takes a second sip of her gimlet.
Daughter/bartender sprays an ounce of club soda into her drink.]
ISABEL: Try it now.
OLIVIA: That’s much better. How do I order it if I need to?
ISABEL: You don’t. But if you have to, call it a gimlet watered down with soda.
OLIVIA: Very nice.
ISABEL: So, I’ll trade you one honest answer for one in return.
OLIVIA: Agreed.
ISABEL: Did you send some guy into the bar on Tuesday to drill me for information?
OLIVIA: I did that once two months ago. Will you let it die already?
ISABEL: So, that’s a no?
OLIVIA: Yes, it’s a no. My turn?
ISABEL: Shoot.
OLIVIA: Are you dating anyone right now? [Long pause.]
ISABEL: No one to speak of.
OLIVIA: What are you hiding? [Another significant pause.]
ISABEL: Milo and I hooked up a few weeks ago. It’s been awkward ever since.
OLIVIA: That’s so gross, it’s not even funny.
ISABEL: Yeah, you’re right. I thought it might be funny, but when I said it, I just felt nauseous.
OLIVIA: In what direction are you heading, Isabel?
ISABEL: Nowhere, at the moment.
Sunday
Milo walked into the bar, which isn’t all that unusual, what with it being his bar and all. I usually cover my afternoon shifts solo so Milo has more time off, but Sunday afternoon we always work together and take stock of the inventory. I’ve known Milo going on ten years now; he’s been my employerfor only five months of those. Bar owners’
As I contemplated my brother’s suspicious behavior, the afternoon regulars began to arrive.
Clarence Gilley strode in shortly after four. He pretends he’s on a schedule when it comes to drinking. Four o’clock is his start time and if he shows up any time after that he says, “Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” I like Clarence. He tips well, tells me a single joke each visit, and then he remains silent, studying the sports section of the Chronicle for the next four hours.
Saturday’s joke: An amnesiac walks into a bar. He asks, “Do I come here often?”
1700 hrs
Mom 16 walked into the bar. Whatever my father lacks in good looks, my mother makes up for it. Mom is petite and elegant with long auburn hair that comes straight out of a bottle. From a distance, she appears years younger than her age. In fact, Clarence whistled when my mom entered the bar. (Although I can’t say for sure that he was responding to her and not to some alarming news from the world of sports.)
Like my father’s, Mom’s “casual” visits to the Philosopher’s Club were thinly veiled interrogations. To my parents’ credit, though, they managedto mix things up just a bit. This is a close approximation of my conversation with my mother that day:
ISABEL: What can I get you?
OLIVIA: A daughter with a purpose in life.
ISABEL: Sorry, we’re all out. What’s your second choice?
OLIVIA: I can’t decide between a club soda and a real drink.
ISABEL: I’d prefer you had a real drink.
OLIVIA: Fine. I’ll have a gimlet.
ISABEL: But just one drink. Then I’d like you to be on your way.
OLIVIA: I’ll leave when my business here is done.
[The drink is served; the patron takes a sip and grimaces.]
OLIVIA: It needs more booze.
ISABEL: When I serve it to you with more booze, you say it needs more lime juice. Has it occurred to you that you just don’t like gimlets?
OLIVIA: I used to love them.
ISABEL: Sometimes we need to accept change.
OLIVIA: Is this what you’re getting out of therapy? Learning to embrace your inner bartender?
ISABEL: I’m just doing my time, Mom. That’s all.
OLIVIA: Tell me something. Do you talk about me with Dr. Ira? 17
ISABEL: We talk about everyone in my life at one time or another. It’s possible I haven’t mentioned Bernie 18 yet. But I’m sure it will happen eventually.
OLIVIA: Are you blaming me for all of your troubles?
ISABEL: No. Actually, I’ve been blaming David.
OLIVIA: Fair enough.
[Mother/patron crinkles nose when she takes a second sip of her gimlet.
Daughter/bartender sprays an ounce of club soda into her drink.]
ISABEL: Try it now.
OLIVIA: That’s much better. How do I order it if I need to?
ISABEL: You don’t. But if you have to, call it a gimlet watered down with soda.
OLIVIA: Very nice.
ISABEL: So, I’ll trade you one honest answer for one in return.
OLIVIA: Agreed.
ISABEL: Did you send some guy into the bar on Tuesday to drill me for information?
OLIVIA: I did that once two months ago. Will you let it die already?
ISABEL: So, that’s a no?
OLIVIA: Yes, it’s a no. My turn?
ISABEL: Shoot.
OLIVIA: Are you dating anyone right now? [Long pause.]
ISABEL: No one to speak of.
OLIVIA: What are you hiding? [Another significant pause.]
ISABEL: Milo and I hooked up a few weeks ago. It’s been awkward ever since.
OLIVIA: That’s so gross, it’s not even funny.
ISABEL: Yeah, you’re right. I thought it might be funny, but when I said it, I just felt nauseous.
OLIVIA: In what direction are you heading, Isabel?
ISABEL: Nowhere, at the moment.
Sunday
Milo walked into the bar, which isn’t all that unusual, what with it being his bar and all. I usually cover my afternoon shifts solo so Milo has more time off, but Sunday afternoon we always work together and take stock of the inventory. I’ve known Milo going on ten years now; he’s been my employerfor only five months of those. Bar owners’
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