“Come back anytime”

From the stool, I had looked at the man who had tended bar. I had once seen his face in my old life, back when I used to bus tables at a teppanyaki joint on 57th. It was an old story I used to tell people. “When I first got to this city, I was bussing tables and running food all around midtown.” Hell, if I had a dollar for every time I wanted to burst out into fits of rage during a rush. But something about the man made me feel easy. The old story faded in my head, and I had realized that I was present. The bartender was an old coworker from those days. I eagerly anticipated him to head in my direction. It was a dead day, and my wife and I had entered the space – an old haunt that had used to be Corner Bistro. So when he walked over to the end of the bar where I had sat, I asked him a question.

“Did you work at Benihana?”

Puzzled, he gave me a strange look, as if I had been seeing right through him.

“Yeah, I used to work there.”

“I used to bus tables there,” I said.

I held out my hand and introduced myself. He didn’t remember me. After all, I had only worked there for a 3 months. Emerging from the kitchen was another familiar face. This time, I knew that this was someone I knew. I called out his name, and he gave a look of bewilderment. Much like any other New York moment, I named someone from my past, and he connected the dots. Even if he didn’t remember me, he sensed that I was not bullshitting him. He asked about how my life had been these days, and if I was still in the business. I told him that I was now gigging around Manhattan, not necessarily sure what my career’s worth amounted to. He told me about the journey of his career. He was still in Queens these days, married, and working a better schedule to accommodate his life. The first bartender joined in and talked about how happy he was that he wasn’t back at where we had worked. In a place that corporate, he was beginning to feel that he lost his soul. “Never again,” he said. The other bartender echoed him, as he nodded his head in agreement.

The bar had become busier. It must had been the rain that interrupted the streak of sunshine pouring in from the morning. Afternoon was the time to disappear on a Sunday. I had asked for another round. From my seat, I watched them perform in unison. Sooner or later, both of them began running orders. I sipped on my ale. I leaned forward into my cup, staring at the murky reflection of my face in the still, brown liquid. I looked up. They were now serving the entire space with style and grace. I remembered running around like headless chickens at where we had all once worked. I treasured it as my first year being in Queens.

I was still here. What a joy it was to see that I wasn’t the only one who had made it this far.

After I finished my drink, I bid both of them farewell, but not without one for the road. As they poured the glasses and passed them around, I toasted and quickly downed the drink. The sensation burned my throat. It was as if I was cleansing something. It was raining outside now. One of the guys had said, “Come back anytime.” I gave the both a hug. I knew that to return again would mean some part of me would have wanted to fix how gut-wrenchingly painful it was to experience those midnights as a restless 20-something. The most I had worried about was if the F train wouldn’t arrive in time. As I walked home with my wife, I bid farewell to that time in my life. It was then that knew I was past the point of no return.