My Ol' Moose Regulars

You never know who will come to reside in your heart...

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My Ol’ Moose Regulars

 
Over bowl of Wheaties,
told my roommate,
"I've got the morning shift."

"Does a bar
REALLY
open at 8 a.m.?"

Ah, a question asked
by life naïve.
College friend
only knows of 
the after dark,
2 a.m. closing up 
and stumble 
back to the dorm.

Yes—answered.
There is a crowd,
a regular group,
all waiting 
for the doors to open.

"Why???"
All drawn out,
not understood.

"Well, 
when alcohol 
is your friend,
your family,
your lover—
you're there.
Every time.
Without the 
familial drink
you would shake to death."

Eyes wide and 
judgement, 
painted.

"How do you stand
being around 
drunks—
ALL DAY?"

"It's more than 
that,"
I say walking away.

If she only understood...
They are not
face-less, 
soul-less, 
heart-less,
drunks...
No,
they are wearied men,
with weathered souls, 
wanting someone
to notice
them.
And, maybe,
even genuinely,
love them.

I do.
I did.
I do.
Every last one.

Though,
I have my favorites.

Lindy,
always first in,
no coffee,
unless winter has set in.
First pull of the day
from the tap,
whatever's running cheapest.
"Be sure to put that on my tab,
Dear," he'd say in 
sweet request
giving light to a freshly
rolled smoke—
still expertly 
rolled his own.
Newspaper sprawled
and we'd discuss
the new news.
Two hours of tap pulls, 
cigarette rolls,
and he'd fold the paper up 
and walk on out the back.
Take a new seat at one 
of the other bars.
He did just this 
for every one of my 
morning shifts,
nearly two years worth.
I was opening at 8 a.m. 
one day,
and my Lindy wasn't 
there.
There would be 
no more mornings,
that he would be.
I never cried so hard.

Little John,
midmorning arriver.
Shuffling in his 
under five foot
frame,
retired jockey,
and odd job holder.
Didn't like talking
much about it,
his life that is.
He enjoyed laughs 
and a good joke.
Always sat right in front
of the line of taps 
and chose his mugs
to be tabbed as well.
He'd smile,
listening to what 
I was studying now,
enjoy a few smokes,
the arrival of the 
Dillonite Daily,
sharing the interesting parts,
then shuffle on out the back.
Same move to another bar, 
another bar stool.
Years later,
on a visit back,
got the news that he was gone.
I sat on his stool,
in his place,
had a pull from the tap,
smoked a cigarette,
let the tears fall.

All of these guys 
had standin' tabs.
They'd wait on
Social Security checks,
and monthly,
pay off
their retirement 
splurges
of daily one dollar mugs.

Around mid-afternoon,
they both would 
saunter back in and 
do it all again.
This time,
I'd try to get them to 
eat a little somethin,'
even if only bar snacks.
Usually they'd pass.
But, frail and thin
I found a psychology class
win, by bringing in
some meatballs, 
chicken wings,
Pillsbury rolled Smokies,
or finger sandwiches 
of ham-n-cheese. 
Suggest I need help
getting rid of these
and they would 
do their part.
And, I would
smile, 
secretly,
in my heart.

Tending nights
I had two
old timers, 
always watching my back.

Carl Sr.,
'Pops'
we called him,
with salt and pepper hair,
little white goatee,
lanky and tall,
dressed sharply
in black,
boots all the way up
to his cowboy hat.
Always a smile and
a wink
and filled with
forever stories 
of the ol' days.
He rarely had a 
drink,
but would stand 
end of bar
hip cocked
to check on me.
He was the gentle man
of gentlemen.
In '03 word 
came that he 
had ridden on to 
the pastures of
Heaven.
My heart broke,
again,
inside of me.


Archie,
a tall, broad shouldered
tribal member
of Oklahoma 
who always
called me,
Angel.
"Everyone treatin'
you right,
Angel?"
he always
inquired 
and many a night
would stay with 
me until 
closin' time,
makin' sure
I got to my car.
His welcome
bear hugs 
were the best.
and he would 
put to the test
anyone who 
dared give 
his Angel
disrespect.
More than once,
he saved me.
Word came 
one day,
he'd been found in the alley;
taken a leaned up seat
against a bar wall
as his big heart gave out,
and Great Spirit
motioned him home.
My Archie
heard my heart
in death song,
and tears fell for days. 
 
They're all gone now,
but live in vivid
memory 
in my heart's
album of men, 
my ol' Moose regulars,
who I will 
forever love. 


W-Gray, 2007

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Little John, Moose, & me. Day entertainment was bathing Moose and posing for pictures. Good times. Photo: Wendy Gray

Little John at his usual seat. Photo: Wendy Gray

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