Last Call

It was a cold, rainy November night in 1969 when I pushed open the door to Vern's Bar in Columbus, Georgia. I was nineteen years old and thought I had all the time in the world.

The warm air hit me first, carrying the smell of cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and hamburgers sizzling on the grill in the back. A sea of little red beaded glass candle holders flickered across the room, throwing a warm glow over smiling faces. A small dance floor filled the back right corner. Early in the evening, there might be only one couple slow dancing to the jukebox. As the night wore on, more and more couples found their way to the dance floor. Between the band's breaks, Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Suzie Q" blasted from the jukebox until the musicians climbed back on stage. Later, the band mixed slow love songs with fast-paced Rolling Stones favorites that kept the dance floor packed until closing time.

I'd been cocktail waitressing there about a month and already knew many of the regulars by their first names. The wages weren't much, but the tips usually made up the difference. On a good Friday or Saturday night, I'd leave with tired feet, sore legs, and a pocket full of cash.

Every weekend followed about the same rhythm.

Some of the soldiers came in early, still wearing fatigue jackets, looking for a place to unwind before Monday morning rolled around again. They'd order Jack Daniel's or cold beer while waiting for the band to start around nine o'clock.

Once the music started, the room came alive.

Couples danced until sweat rolled down their faces. Friends slapped each other on the back. Lonely people forgot they were lonely for a little while. For four hours the music drowned out life's troubles, and for a few hours everyone seemed to belong.

Then one o'clock would arrive.

The band stepped off the stage.

Vern would cup his hands around his mouth and bellow across the room.

"Last call for alcohol!"

Almost on cue, the bright lights flickered on. People looked toward the bar and then at the cocktail waitresses with the same expression, as if to say, Already? Closing time? A few hurried to order one last drink. Others smiled, finished their conversations, and began saying their goodbyes.

As the crowd slowly thinned, a couple of the faithful bar tramps would make their way to the bar, slouch onto a stool, and quietly watch everyone leave one by one. That was my signal to start collecting empty beer bottles, whiskey glasses, and overflowing ashtrays before wiping down the tables for another night.

Back then, I thought last call simply meant the party was over.

One more drink.

One last dance.

One more song before everyone went home.

Vern wasn't just a good businessman. He understood people.

He could spot someone who'd had one drink too many before anybody else noticed. Instead of embarrassing them, he'd sit down beside them, tell a story, buy them a cup of coffee, and quietly call a taxi if they needed one. More than once I watched someone hand over their car keys without an argument because Vern had earned their trust.

Looking back, I think that's why people kept coming back.

Life, of course, didn't stay inside Vern's Bar.

I got married, raised two daughters, earned a college degree, and spent years teaching special education. Life was busy, and always moving forward. I never stopped long enough to notice how quickly the years were passing.

My front porch has become my safe haven. It's where I drink my coffee, listen to the cicadas sing at dusk, and sort through the questions life still puts in front of me. It's where I make peace with yesterday before deciding what to do with tomorrow.

One afternoon, just before dusk, I sat there alone while the cicadas sang so loudly they almost drowned out every other sound. My thoughts drifted to my four grandchildren. Somehow they were all in their twenties and thirties now. Then I thought about my sister's grandchildren. They were grown too.

Without warning, my mind wandered back to when my own daughters were that age.

Then my thoughts drifted even farther.

I saw myself again.

Nineteen years old.

Walking through the front door of Vern's Bar.

For a long moment, I just sat there.

It felt like yesterday.

That's when it hit me.

Where had all those years gone?

As I sat there, I couldn't help but reflect on that first job. It was my first cocktail waitressing job and my first real glimpse into lives very different from my own. I'd grown up believing life was simple—church on Sunday, work during the week, and a happy ending for everyone. Vern's Bar taught me that people carried loneliness, disappointment, and broken dreams with them long before they ever walked through the front door.

Then it finally dawned on me.

It had taken me more than fifty years to understand what Vern had been saying every night.

He wasn't just closing a bar.

He was reminding us that every season of life has a closing time.

One day the music stops.

The bright lights come on.

Everybody gets one last dance.

Nobody gets one more song.

That's why, before daylight every morning, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at my keyboard to write. Not because I always feel inspired. Not because writing is easy. I write because I finally understand that someday there will be a morning when I can't.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I can almost hear "Suzie Q" drifting through my memory.

Then the music fades.

Only now I know he wasn't talking about whiskey.

He was talking about time.

And somewhere in my memory, I can still hear Vern's voice calling...

"Last call for alcohol!"