A Slow Thursday

I've always been pretty good at reading people. I can tell in an instant if a person has a friendly or an abrasive personality. I can sense if his or her mood is happy, sad, angry, pensive, excited, or nervous, or if they have nefarious intentions. That's why I enjoy bartending. A bar is a people-watching paradise.

I was just coming in for my shift on a Thursday night. Jan said, "Slow day, Nick. Maybe it'll pick up tonight though. See you."

She left before I could respond. I saw two regulars at the far end, nursing what I assumed was their first round. I gave them a wave and started slicing oranges and limes, lost in thought.

In walked an older, black gentleman. I noticed smile lines. Jovial. Kind. His mood was harder to nail down. He smiled at me, but it didn't show in his eyes. "Hello, young man." He held out his hand. I shook it. Firm grip. Calluses. Hard-working. He glanced around.

"Are you expecting someone else?"

"My beautiful wife." He sighed.

I took that as an invitation. "Tell me about her."

His face lit up like a department store Christmas tree. "Shayla's dark eyes will light up a room. Her laughter can make songbirds jealous. Don't even get me started on her body." His laughter was deep and melodious.

I teased, "Sounds too good to be true."

"Too good for the likes of me."

"Now, none of that." I changed the subject. "Can I get you something while you're waiting?"

"Whiskey on the rocks. Make it a double. What's your name, young man?"

"Nick. What's yours?"

"Jackson, on account of I was born there."

"Mississippi?"

"You got it, but I haven't been there since high school. After I met my Shayla, we moved out here to northern California as fast as my beat-up Ford could take us. I worked construction for 45 years." He sighed again. I was still puzzled about his mood. It seemed all over the place. He added, "Not a bad life."

I noticed my regulars holding up their glasses. I nodded and told Jackson, "I'll be right back."

When I returned a few minutes later, I continued the conversation as I started putting maraschino cherries from the large container into my supply tray. "You worked construction. What did Shayla do?"

"She worked at a preschool. Her and I were never blessed with children. Well, not so as they survived." He sighed sadly and perked up almost immediately, "She loved them kids."

"I'm so sorry. Wasn't it a difficult reminder for her to be around kids all day when she didn't have any?"

"Oh, no, just the opposite. It gave her a sense of belonging and made her feel like a mama to many." He chuckled. "She even got called 'Mom' sometimes."

"I'm glad it worked out for her. When can we expect her, anyway?"

"Oh, Nick, she's always with me now."

Not much surprises me, but that one threw me for a loop. It did explain his mood swings and the nostalgic manner in which he spoke of Shayla.

He went on to say, "I'd like to order some chicken wings, please, Nick."

"I'll put that right in for you."

Not many more people came that night, but I was happy for that because I was enjoying my time with Jackson. He was funny and intelligent, and he knew how to tell a story.

Eventually, he asked me, "Nick, what's your big dream?"

I told him, "I want to own a place just like this someday. I've been saving up. Many people don't find their calling, but I think I have. I like meeting people like you. Sure, there are tough times, but that's true no matter what you do, right?"

"You hit that nail on the head." He stood up. "I'm going to mosey on now and leave you in peace."

"I hope you'll come back."

"Sorry, Nick. This is my last call. I'll be reunited with my Shayla soon."

I leaned in, concerned. "What, do you have cancer or something?"

"No, I just know." His sigh sounded contented this time. "It was pleasant speaking with you. I hope you do reach your dream." He set money on the counter and said, "Keep the change."

We shook hands and his smile did show in his eyes.

After he left, I counted $1,000.

A week later, his obituary was in the newspaper.