Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon

It’s a bar room tradition with  a long history.  It’s such a part of this business that some establishments include a reference in their name — The Last Chance Saloon, Second Chance Bar, and Heinold’s First and Last Chance (still serving drinks in Oakland, CA.)  If you want an opportunity to do things over, perhaps to be forgiven, you can always count on your local tavern.

Jack London at the bar in Heinold’s joint.

I remember The Lark Tavern (Albany NY), where a guy named Whitey was a nightly customer.  Whitey worked as a roofer on the tops of buildings that you could fry an egg on — and afterwards he’d stop in for a cold beer and air conditioning.  At six feet tall with a head of prematurely grey hair, he was as thin as a rail from toiling under the hot sun.

Whitey was a good guy, the kind of customer who would watch your back when things got rough, and the rest of the time just bust your balls and keep you laughing.  Whitey had the same girlfriend for as long as I’d known him — they were both divorced, but now they’d settled into a something like a permanent relationship.

Most of the time Whitey hung out at the bar with the other regulars, but once or twice a week Darlene would join him.

One night they seemed to be arguing.  They weren’t loud or obvious about it, but you could tell by their expressions and their short gestures that something wasn’t right.

I walked by at one point and happened to overhear part of their conversation.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Whitey was saying under his breath, with uncharacteristic venom, “You’ve sucked more cock than I saw in the Army!”

I’m sure my head must have popped back a little on my shoulders.  It took a split second to recover and act like I didn’t hear a thing.  Sometimes people expect privacy in a bar.  Even though they’re just an arm’s length away and we hear everything, there are times we’re supposed to be simply part of the fixtures . . . the invisible man, or woman.

Now that I knew for sure they were having an argument, I avoided them.  This was totally unlike them, and I didn’t want to see or overhear anything that would make them uncomfortable later.

Their spat escalated, but just as I thought I should intervene — maybe say something like “Hey, do you know that your voices are starting to carry here?” — the two of them abruptly got up and left.

I have no idea what was going on with Whitey and Darlene.  Maybe she’d cheated on Whitey and now they were hashing it out in their own way.  Maybe they had an abusive relationship, although I’d never suspected that before.  I hated to think it was true, but this wasn’t a good sign.  When Darlene walked out with Whitey — or rather, walked out a couple of feet behind him — she had the look of someone who was totally guilty.  Or maybe it was the look of a beaten dog . . . or both.

I wondered what would happen the next time Whitey came in, with or without Darlene.

I didn’t have to wait long.  The next night they were back in the bar again — but now it was as though the previous incident had never happened.  They sat at the bar talking and laughing as though last night had been long, long forgotten.  As though there was no “last night,” . . . as if it had been edited out of their lives.

I never saw anything like that between them again.  Whether he deserved it or not, Whitey got his “mulligan.”

Christopher’s Bar and Restaurant, Cambridge MA.

I’ve witnessed a lot of people getting second chances in a bar, and I’ve been lucky a few times in that regard myself.  I’ve done some pretty dumb things while drinking.  (Let’s say I was younger then, and still finding my way).

But I don’t think I ever embarrassed myself as badly as that one night in Christopher’s.

I had just broken up with my girlfriend — we’d been living together for over a year, and the last three months had been a living hell.  Now on my own again, I should have realized I might be tempted to go overboard.

I started the day at a few of the bars in Boston’s Quincy Market.  It was mid-afternoon.  This was the first time in over a year that I felt “single” again, and I was having a blast.  By nine o’clock at night I was trashed.

I realized I hadn’t eaten all day so I took a short walk to the North End,  and ordered linguine and clam sauce, to go.  (It wouldn’t have bothered me to sit there and eat alone, but being trashed I didn’t want to embarrass myself as the “drunk late-arrival.”)

That didn’t stop me from having a glass of wine at the bar while I waited.  The kitchen was slow, so I had another glass.

My dinner finally came out in a tin container, wrapped in a plastic bag.  I was headed home now, and it should have been simple.  All I had to do was get off at the Harvard Square Station on the Red Line, and walk the two blocks home.

I missed my stop, and ended up in Porter Square.

As I was standing in the Porter Square station waiting for the next train back, I thought, “Christopher’s is in Porter Square, . . . why don’t I stop in for one last drink?”

I’d been drinking beer all day, had some wine in the North End, but now as I sat at the bar I felt like a gin and tonic.  I like Bombay Sapphire for martinis, but for some reason I like Tanqueray for gin and tonics . . . and Christopher’s has Tanqueray Ten.

After a couple of those, I decided to try one of the craft beers Christopher’s has on tap.  They have a fine selection.  I had a really tasty pint of Porter, then switched to a glass of hoppy IPA.  Then there was a nicely-balanced Amber combining just the right amounts of hops and rich malt.

As I finished that pint, I realized it had been a long time since I’d enjoyed a Guinness Stout.

By now it was midnight, and suddenly I was starving again.  I still hadn’t eaten.  The bartender had cleared all the set-ups from the bar rail — Christopher’s was done serving food for the night.  But I was so hungry now.

The rest is vague — only bits and pieces of it came back to me the next day when I woke up.  Waking with a horrible hang-over, I also had the nagging fear that I’d done something really stupid while drinking.

I had this fuzzy recollection of sitting in Christopher’s, opening the plastic bag with my “to go” pasta inside.  In a series of single snapshots that were now flooding my mind, I had a single frame of me sitting there opening the container at the bar.

Then I vaguely remembered a moment where my head was low over the container — I knew this because I was looking directly across the top rim of the container at the bottles of liquor on the first shelf of the back bar.

With my face only an inch or so above the tin,  . . . I vaguely remembered that I was eating with my hands.

There was another snapshot of me with my face just an inch above the container — I was looking at the bar top around me.  The bar top was splattered with small bits of pasta and clam, and wet pools of sautéed garlic and oil were everywhere.  In that snapshot, I could see my hands stopped in mid-motion on their way to my mouth . . . each hand held a clump of linguine with clams.

Lying in bed remembering all this, I hoped it was it was only something I’d dreamt, a social-etiquette nightmare . . . but there was too much detail.

Now I vaguely remembered the greasy feel of my hands, and the slick oil around my mouth as I shoveled those clumps of pasta in, . . . and I remembered thinking about whether a shot of Patron tequila might not go really well with linguine and clam sauce.

I don’t know if the bartender served me the Patron or not.  I don’t remember how I got home.  I’m sure I must have taken a cab — maybe the bartender called one for me.

Anyone who has done something like this knows how it feels to recall only scattered details from the night before.  Christopher’s isn’t snobby, but it’s definitely an up-scale bar with an educated clientele.  And I used to work there!  Fortunately, I didn’t remember seeing anyone I knew that night, but I had still totally embarrassed myself.  My first thought was that I could never show my face in Christopher’s again.

Later in the day, I realized I had to face the music.  I was going to go back to Christopher’s and apologize to the bartender.

It was early evening before I felt like going anywhere.  As I sat down at the bar at Christopher’s, the same guy was working.  I had no idea what I was going to say.  I guess I was waiting for him to give me some direction.  I was waiting for him to say, “How you feeling today, you really tied one on last night.”  Or even, “I’m not going to serve you!!”  Anything.

But he didn’t say or do anything.  He smiled, but it was a courteous, friendly smile.  He gave no indication that I had even been there the night before.

He tossed down a cocktail napkin.  He was treating me as he would treat any customer — no better, no worse.  I studied his face as I ordered my drink . . . nothing.

I guess it was like some gentleman’s agreement.  Whatever had happened the night before was now water-under-the-bridge.  I’d fucked up royally, but as a bartender he was overlooking it.

In the end, I never apologized or said anything about the linguine and clam sauce.  I was still pretty hung-over, although the gin and tonic helped.  After one drink, I paid my bill.

As I was leaving, he said something like, “Good night . . . take it easy.”  I had made sure to leave him a big tip.  I gave him a short wave, and said, “Thanks, . . . thanks a lot.”

From the swankiest nightspot . . . to the seediest, run-down tavern in America, every restaurant or bar has rest rooms.

So it’s not surprising that most bartenders have at least one good tale about their establishment’s facilities.

I remember I was behind the taps at The Lark Tavern in Albany NY, and a disheveled-looking woman walked in asking to use the ladies room.  When she didn’t come out for a while and wouldn’t respond to our repeated knocks, we used our key to open the door.  She was standing at the sink counter, both faucets gushing full blast — she was stark naked.  With her raggedy clothes neatly folded on the tile floor, she was giving herself a sponge bath with her hands.

As we stood in the doorway — completely dumbfounded looking at her — the woman barely gave us a second glance.  She just kept splashing herself more frantically, as if realizing she had only a few seconds left to finish.

Years later at the Sunflower Café in Cambridge MA, the same thing happened and that‘s when I realized this was probably happening all across the country.  Wherever there’s a bar located near a large park or public transit station — anytime there are street-people around who don’t have a better option — you’ll find the occasional walk-ins who strip down and wash up in your rest rooms.

The au naturel woman taking a sponge bath at The Sunflower was actually the second half of my personal favorite bar/bathroom story.  That story began at The Huddle Tavern, in Cortland NY.

One afternoon, I happened to stop into The Huddle when the owner’s son, Al, was painting the ladies room.  At the time I was managing The Mug a little further down Main Street, so Al felt comfortable letting me sit at the bar by myself.  He served me a drink and went back to painting.

Now and then he’d pop his head out and give me another beer.  By this time he was splattered with paint.

“I don’t understand, Al,“ I said to him at one point, “Why are you repainting the ladies room?  You must have repainted it just last month.”

“Look at the booths.” I said, pointing to the corner booth with its broken back.  “Look at the carpet.”  I pointed to two large tears in the old carpet that was supposed to cover the cement floor.  “Why are you wasting your time on the ladies room?”

“I’ve got my reasons,” Al said, and he went back to painting.

When he was done, Al sat down to have a beer with me.

“I discovered something last year,” he confided, “I discovered it almost by accident.”

“Once, a girl wrote something good about me on the bathroom walls,” Al said, “And I got at lot of attention from the women who read it.”

“It worked so well,” he continued, “That now I always write something good about myself,  . . . every time I repaint.”  Al explained that after he applied the fresh paint, he’d wait until a few women had added their graffiti, then go in after hours and write a few lines about himself.

“Sometimes I’ll write, For a good time see Al the bartender,” he told me, “Other times I just write, “Al at the bar is a GREAT lay!”

“Works like a charm,” Al said, “It’s amazing.  You wouldn’t believe how well it works.”

That was in Cortland NY, and then I moved to Albany, and finally wound up in Cambridge MA.  Now I was working at The Sunflower Café, and a woman had just taken a sponge bath in the ladies room (just like the one at The Lark.)

We were all having drinks after work that night.  Everyone was still talking about the naked lady in the bathroom, so I told them the story about Al.  They all got a laugh, then we began talking about something else.

Maybe a week later there were two young girls at the bar, and I thought they were acting a little strange, but I wasn’t really worried about it.  They were just being kids, whispering and laughing behind their hands as they leaned close to talk.

A while later, another woman kept smiling at me.  I served her drink, and she smiled.  I caught her watching me work, and she smiled.

Finally another women, probably in her early thirties, sat there grinning whenever she caught my eye.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “But do I know you?”

“Are you, Mike?” she asked.

It caught me by surprise, but I told her I was.

“Well,” she smiled, “There something very nice written about you on the ladies room wall.”

Now it made sense.  I sent one of the waitresses to check.

Someone had written — “For a good time, try Mike at the bar!” — in big, bold black letters with a Sharpe pen.  I figured it must have been one of the waitresses who had listened to the story about Al that night.  She must have wanted to know if it really worked, and used my name just to bust my balls.

Well, at least now I can personally confirm what Al was saying all along.  Discrete marketing graffiti definitely works.

A Request for Help . . .

I had planned to include a second bar/bathroom story, but now I can’t find the original source.  It was about was something I’d read in the newspaper on a slow day at The Lark Tavern — I think it was an Associated Press story.

I know I tore the article out, but now I can’t find that scrap of paper.  (I still have a few boxes of notes left to sort through.)

Here’s the story from memory.  It was a report about a bar fighting a law suit.

It seems that a local tavern in New Jersey had an interesting painting on the ladies room wall.  The bar was located near a major highway, and although the clientele was predominately from the neighborhood, the regulars were often interrupted (and irritated) by passers-by stopping in.

Someone in the bar came up with the idea of getting even.  They had a local artist paint a realistic, full-sized portrait of Adonis on the ladies room wall.  Covering the portrait’s X-rated groin was a thin wooden fig leaf.

Unknown to any of the rest room visitors, the fig leaf was wired to a light bulb above the bar — if anyone lifted the leaf, the light bulb would flash on, and stay on until the leaf was lowered.

I’m sure many female customers wondered what was going on when they stepped out of the rest room, and were greeted by applause and cheering.

Apparently, one litigation-minded couple decided not to accept this lying down.  They took the bar to court, and won.  The portrait with its fig leaf had to come down, and the suing couple was awarded something like $40,000 in damages.

I know I tore the article out because I remember wondering if anyone would want that missing page — but as I said, I can’t find it now.

If anyone reading here knows of this story and can point to the original source, please use the “Contact us” link to email me.  The only thing I could find on the web was a joke that was apparently inspired by the incident.

Anyway, here’s a video of the funniest bathroom prank I’ve seen in a while.  Back next week with more Life on a Cocktail Napkin.

Oliver on the left.

This week’s post will be a day late — so in the meantime I thought I’d throw in this quick update on someone who’s leaving Johnny D’s.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, Oliver Simosa has been a bar back, doorman, and waiter at the club.  He was slated to be our next new bartender, but instead he’s headed back to Venezuela to play semi-pro basketball for the Valencia Globetrotters.  (He shoots 40% from the three-point range.)

Oliver had given us a month’s notice, then a phone call yesterday cut it to three weeks.  He has to leave immediately — he’s been invited to try out for the Venezuelan Olympic basketball team.  (He’s a little cocky now, but I want to see him post up against LaBron James!)

Anyway, congrats Oliver . . . have a safe flight, and best of luck!  And see the rest of you tomorrow for this week’s new post.

Today’s post is about three unrelated incidents that happened years apart in different bars.  I’m not sure why each of them crossed my mind this week.

1.) A bartender’s comeback . . .

The Lark Tavern, Albany NY

The Lark Tavern was mobbed, three deep at the bar, and we were running our asses off.  The Lark was always busy on weekends — but we were used the pace, and had gotten pretty good at it.  People rarely waited more than a minute for their drinks.  Which is why one customer surprised me.

“Hey,” he yelled while leaning over the bar, waving an outstretched arm, “What does someone have to do to get a drink in this place?”

I thought, “Excuse me?”  This guy had just shown up.  Didn’t he notice we were busy?

He was in Tommy Talbor’s section.  It took Tommy a few seconds to finish the round he was working on, then he went over to man.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said politely, “What did you say?”

“What I said . . . ”.  The man’s tone was indignant, pompous.  “What I said was . . . What do I have to do to get a drink in here?”  He pronounced each word slowly, as if to give each proper emphasis.

Tommy looked down the bar at the people jammed in, shaking shook his head in disbelief.

“What do you have to do . . . ?” Tommy repeated the guy’s question.  He smiled and folded his arms across his chest.  He was standing directly across from the guy.

“Well,” Tommy continued, smiling, “I think a blow job would be nice.  Yes, I’m sure a blow job would do it.”

The people on either side abruptly turned and looked at the guy, then at Tommy.

“Yes,” Tommy continued smiling, “A blow job would be very nice.”

“Just like last night,” Tommy said, “ . . . All of us.”  He gestured to me on the one side, and to the other bartender on his left.  Customers watching this little scene choked back their amusement.

“I’m only kidding,” Tommy now told the guy, leaning forward with his hands on the bar rail, “Seriously, what would you like?”

That man was as quiet as a church mouse for the rest of the night.

2.) Scariest thing I’ve seen in a bar . . .

She was in her late twenties/early thirties, and she was at Johnny D’s every night after work.  She drank bud light, pouring it into a glass.  She drank a lot of them.  I never saw her become really drunk, but she would get a good buzz on every single night.  She was one of those customers you suspect has — or one day will have — a drinking problem.

Sometimes, after a particularly long stay the night before, she’d come in the next day looking as though she’d been barely able to make it through work.

Then one afternoon she sat down at the bar and ordered a Coke.

“I’m going on the wagon,“ she told me very seriously.  “I know I’ve been drinking too much.”

“Happens to us all,” I said, trying to make her feel good about the decision, “Everyone needs to take a break now and then.”

“It’s not going to be now and then,” she said.  “I’m done . . . I through drinking.”

While she sipped her Coke, we talked a little about drinking, and the bar life.  We talked about reaching a point where you feel it’s probably time to rein it in.

For the next few days, she continued to come in every night, but she’d only order Cokes.  She’d go through one after the other.  I knew this wasn’t easy for her.

A week or so went by, and then she came in one afternoon looking like she was about to explode.  “I’ve just had such a fucking day!” she blurted as she sat down, “Such a horrible fucking day.”

“To hell with it,” she said, “Give me a beer.“

I stood there for a minute.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yes, . . . give me a god damn beer,” she said.  “The hell will it.  I really need one tonight.”

She poured the beer into her glass, and took a long mouthful.  She sat there for a second, and I could see the immediate comfort spreading over her face.

I could imagine exactly how she was feeling . . . that first cold swallow of beer after a hot summer day.  Or after a long week on the wagon.

But then her face began to change, to slowly morph.  It was as if her face revealed everything that was going through her mind.

In her face, I saw the concern for a commitment she’d made — not only to herself — but one that she had told everyone about.  Then I saw worry, almost a look of fear — as though she was just beginning to realize the size of the problem.  And as her face slowly changed, I saw something like disappointment, even disgust.  Disappointment in herself.

John B, who was working with me that night later said it was a look of pure self-loathing.

It was a scary, horrifying look, made far worse by its slow (d)evolution.  We just stood there and watched, later agreeing it was something we’d never forget.

She sat there for a long time with that look, just staring into space.  I put together this short, four-second morph to give you some idea — but trust me, it isn’t nearly as painful as what we saw.

3.) When in Rome . . .

I’d started tending bar at The Cantina Italiana, and I’ll admit at first I was a little intimidated  by the neighborhood.  Boston’s North End was solidly Italian back then, with guys named Louie, Dominic, and Sal . . . and there were a lot of rumors about the Mafia.

I kept my head low.

One night a girl I used to work with at another place stopped in to say hello.  She now lived in the North End.  She sat at the bar all night as we talked about old times.

The Cantina closed soon after we stopped serving food, but she was still sitting at the bar, so we went back to her place just down the street.  I stayed until around 4:00 in the morning.

I’d reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the front door, but just as the door closed behind me, I heard, “Pop!  Pop!  Pop, Pop, Pop!”

Gunfire!

I jumped back into the entrance way, my back against the closed door.  I just stood there, not moving an inch.

Then I saw the lights of a car moving slowly down the street — with them, flashing lights but no siren.

I waited until the cop car was passing my friend’s apartment building before I stuck my head out of the doorway.  The police car stopped, and the officer on the passenger side rolled down his window.  “Did you hear anything?” he asked, looking right at me.

I nodded my head, “Yes”.

He seemed surprised for a second, then he appeared irritated.  He shook his head.  He glanced over at his partner with a look that said, “Who is this guy?  Doesn’t he know anything?”

Then he turned back to me; his words were patronizing.

“Do you think . . . ?” he asked.  (His tone said:  What are you, a dummy?)  “Do you think it might have been firecrackers?”

Now I understood.  I was in the North End, and he was letting me know what I was supposed to say.

I wasn’t supposed to say anything.  I wasn’t supposed to see, or hear anything.  These two cops just wanted a quite shift.

Maybe it was someone shooting off a few rounds, drunk.  Maybe there was a body lying in a ditch somewhere up the street.  It was definitely gunfire, no doubt in my mind.  But if these cops didn’t want to know about it, neither did I.

“Yea,” I told the cop, “Yea, I think it was firecrackers.”

That cop gave me one more combined look of disgust and disbelief, then the two of them drove off.

I learned at lot while working in the North End, . . . but that night it was the cops who taught me a thing or two.

Here’s a short clip of what Johnny D’s looks like on a busy night.  (Booty Vortex was playing; video by Mojo.)  Next busy show, there’ll be one person missing.

It seems that in this business, just when people become really good . . .

— when they always show up on time, and do their job right
— when they can handle the crunch without breaking a sweat
— when they become the kind of bartender everyone can count on not only to carry their own weight, but to pick up the slack of those who are struggling

. . . seems that just when they get to that point, they leave.

I hate that.

Jeremy Newcomer left for New York City this past week.  (He’s the last bartender in the short video above.)  Drawn by lure of bright lights/big city, he’s off to Manhattan.

Everyone will miss him, but I think bar staff will miss him most.  He’s left some pretty big shoes to fill, and now we have to find the right person(s) to take his place.

Five years ago Jeremy was hired as an intern in the booking office, then he become a floor manager, and finally a bartender.  He turned into one kick-ass bartender.

He could handle anything, no matter how overwhelming or demanding the crowd.  He came up with the drink specials, stacked the kegs in the walk-in cooler . . . I won’t go on and on, but he was all over the place keeping things in order.

Jeremy Newcomer (left), with current bar staffers Oscar and Craig (“Chombo”), and fomer Johnny D’s barmern Julian and Tony (right).

The week before Jeremy left, some customers organized a pub crawl as a going-away party.  (Jeremy had been the one to organize these things in the past.)  They decided to make this last one special — everyone was to wear some sort of formal garb.

They started at Johnny D’s, then hit the other nightspots in Davis Square.  Dave was there, Brenden and Brook, Chombo, Jamie B, Leehea, former employees Julian, Tony and Jamie T . . . all the gang from the earlier crawls.

While they were still at Johnny D’s, everyone was talking about how much they’d miss him.  They were having quiet conversations on the side.  At one point, one girl was talking when she abruptly stopped . . . her eyes welled up and then there were tears trickling down her cheeks.

Yea, everyone will miss Jeremy.

Jeremy and the crew partying at Flatbreads, one of many stops that night.

I’m sure Jeremy will do fine in the Big Apple, . . . and the truth of it is, we’ll find a way to adapt now that he’s gone.  People are always leaving in this business.

According to statistics from the US Department of Labor, food service workers have a lower median tenure at their places of employment than any other category of employee.

Chart from the US Deparment of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics

No other industry sees so many workers come and go.  When it comes to changing jobs, we’re #1.

For a while Johnny D’s was an exception.  At one time we had such a veteran bar staff that you could have been here for five years and still be the newcomer.  Our crew had been there forever — me (I had been there forever), John and Eric with something like fifteen years each, and Aaron, the new guy, who’d only been there five.

Then Aaron left to become the GM at a place in Shirley MA, and Eric left to help his friend Ky Nguyen open Kingston Station in downtown Boston.  John isn’t on the bar anymore, but at least he’s still at the club, as the GM.

We rebuilt, because that’s the way things are done . . . you train new people, and try to bring them up to speed.

So when good people leave, you simply join the going-away parties — whatever form they take — and carry on.

The Lark Tavern was recently refurbished after a devastating fire. Use the “Search” function for more stories on The Lark — I think there are over twenty of them on this blog.

I remember when I left The Lark Tavern, in Albany NY — there was no tuxedoed pub crawl, but we definitely raised hell that last week.

The day I was finally set to leave, my duffle bag was packed and I had the bus schedule in hand.  I was finally on my way to Boston.

But first, I met my good buddy, Bruce S, at The Lark for one last drink.  “It’ll make the bus ride more bearable,” he laughed.

We had a shot of Jack Daniels, and a beer.  We weren’t pounding them down . . . just sitting at the bar recalling good times.

Around five o’clock, I got up to head for the bus station, but Bruce talked me into to checking the schedule again.  It looked like I could stay a little longer, and catch the 7:45.

Then I was supposed to catch the 9:15, the 10:30, the 12:15 . . . more drinks and more stories . . . and yea, you guessed it, we ended up closing The Lark.

I’d already given up my apartment and had been staying with Stacey Conway.  Somehow she didn’t seem surprised to see me back on her couch the following morning, my duffle bag on the floor.

The next afternoon I met Bruce for another going away shot-and-beer.  Just one more.  This time I was definitely going to make that afternoon bus.  I had people waiting for me.  I was supposed to stay with two nurses who a year earlier had already moved from Albany to Boston.

6:00 . . . 8:00 . . . 10:30 . . . 1:00 AM . . . all the same story.  We kept having one more beer, talking with all the people who happened to stop by, and I missed every bus on the schedule for the second night in a row.

We did have a lot of good times to rehash.

On the third day, I finally left for Boston.

I don’t think Oliver Simosa will take as long to leave Johnny D’s.  Oliver is leaving the club, too . . . at the end of the month.

He’s been a bar back, doorman and waiter here (you can see Oliver stacking pints as a bar back at the beginning of the clip at the top.)  It’s especially disappointing to lose Oliver because we had our eye on him to become the next new bartender.  (His brother, Oscar, is a monster behind the bar.)

Oliver, on the left.

Oliver is headed back to Venezuela to play semi-pro basketball (brother Oscar is a semi-pro rugby player here.)  Oliver will be playing for the Valencia Globetrotters.  He shoots 40% from the three-point range.

“That’s it?” I said, busting his balls, “Only 40%?”

“That’s under pressure,” he came back with professional confidence, “While being tightly guarded!”

I’m sure he’ll kick some ass back in Venezuela.  (Editor’s Update, May 14th:  Oliver had given us a month’s notice, but he had to cut that to three weeks — he was invited to try out for the Venezuelan Olympic basketball team.  Good luck, Oliver!)

Anyway, good people leave, and what can you do?  Wish them well.  Hope they find what they’re looking for, . . . and hope they know that they always have a home here, if they want to come back.

See you next week with more Life on a Cocktail Napkin.