[This story is part of a series. I've worked a bar, a piano, and a dj booth for the past 15 years. These are all the people I've met, and the craziest things they've done.]
Craig
Craig cheated death. It pissed me off a little more than it should have, the drunken bastard.
I've known him for 15 years. His acquaintance is an uninterrupted period of constant smoking, drinking, and bad decisions. His liver is bad. His lungs are bad. His frame bears the extra weight of thousands of poisonous nights, survived only by the ability of his body to store the alcohol in extra fat cells.
It's depressing. But bad choices make good stories.
When it comes to Craig, every one of the bartenders has several.
Hey...was Craig here drinking last night?
The answer is always yes. The question usually precedes a short tale of embarrassment or aggravation.
He came in drunk, demanded a drink, and got mad when I wouldn't serve him.
- how did you know he was drunk?
He was wearing two hats at one time. He didn't know.
- ah.
Also, the very first thing that he said was, 'man, do you have any idea how to get a hooker out of your bed at 10:45 in the morning when she really doesn't want to leave?'
- oh, god...
Yeah, it didn't make the family sitting at the table next to him very happy.
I know Craig. Based on what I know of him, I guess at the next part of the story.
- did he…emphasize ‘hooker’?
The whole last part of the sentence. Normal voice, and then, ‘get a HOOKER OUT OF YOUR BED…when she DOESN’T WANT TO LEAVE?’
- did he repeat the question a couple times?
Oh, of course. When I didn't respond the first time, he asked it again. Just louder.
- how many-
I stopped him the third time.
- yikes.
He stormed off in a huff when I wouldn't give him a drink. Said he was just going to drive straight down to Pensacola. Weirdo.
I remembered something he had told me the night before.
- oh, no...he was serious. He was supposed to ride down to Pensacola early this morning with his ex and kid. Family vacation. He's in serious sh*t.
Oh. That explains the comment about speeding down the highway at 100 miles an hour.
- do you think he'll drive? Should we call the cops?
Nah, just tell Mike. Besides, he still has to get rid of the hooker in his bed.
Mike is the local cop. He knows everyone at the bar, and is a very handy guy to have around.
Craig worked with me behind the bar when we first met. It was not an ideal job for his health, given his alcoholism. His circumstances weren’t helping, either.
- you seem pissed off today.
Eh, wife and I are finalizing the divorce. I just wanted it to be a good day. She had to go and be an a****le.
- dang, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were married.
Yeah, I should have known it wouldn’t work. Age gap is a hard thing.
- age? How old is your wife?
22.
I paused.
- wait, what?
Yeah, we got married when she was 18.
- how the hell old are you?
48. I’m gonna go smoke.
We had the same interaction nearly every week.
- are…are you drinking?
Just one for the road, you know.
- don’t you work tonight?
Nah, I gave up my shift.
- again? Dude, how do you even make any money?
I asked that question for years. Someone finally gave me an answer.
Craig? Oh, he’s a trust-fund baby. He’s got lots of money. But his uncle won’t give it to him unless he keeps a job.
- oh…that explains it.
Explains what? Is he working? What’s he doing now?
- he’s delivering sandwiches.
I shrug. She’s speechless. Craig is an easy way to reset conversations.
I knew he was delivering, because the bar was on his route. It was on every route, in fact. He’d stop in on the way, thermal duffel bag in hand, and have a drink. Then deliver. Then return to the bar before another pickup.
He could be kind, provided he was sober.
Hey, do you think you could spot me one drink before I go to work, and I’ll pay you tonight after I cash out? I’ll pay you double.
- you’re working tonight? Tell you what – I’ll trade you a drink for a pizza. Don’t you guys always have extras?
Hell, yes! You got a deal. I’m gonna go smoke.
He came in later that evening. He’d been drinking. I suspect he had it hidden in his car.
- hey Craig! Pizza! Thank you…what…why are you wearing a tinfoil hat?
It keeps the aliens away from my brain. Wheeeaaaaaa!
I take a deep breath. You can’t help but care about people you see every day, even at their worst. Part of you dies a little with each exasperation.
- …bored at work tonight?
Yeah, it really throws people off when I show up with sandwiches in a tinfoil hat. I’ll take a whiskey.
- no.
I’m good to drive. I promise.
- no, Craig.
Ok. Well, enjoy your pizza.
- thanks.
I open the box.
- is this…jalapeno thin crust?
Yeah. It was extra. Nobody wanted it.
- who ate half of it?
The people who didn’t want it.
I threw away the pizza.
Craig could be exhausting. But I didn’t wish him dead. I just wished that he would learn from it. It pissed me off that he didn’t.
He came in the bar one afternoon, looking like death – more than anyone I've seen on screen or in person. His face was bloodless. He couldn’t walk, or see, and he fell off his stool as soon as he sat down.
I’d normally assume he was drunk. But he asked – begged – for water. And his arms were bandaged, the sign of yet another round of blood drawing in a long series that had torn his veins all to hell. Craig had been sick for a long time, and the doctors couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on. Not quite exactly.
But the general prognosis was pretty obvious. Nobody wanted to mention the C word, but it hung around his neck in quiet agony. Craig was dying. I gave him water, brought him food, and didn’t let him leave until his dizziness stopped.
A month later, his pallor left. His appetite and weight came back. So did his drinking, and smoking.
Every conversation I had with him after that was disappointing.
- how’s your kid, Craig?
Good, man. He’s great. He’s as tall as me now. He’s going to be huge in his teens.
- …you ever think about not drinking so much? Or quitting?
Eh, I talked to my doctor about it. But I’m in remission, baby, so I’m good! I’ll take a whiskey.
- …sure. Go nuts. Whatever.
Last I talked to him, he had to return to his doctor. Something about his liver.