AuntShecky
12-31-2007, 09:15 PM
This is the second of two stories featuring Lenny Edwards,
chief bartender and bottle-washer at the Tamarack Inn.
(The first story, "Downhill," appeared on this Forum yesterday.)
This comes to you with best wishes for a Very Happy New Year!
Amateur Night
The old year had roughly six hours to get its act together and redeem itself before bowing out for good. I really had no time to watch the clock; there were last-minute preps to do before the crowd arrived, which judging from the number of reservations, was going to be sizeable. Couple trips down to the basement to haul up the extra cases of longnecks, another bag of ice, though it was so blustery out there I could always chip some off the windowpanes if need be. Nah, I'm pullin’ your leg. But such is the life for me, Lenny Edward, bartender at the Tamarack Inn.
Over at the piano the little combo that Harry had booked was tuning up. There was a short, stocky guy standing behind the acoustic bass and a beanpole sitting at the drumstand. (Uh- oh. A gaffe by central casting? I would've reversed them.) The band had been here all Christmas week and was scheduled to stay until mid-January. Then – oh joy! – we'll get the goofs with the crazy straw hats for a while. Nah, they're okay. You know, they say that Dixieland jazz is a little like pizza or sex – even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.
Jazz comprised most of the repertoire of this present group, “The Lovely Arlene and Her Combo--” though I would've bet the rent that she herself didn't compose the billing. I'm sure though that she chose the numbers: swinging standards and jazzed-up show tunes. I don't know what Harry Bayly was thinking when he said he wanted to attract a “younger clientele.” But this outfit’s specialty seemed to stem from a bygone era, though, to be honest, the choice of music has had no effect on our usual number of seasonal customers, and the spectrum spans twenty-somethings back to Baby Boomers.
The latter category seemed to be the one to which the lovely Arlene belonged, or maybe a year or two before. She looked like one of those dames – you know the ones I mean, ladies with names like Vicky (with a “y” not an “i” ) or Dot or Pat whom you'd rather avoid than have to
coo over the photos of their grandchildren. But this one, the lovely Arlene: I gave her credit for wearing something other one of those sequined, boxy jackets: the middle-aged Woman’s “night out” uniform. In the ten nights or so she'd been here, I never had much chance to talk to her, other than hello and goodbye. I supposed the polite thing to do would be to go over there now, before the joint started jumping.
I rolled up a five spot and placed it in the empty brandy snifter atop the Baldwin. “Just to prime the pump,” I said, with a wink. “But do me a favor. Please don't play ‘We've Got to Get Out of this Place’ ?”
“By The Animals, right? Circa sixty-five or sixty-six,” she said.
“You got it. I just don't want ya givin’ the customers any ideas.”
She flashed me a nice smile. “Thanks for the tip –and the tip.”
“No problem. First trip to the Adirondacks?”
“Oh, no. My Dad used to take us to Lake George every summer. Of course that was back in Jurassic Park era!“ At least she didn't chuckle at her own joke; she scored another point for that.
”Listen, I hate to tell you this, but even though it’s is a nice place, Lake George is to the Adirondacks like Yonkers is to New York City.” By this time a couple of early birds were drifting in. “Ooops, looks like it’s time to man our battle stations. If I don't get a chance to talk to ya later, have a happy new year. Oh, and good luck tonight –er, break a leg.”
“Ooh,” she said, “I hope you don't say the same thing to the skiers.”
This Arlene, she was all right. Wish I could say the same about some of our customers. Every year it was the same thing: folks in the habit of staying home all year almost feel obligated to go out and party on New Year’s Eve. It’s as if they save up all their drinkin’ for one night of the year. Those of us in the business call ‘em “amateurs,” and they could be real pains in a bartender’s neck. But even these amateurs didn't bother me as much as one customer in particular – that would be Derek, the most obnoxious ski bum on the East Coast. He is such a hound that I think he is personally responsible for the old saying, “Hide your wives and daughters.” Every winter he shows up at the Tamarack as inevitably as an Alberta Clipper , and just as unwelcome. With any luck, he'd stay far away from the Tamarack this New Year’s Eve. Most likely he'll be holed up watching cable tv in his motel room, rather than come in here stag. No date tonight, huh Derek?
In no time the place was hopping. I am a New Year’s veteran, and managed to keep the orders and my customers straight, so to speak. As in previous years, it was a good night for tips; folks have a tendency to feel sorry for people who “have to work” on holiday. So far, so good, no problems. By about a quarter ten there still was no sign of the “Wreck.” Thank the good Lord. Not so fast –speak of the Devil and there he was staggering in, already with half a package on. Derek pushed and shoved himself into at a place at the bar.
“Oh no,” I said, opening a bottle of a nice sparkling wine from the Finger Lakes , “look who the cat dragged in.”
“Don't you mean, ‘whom’ the cat dragged in,” he slurred. “Barkeep! Some libation for my friends!” With that announcement, he made a swooping motion with his arms, nearly knocking a nice gentleman off his barstool.
“”Friends’? What friends?” I put a long neck and a pilsner glass in front of him, to keep him quiet for a while.
The festivities was beginning to get more boisterous as the hours in the old year waned. Every year the same question pops in my mind – are folks celebrating the arrival of a new year, its clean slate shimmering with hope –OR are they jumping for joy in relief because a horrible year was getting the hell out of here, all its miseries and heartaches dumped into the recycling bin of history? In all these years, I never could come up with an answer.
For the next hour or so, Derek was pretty much manageable – I'd figured better to keep him here where I could keep an eye on ‘im rather than to let him go out on the road where he'd be a menace to himself and other motorists. Wouldn't you know it, though, all of sudden he started harassing Arlene, of all people.
He stood up in the center of the little postage-stamp dance floor and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Play ‘Melancholy Baby’! Come on, Baby, I wanna hear ‘Melancholy Baby’!”
Whaa? Where'd that come from? Nobody had recorded that song for two decades before he was born. Maybe he'd heard it somewhere, the hackneyed joke about the drunks requesting that ancient tune.
“Play ‘Melancholy Baby!’” He shouted again, and damn, if he didn't start charging the general area of the bandstand and the pianist in particular. Where the hell was Rocky, our bouncer? Undoubtedly outside, having a smoke. I swear that guy takes more breaks than the calcium-deficient bones of a newbie on the beginner’s slope. Meanwhile Derek was nearly breathing down the neck of the lovely piano player.
So–if the fair young damsel was to be saved, I would have to be the one to do it. I literally leapt over the bar. No mean feat for yours truly; let’s face it, Errol Flynn I ain’t. By the time I made it over there, Arlene was talking nice to Derek. “It’s all right,” she told me. “I'll sing it for him.”
“You know that old chestnut’?”
“Sure. I remember it from an old Sinatra album I used to play as a kid.” She was some good sport, that Arlene. Just a quick downbeat to her two sidemen and right into
"Come to me, My Melancholy Bab-bee
Cuddle up and don't be blue. . .”
Damn if the crowd didn't eat it up. And it seemed to placate Derek; eventually he wandered to a nook near the kitchen door and promptly fell asleep. About 11:52 Arlene sang
Fast away the old year passes
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses,
“Deck the Halls” seamlessly segueing into a swinging“Time After Time–“ I don't mean the one by Cindy Lauper, I mean the other one, the old one written by Jule Styne. After that, I clicked on the big TV mounted over the bar, just as the famous ball in Times Square had begun to drop. “Already?” One of the customers at the bar asked. “What time is it?” Somebody looked at his watch and said “11:58.” “I got 12:03,” someone else said.
The TV blared with the voices of thousands "Five. . .Four. . .Three. . .Two . . .One– Happy New Year!” With that, the Tamarack went wild – blowing paper horns, tossing confetti, kissing with a fervor just on the north side of soft porn. There was indeed someone I wanted to kiss – - but my hands were full with filling the orders of crass customers--hell, was nothing sacred? Couldn't they wait a sec? Aw, it was moot, now that Arlene and her Combo were halfway through “Auld Lang Syne.” To which the whole crowd sang along, though few knew all the words, yours truly included.
After that – whose idea?– a bona fide conga line, as if we were ushering in Nineteen Forty-Six. A dance new to most folks; some male feet kept getting caught in the hems of female gowns. The line snaked all the way around the bar, across the dance floor, and out the main entrance through the front door, and I remember hoping to God that Rocky had remembered to put down some rock salt on the walkway.
Finally, finally came the wee small hour when the party was over. The last of the stragglers had left; the waitresses had divi-ed up their tips; the hostess had closed up the register. The stringbean drummer and the chubby bassist had packed up their gear, hugged Arlene, and had headed back to their temporary quarters for the duration of the gig. The lady had her wrap on, and was finishing stacking her sheet music. I knew if I were going to make the move, I'd better move it before I ran out of time.
“You played great tonight,” I said. “You were great.”
She smiled and gracefully removed the bills out of the brandy snifter and was about to dump into her bag. “Oh,” she said. Your five dollars! Thank you very much!”
“Oh no, please– keep it. It’s the New Year. Oh, uh – do you have to rush off?” Oh man,I was digging myself into one heckuva hole here. I don't know how many years it’s been. Let’s face it --I'm no ladies’ man like Derek. In terms of romance I was a rank amateur. I cleared my throat. “Arlene, um, all I have left to do is douse the lights and lock up. I know this decent--well, pretty decent-- place over on U.S. 9. I was gonna hop over for some steak and eggs. Wanna join me?”
She laughed. “Steak! Who eats steak at four a.m.?”
“Or pancakes. Anything you want. You can't subsist on these little cheese straws and mini quiches, Arlene. Come on, what d’ya say?”
The “Well, all right” sounded to me like an angel’s song. So ended another New Year’s Eve, no different from all the others – with one brilliant exception. I might have at last found the answer to my question: are we say good riddance to the old year or hollering hallelujah for the new one? With the lovely Arlene sitting next to me in that all-night diner, I was betting on the latter. Then again, what do I know? I'm just the bartender.
All Rights Reserved.
chief bartender and bottle-washer at the Tamarack Inn.
(The first story, "Downhill," appeared on this Forum yesterday.)
This comes to you with best wishes for a Very Happy New Year!
Amateur Night
The old year had roughly six hours to get its act together and redeem itself before bowing out for good. I really had no time to watch the clock; there were last-minute preps to do before the crowd arrived, which judging from the number of reservations, was going to be sizeable. Couple trips down to the basement to haul up the extra cases of longnecks, another bag of ice, though it was so blustery out there I could always chip some off the windowpanes if need be. Nah, I'm pullin’ your leg. But such is the life for me, Lenny Edward, bartender at the Tamarack Inn.
Over at the piano the little combo that Harry had booked was tuning up. There was a short, stocky guy standing behind the acoustic bass and a beanpole sitting at the drumstand. (Uh- oh. A gaffe by central casting? I would've reversed them.) The band had been here all Christmas week and was scheduled to stay until mid-January. Then – oh joy! – we'll get the goofs with the crazy straw hats for a while. Nah, they're okay. You know, they say that Dixieland jazz is a little like pizza or sex – even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.
Jazz comprised most of the repertoire of this present group, “The Lovely Arlene and Her Combo--” though I would've bet the rent that she herself didn't compose the billing. I'm sure though that she chose the numbers: swinging standards and jazzed-up show tunes. I don't know what Harry Bayly was thinking when he said he wanted to attract a “younger clientele.” But this outfit’s specialty seemed to stem from a bygone era, though, to be honest, the choice of music has had no effect on our usual number of seasonal customers, and the spectrum spans twenty-somethings back to Baby Boomers.
The latter category seemed to be the one to which the lovely Arlene belonged, or maybe a year or two before. She looked like one of those dames – you know the ones I mean, ladies with names like Vicky (with a “y” not an “i” ) or Dot or Pat whom you'd rather avoid than have to
coo over the photos of their grandchildren. But this one, the lovely Arlene: I gave her credit for wearing something other one of those sequined, boxy jackets: the middle-aged Woman’s “night out” uniform. In the ten nights or so she'd been here, I never had much chance to talk to her, other than hello and goodbye. I supposed the polite thing to do would be to go over there now, before the joint started jumping.
I rolled up a five spot and placed it in the empty brandy snifter atop the Baldwin. “Just to prime the pump,” I said, with a wink. “But do me a favor. Please don't play ‘We've Got to Get Out of this Place’ ?”
“By The Animals, right? Circa sixty-five or sixty-six,” she said.
“You got it. I just don't want ya givin’ the customers any ideas.”
She flashed me a nice smile. “Thanks for the tip –and the tip.”
“No problem. First trip to the Adirondacks?”
“Oh, no. My Dad used to take us to Lake George every summer. Of course that was back in Jurassic Park era!“ At least she didn't chuckle at her own joke; she scored another point for that.
”Listen, I hate to tell you this, but even though it’s is a nice place, Lake George is to the Adirondacks like Yonkers is to New York City.” By this time a couple of early birds were drifting in. “Ooops, looks like it’s time to man our battle stations. If I don't get a chance to talk to ya later, have a happy new year. Oh, and good luck tonight –er, break a leg.”
“Ooh,” she said, “I hope you don't say the same thing to the skiers.”
This Arlene, she was all right. Wish I could say the same about some of our customers. Every year it was the same thing: folks in the habit of staying home all year almost feel obligated to go out and party on New Year’s Eve. It’s as if they save up all their drinkin’ for one night of the year. Those of us in the business call ‘em “amateurs,” and they could be real pains in a bartender’s neck. But even these amateurs didn't bother me as much as one customer in particular – that would be Derek, the most obnoxious ski bum on the East Coast. He is such a hound that I think he is personally responsible for the old saying, “Hide your wives and daughters.” Every winter he shows up at the Tamarack as inevitably as an Alberta Clipper , and just as unwelcome. With any luck, he'd stay far away from the Tamarack this New Year’s Eve. Most likely he'll be holed up watching cable tv in his motel room, rather than come in here stag. No date tonight, huh Derek?
In no time the place was hopping. I am a New Year’s veteran, and managed to keep the orders and my customers straight, so to speak. As in previous years, it was a good night for tips; folks have a tendency to feel sorry for people who “have to work” on holiday. So far, so good, no problems. By about a quarter ten there still was no sign of the “Wreck.” Thank the good Lord. Not so fast –speak of the Devil and there he was staggering in, already with half a package on. Derek pushed and shoved himself into at a place at the bar.
“Oh no,” I said, opening a bottle of a nice sparkling wine from the Finger Lakes , “look who the cat dragged in.”
“Don't you mean, ‘whom’ the cat dragged in,” he slurred. “Barkeep! Some libation for my friends!” With that announcement, he made a swooping motion with his arms, nearly knocking a nice gentleman off his barstool.
“”Friends’? What friends?” I put a long neck and a pilsner glass in front of him, to keep him quiet for a while.
The festivities was beginning to get more boisterous as the hours in the old year waned. Every year the same question pops in my mind – are folks celebrating the arrival of a new year, its clean slate shimmering with hope –OR are they jumping for joy in relief because a horrible year was getting the hell out of here, all its miseries and heartaches dumped into the recycling bin of history? In all these years, I never could come up with an answer.
For the next hour or so, Derek was pretty much manageable – I'd figured better to keep him here where I could keep an eye on ‘im rather than to let him go out on the road where he'd be a menace to himself and other motorists. Wouldn't you know it, though, all of sudden he started harassing Arlene, of all people.
He stood up in the center of the little postage-stamp dance floor and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Play ‘Melancholy Baby’! Come on, Baby, I wanna hear ‘Melancholy Baby’!”
Whaa? Where'd that come from? Nobody had recorded that song for two decades before he was born. Maybe he'd heard it somewhere, the hackneyed joke about the drunks requesting that ancient tune.
“Play ‘Melancholy Baby!’” He shouted again, and damn, if he didn't start charging the general area of the bandstand and the pianist in particular. Where the hell was Rocky, our bouncer? Undoubtedly outside, having a smoke. I swear that guy takes more breaks than the calcium-deficient bones of a newbie on the beginner’s slope. Meanwhile Derek was nearly breathing down the neck of the lovely piano player.
So–if the fair young damsel was to be saved, I would have to be the one to do it. I literally leapt over the bar. No mean feat for yours truly; let’s face it, Errol Flynn I ain’t. By the time I made it over there, Arlene was talking nice to Derek. “It’s all right,” she told me. “I'll sing it for him.”
“You know that old chestnut’?”
“Sure. I remember it from an old Sinatra album I used to play as a kid.” She was some good sport, that Arlene. Just a quick downbeat to her two sidemen and right into
"Come to me, My Melancholy Bab-bee
Cuddle up and don't be blue. . .”
Damn if the crowd didn't eat it up. And it seemed to placate Derek; eventually he wandered to a nook near the kitchen door and promptly fell asleep. About 11:52 Arlene sang
Fast away the old year passes
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses,
“Deck the Halls” seamlessly segueing into a swinging“Time After Time–“ I don't mean the one by Cindy Lauper, I mean the other one, the old one written by Jule Styne. After that, I clicked on the big TV mounted over the bar, just as the famous ball in Times Square had begun to drop. “Already?” One of the customers at the bar asked. “What time is it?” Somebody looked at his watch and said “11:58.” “I got 12:03,” someone else said.
The TV blared with the voices of thousands "Five. . .Four. . .Three. . .Two . . .One– Happy New Year!” With that, the Tamarack went wild – blowing paper horns, tossing confetti, kissing with a fervor just on the north side of soft porn. There was indeed someone I wanted to kiss – - but my hands were full with filling the orders of crass customers--hell, was nothing sacred? Couldn't they wait a sec? Aw, it was moot, now that Arlene and her Combo were halfway through “Auld Lang Syne.” To which the whole crowd sang along, though few knew all the words, yours truly included.
After that – whose idea?– a bona fide conga line, as if we were ushering in Nineteen Forty-Six. A dance new to most folks; some male feet kept getting caught in the hems of female gowns. The line snaked all the way around the bar, across the dance floor, and out the main entrance through the front door, and I remember hoping to God that Rocky had remembered to put down some rock salt on the walkway.
Finally, finally came the wee small hour when the party was over. The last of the stragglers had left; the waitresses had divi-ed up their tips; the hostess had closed up the register. The stringbean drummer and the chubby bassist had packed up their gear, hugged Arlene, and had headed back to their temporary quarters for the duration of the gig. The lady had her wrap on, and was finishing stacking her sheet music. I knew if I were going to make the move, I'd better move it before I ran out of time.
“You played great tonight,” I said. “You were great.”
She smiled and gracefully removed the bills out of the brandy snifter and was about to dump into her bag. “Oh,” she said. Your five dollars! Thank you very much!”
“Oh no, please– keep it. It’s the New Year. Oh, uh – do you have to rush off?” Oh man,I was digging myself into one heckuva hole here. I don't know how many years it’s been. Let’s face it --I'm no ladies’ man like Derek. In terms of romance I was a rank amateur. I cleared my throat. “Arlene, um, all I have left to do is douse the lights and lock up. I know this decent--well, pretty decent-- place over on U.S. 9. I was gonna hop over for some steak and eggs. Wanna join me?”
She laughed. “Steak! Who eats steak at four a.m.?”
“Or pancakes. Anything you want. You can't subsist on these little cheese straws and mini quiches, Arlene. Come on, what d’ya say?”
The “Well, all right” sounded to me like an angel’s song. So ended another New Year’s Eve, no different from all the others – with one brilliant exception. I might have at last found the answer to my question: are we say good riddance to the old year or hollering hallelujah for the new one? With the lovely Arlene sitting next to me in that all-night diner, I was betting on the latter. Then again, what do I know? I'm just the bartender.
All Rights Reserved.