HOWIE

Copy of Harvard Square ClockFaceAt first, we thought he was just a little weird, one of the many off-beat characters in Harvard Square. He wasn’t a bad guy; sometimes he was even funny, doing or saying something that made everyone laugh. And when they did laugh, Howie would stand there with that lopsided grin, snorting short little laughs of his own.

This was my first job in the Boston area, at a place called Jake’s. Later the joint would become The Sunflower Café, which in turn would eventually be bought out by Pizzeria Uno, an operation still there today on 22 JFK Street, in the heart of the square.

But back then it was Jake’s, and it was a popular local watering hole with a small pub in the basement, and a full restaurant upstairs at street level. Having just moved to Boston, it felt great to be working in a bar again, and as the new bartender I’m sure I let a lot of things slide–trying to figure out and deal with all these new, sometimes strange people. Howie was only one of them.

Howie could definitely be a pain in the ass. He was one of those guys you had to constantly keep an eye on–where he went, who he was talking with, and especially how other customers were reacting to him.

He wasn’t loud, or rude, not really offensive in any way. He was just weird, and sometimes that could make people uncomfortable. A lot of college students frequented Jake’s, and along with the occasional professor they set the tone for the place–Harvard University was right across the street. The place wasn’t snobby, but definitely upscale and perhaps with an intellectual air you wouldn’t find in downtown Boston bars.

Howie didn’t fit in; he acted goofy, and was goofy-looking. The clothes he had on were definitely a little weird, as though he were intentionally dressing out of style. He’d wear these oversized, tan-colored Bermuda shorts, with the pants legs coming down below his knees. He usually had on a brightly-colored Hawaiian-type shirt, and he kept his sunglasses on even inside the bar.

“Why don’t you take the sunglasses off, Howie,” I said to him one day, after I’d gotten to know him a little better. He just looked at me, leaning forward a bit as if trying to see through the dark lenses. “You should lose the shades, Howie,” I continued, “unless your goal is to make people stare.”

After that when Howie came down the pub steps, he usually would put the sunglasses in his shirt pocket.

Copy of Hawaiian ShirtBut it wasn’t only what he wore. Howie’s behavior was a little weird. He’d kind of lean in toward people when he talked with them, as though he really wanted to connect with them, these complete strangers–apparently not realizing he might actually be making them uncomfortable.

And he’d speak slowly, very carefully, sometimes hanging onto a word or two longer than necessary. Like when he told people his name. He’d hang onto his name as he spoke it, dragging it out. “I’m Hooow-ie,” he’d say. “My name is “Hooow-ie!”

After a few months, we learned that he was a disabled Vietnam veteran. We heard that he was living off monthly checks for unspecified injuries suffered during the war. Whoever told us wasn’t sure of all the details, but we figured it had to involve PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

For those of us working the bar, this news had a weird, contradictory effect. On the one hand, any of the staff who had bitched and moaned about Howie now seemed more sympathetic toward him. But at the same time, even those of us who sort of liked Howie were now a little more cautious.

Back then you’d hear stories, true or not, about veterans who had suddenly snapped in a bar–doing something crazy, maybe even violent. “I don’t think you have to worry about Howie,” one of the local cops told me, when hanging out at the bar one night.

“It’s a shame,” I said. “A lot of guys got really fucked-up over there.”

“Hey, he was always a little off, even before Vietnam,” the cop replied. “I’ve known Howie since he was a kid in the streets,  . . . he was never exactly normal. Too shy, too quiet, almost helpless.”

“They never should have drafted him,” the cop said. “They never should have sent a kid like that to war.”

“But I don’t think he’ll ever give you any trouble,” the cop ordered another beer. “He’s OK, just weird, an outsider.”

Soon everyone who worked at Jake’s knew about Howie’s story. A few of the customers did, too–and definitely the management had heard all about it.

Up to this point, they were always telling us to just deal with Howie, that he was a paying customer, and this was our job. But now the managers were the first ones to  question everything he did. Jake’s was owned by a New York City restaurant group, and everything was always corporate down the line. Maybe they were worried about a lawsuit if Howie should lose it some day and go after another customer, or something worse.

Now it was the staff defending Howie. “He never really bothers anyone,” we explained to one of the managers, “and this is Harvard Square. What are we going to do . . . kick out everyone who doesn’t fit the mold? We’ll have no customers.”

Just like before, the bartenders were all keeping an eye on Howie, but now we were watching him because we sort of wanted to take care of him, I guess. We didn’t want him to do anything that would get him kicked out of the place.

For Howie, this bar had become a kind of home. It was hard to see him getting along in any of the other bars in the square. At least the staff here liked him and put up with him.

Most of the customers didn’t seem to mind Howie being there, and if we thought he was making someone uncomfortable, we’d quickly go over. “Howie,” we’d say, “come here for a minute. I want to talk with you.”

We’d  take him to the other end of the bar. “Stay here for a few minutes, Howie,” we’d say. “I think you’re better off down here for a while.”

He’d put a finger to his lips, as though silently saying, “Shhhush.” He’d have that goofy, lopsided grin, and say something like, “I’d better stay down here for a while. I’m better off down here.” As though it had all been his idea, to get him away from the nervous customer.

One night Howie did get into a confrontation with one of the customers–but I have to say it was the other guy who was being a jerk. Howie was actually the reasonable one of the two.

Something had happened, and this wannabe tough guy started mouthing off to Howie. The guy stood up in Howie‘s face. Their voices were raised for a minute, but then Howie just stepped back. He said something about not being interested in a fight, and then he walked away.

When word of this got back to Jake’s management, I guess it was the excuse they’d wanted. Back then, from time to time, we’d have actual brawls in Jake’s–bartenders jumping over the bar to break it up, and doormen carrying guys up the stairs to the front door.

This had only been a few quick, loud words and Howie had been the better man, walking away from it. Afterward he even tried to see what we were thinking about the incident. “How aaarrre you?” he asked with that grin. “How are we  . . . is everything OK here?” And the bartenders were fine with it, but now the management decided that Howie should be permanently barred

We felt bad about the decision–the bartenders and staff, and a good number of customers. For the next couple of days, everyone working behind the bar dreaded the idea that they would be the one to have to tell him. Tell him that he couldn’t come here anymore. I was glad it wasn’t me.

Later we heard that Howie actually tried to make several appointments with the management, to talk it over, to discuss things–but it was a done deal. Howie was out, permanently, they said.

We never saw Howie in Jake’s after he’d been told. We figured he found someplace else to hang out.

Copy of Harvard Square Clock

Harvard Square Public Clock

I ran into him one more time in Harvard Square, late one afternoon on my way to work. I was about to cross the street on the way to Jake’s, when I saw Howie standing by that antique-style, public clock in Harvard Square–right across from the subway station.

Howie was leaned against the pole of the clock, beneath its round face with the roman numerals. He had his sunglasses on, wearing those Bermuda shorts, and a loose, crazily-colored shirt. There was a large gauze bandage wrapped around the bottom of his left leg. The bandage was wrapped entirely around his leg, covering an area from just below his knee down to his ankle.

“How’s it going, Howie,” I asked when I stopped for a second. “What happened to your leg?”

Howie then told me that he’d been drinking at another bar in the square–I won’t mention the name, but back then it was a tough place, certainly rougher than Jake’s.

Howie said that he’d probably had too much to drink, and he must have dozed off, eyes closed, sitting there hunched over at the bar. Someone at the bar must have splashed some lighter fluid on the pair of pants he was wearing, and then they lit a match.

“I woke up,” Howie said, “and my pant’s leg was on fire!”

“I was jumping around, trying to put the flames out,” he said, “and everyone was lauuuughing!

“They were laaughing,” he said, as he stood beneath the old clock. “They were all laaauuughing.”

“Jesus . . . I’m sorry, Howie,” I said. I really didn’t know what to say. I stood there for a second. What was I supposed to say?

“You need anything, Howie?” I asked, “you need a couple of bucks for some beers or anything?”

“Naaaawww,” he said, “I’m OK.”

I still didn’t know what I should do. Nothing was going to make this better. “I wish things had worked out at Jake’s,” I said. “We all liked you, Howie . . . you know that.”

Then the light changed, and I had to get across the street. I was already a couple of minutes late for work. “Got to run, Howie,” I said, “you take care of yourself, OK?”

“You take care of yourself,” I said again, then I turned to leave and that was the last time I saw him.

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FRESH STARTS/NEW ENDINGS

Copy of NewBeginningsNewEndingsHappy New Year to everyone!  Let’s hope it’s a good one.  Now that the champagne bottle is empty and the noise-makers have bleated their last toot, here’s a few thoughts and resolutions that caught my eye–hope you enjoy them as much as I did.  (Gotta love the world-wide web. Where credit is due, click on the pic to learn the source.  Back with more stories in two weeks.)

 

 

Copy of NewBeginningsNewEndingsKaitlinScottPic“We were still twirling around the tiny parking lot when the neighbors screamed ‘Happy New Year’. Unfortunately we weren’t sober enough to realize that was our cue to call it a night. Josh had a new beer in his hands, Danny was eating the last hot dog and Darren and I were still dancing when the cops showed up.”
— Kaitlin Scott, For Danny

 

 

 

 

Copy of susan_sontag_01“Kindness, kindness, kindness.  I want to make a New Year’s prayer, not a resolution. I’m praying for courage.” — Susan Sontag

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copy of Mark-Twain-006“New Year’s Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.”  — Mark Twain

 

 

 

 

 

 

“New Year’s Resolution: To tolerate fools more gladly . . . provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time.”
James Agate

 

 

Copy of yoda“Do, or do not. There is no ‘Try’.”
—  Yoda

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copy of Abraham Lincoln“The best way to predict your future is to create it.”
–  Abraham Lincoln

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copy of NewBeginningsNewEndingsTwo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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EDDIE VEDDER IN THE HOUSE

Copy of EddieVedder

Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder

What a World Series!  Great games, controversial calls, weird endings — and Boston won.  Perfect.

But what was with all the Eddie Vedder references?  Apparently Pearl Jam has a new CD coming out, and during every night’s game they broadcast Pearl Jam music and mentioned the band’s lead singer.

So I guess I’ll tell a Johnny D’s “Eddie Vedder” story from one Monday night a while back.

Shawn Day used to work with me on Monday’s behind the bar; we had a live Salsa band and dancing until midnight.  Back then (ten years ago) Shawn was single, and a wild man.  He downed shots of Patron tequila, followed by pint after pint of Fat Cat ESB (a great local beer at the time.)

Shawn was living the life, bartending to the hilt.  He knew everybody, everyone knew him, and they all loved him.  Just to give you an idea of how popular he was, I was genuinely sorry for the guy who replaced him.

When Shawn finally left the bar, he was replaced by Greg — also a great bartender, a good guy, and a funny bastard.  But everyone missed Shawn.  One night a customer paid Greg a rare compliment.  “You’re good,” the customer said after a few hours of slam business at the bar, “You’re good, and you’re not a bad guy.”

The customer paused for a moment, as Greg’s face lit up with a little smile of appreciation.  “You’re good,” the customer continued. “ . . . But you’re no Shawn Day!”

Everyone at the bar laughed for a long time, everyone of course, except Greg.

After that, customer after customer began repeating the same thing time and again.  It became something of an insider’s joke among regulars, and then even some of the staff started using the line.

Greg would be cruising, making all the customers laugh.  (He did have a great sense of humor; he had talked everyone into called him “G Money,” just because he thought it sounded cool.  He was a riot behind the bar.)  But after doing absolutely everything that a bartender could possibly do, at some point when he least expected it, someone else would drop the line.  “Nice job, Greg,” someone would say, “ . . . But you’re no Shawn Day!”  Followed by raucous laughter from everyone.

Anyway, at the time of this story Shawn was still bartending at the club, and we were working the early part of a Monday night when a non-descript sort of guy sat at the end of the bar.  Shawn turned to get to him, but then he stopped after a step or two.  He stood there for a moment looking at the guy, then he turned back to me.

“Jesus,” Shawn said, “Isn’t that Eddie Vedder?”

Shawn was a big Pearl Jam fan.  I knew of the band, although I wouldn’t have recognized its lead singer from Adam.  But when Shawn went down to the guy he blurted out, “Eddie Vedder!  I can’t believe it!  I can’t believe I’ve got the chance to serve you!”

Great Woods, Mansfield MA

Great Woods, Mansfield MA

Eddie was in town for a concert with Pearl Jam at Great Woods (now known as the Comcast Center), in Mansfield MA.  Shawn put Eddie’s first beer on the house, then took money for the next beers out of our tip jar.  “Go ahead,” I told him, “Might as well make him feel welcome.”

Shawn got Eddie to sign a series of autographs on cocktail napkins — one for himself, I think one for his girlfriend, one for a nephew who was also a Pearl Jam fan.

Basically I tended bar while Shawn shot the breeze with Eddie Vedder.  Shawn told him about the other places in the area he might want to hit; an Irish bar called The Burren for a pint of Guinness.  A small place in Porter Square called Toad, where local musician Tim Gearan played every Monday.

When Eddie left, he was shaking hands with Shawn as though they were best friends.

Shawn got out early, as always on Monday’s, and when he walked into Toad he was telling everyone that he’d met Eddie Vedder!  He’d served Edder Vedder!

“Naw, no way you met him,” Mike Byrne said, “You’re just busting my balls.”

In those days, Mike Byrne was a weekend doorman at Johnny D’s.  He just happened to be drinking at Toad that night.  Byrnsie was around 5’ 11”, and easily 300 lbs.  He had arms thicker than most people’s thighs.  His chest was the size of a wooden barrel, and he had no neck.  Once I told him that he was a living reincarnation of Archie Bunker, from “All in the Family,” and Byrnsie took it as a compliment.

“No way you met Eddie Vedder!” Byrnsie kept saying, “No way! You’re bullshiting me!”

This went on and on . . . until Eddie Vedder walked into Toad, apparently done with his Guinness pints at The Burren.

Eddie stood inside the front door, and was looking around the bar just as Byrnsie finished ragging on Shawn one more time.

“Shawn!” Eddie shouted as soon as he spotted him.  The way he said it, you would have thought these guys were old college roommates or something.  Everyone in the bar turned to look at Eddie standing at the front door.  “Shawn,” he called out, “Let me buy YOU a beer for a change!”

Byrnsie just sat there with his mouth open, for a long time.

When Toad closed, Eddie went back with a small group to Tim Gearan’s apartment.

Tim’s wife, Paula, who had been a waitress at Johnny D’s, brought out snacks and cold beers for everyone.  After a while, Tim picked up a guitar and began singing, “Ain’t no sunshine (when she’s gone.)”   He played the song real slow and soulful, until Eddie grabbed a second guitar, and began playing and singing along with him.  The two of them sat in Tim’s living room, creating the most beautiful music.

“It was unbelievable,” Shawn told me the next day, “I mean, I had tears in my eyes from the way these two were playing.”

The next night, at the Pearl Jam concert, Eddie stopped to announce to the 20,000 fans in attendance that he had felt so welcomed on this trip to Boston.  He told about meeting a bartender, and the night at Toad, and about how he ended up playing with a local musician in an apartment after hours.

“This song goes out to all those people who made me feel so at home here,” Eddie said, “They know who they are.”  And then he started in on that slow version of  “Ain’t no Sunshine.”

It’s always nice when a rock star stops at your bar, and turns out to be just a regular guy.  I was stuck working the night of the concert, but Shawn and a few others used the free tickets Eddie got for them . . . and they all said it was a blast.

(You can hear Tim Gearan Friday nights at Atwood’s Tavern.  If you do stop in, make sure to say hello to Randi, the rocking, multi-talented booking agent at Atwood’s.  Bill Withers singing his hit, “Ain’t no Sunshine,” is below.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIdIqbv7SPo

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FUBAR (and then a beautiful moment)

Sunday, 10/13/13, 12:18 A.M.

anigif_enhanced-buzz-3732-1380844943-9It’s never good to leave a bartender working alone on a slow night.  There’s too much opportunity to think.

You  keep glancing at the clock, again and again.  You might listen to one of your customers, or try to focus on the closing side work ahead — but let your attention waver for one second, and you’re back to thinking.

The news on the TV is all bad, again.  Politicians, like the puppets they really are, once more screw us over with their political ambitions and aloof positions.  And while all of America loses an estimated 24 billion dollars and the world economy is threatening to blow up–these political hacks are still getting a paycheck, even as they remain asleep at the wheel.

Fucked-Up-Beyond-All-Recognition.  FUBAR reigns, and seemingly always will.

I believe the term first originated in the military.  Soldiers with their lives on the line had to put up with the gross incompetence of their superiors–poor planning, low ammunition, and suicidal missions.  Book after book, movie after movie tells the same story.  In Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, some poor lieutenant is sent off to die with his men because his commanding general is having problems with his wife, who’s tired of his impotence.

Breaker Morant.  Full Metal Jacket.  It seems this is just the way things are.

FUBAR

And it’s certainly no different in the restaurant business–although the stakes, clearly, are so much higher in the military.  But even behind the bar or out on the floor, in a very small but eerily similar manner, the maddening clusterfuck rolls on.

 

Thursday, 10/17/13, 3:00 P.M.

Then this afternoon, I’m checking through the latest news, and come across this . . .

It seems a Boston-area waiter was slogging through his night when there was a quiet personal crisis at one of his tables.  Two women (possibly a mother and adult daughter) had received a cell call during their meal, and afterward they both started crying.

“I had no idea what happened,” the waiter posted on Reddit, “Until a single guy at the next table handed me this note with his bill.”

Copy of DiagnosedHuffington Post later contacted the waiter, who further clarified the story:

“The single guy who had been sitting next to them had been friendly to me all evening, making jokes and such. When he was finished I gave him his check, and inside the billfold was his credit card and the note that I took a picture of. I combined the 2 checks, and he paid for both. I waited until after he had left to tell them their check had been taken care of. The mother was overwhelmed with gratitude, as was I. It was a great evening.”

Some people will insist this is just another internet hoax, and skeptic that I am, I was curious why the note was crumbled. (The man who wrote the note wouldn’t have crumbled it–he would have put it flat with his credit card.  Was a hoaxster simply trying to make everything look authentic?)  But then maybe the waiter initially tossed the note into a wastebasket . . . later retrieving it for the photo.

In any event, it was a good story after this gloomy week.

(For the past month, I’ve haven’t done much beside work on that book I’ve been talking about for years.  Thanks for your patience . . . I think I’ve turned a corner, and hope to be back here posting regularly in a week or two.)

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THE PROMISE OF SEX

Copy of blondEveryone knows there’s a lot of sex in the restaurant business.  It’s a promise that lures big crowds to the pick-up joints.  Even in a quieter place, anytime there’s drinking involved you’ll usually find at least some sexual undertones.

And everybody knows that restaurant and bar staffs are quick to cash in on the fun.  I can’t think of another legitimate business (except of course the movie industry) where sex is so much a part of the workplace.

These next two stories might not come as a surprise then, but I still think they deserve posting here . . . .

Sex and Sales People

Several years ago, on a break from bartending, I worked as a restaurant consultant.  I helped owners decide which cash register systems fit their operations, and then worked with them on implementing new inventory and analysis reports.

I’d always give each client a number of options, but I remember this one owner asking about a particular electronic brand that I never recommended.  “What about the Iron-Clad registers?” he asked, “I know someone who really likes them!”

Of course “Iron-Clad” wasn’t their real name, but in my opinion these registers meant too many headaches and problems — and they cost more than some of the much better brands.  I explained this to him, but he kept insisting that he wanted to meet with an Iron-Clad representative.

The saleswoman who came in was drop-dead gorgeous.  She was a fox.  Blond hair, a body to die for, and such a pretty, sexy smile.

And she was an outrageous flirt.

While pointing to the color brochures with one hand, with her other hand she was always touching the owner’s shoulder, or the back of his hand . . . and one point she even laid her hand on his leg as they sat next to each other in the booth.

She had such “touchy-feely” hands that if she’d been in a bar, you’d immediately have identified her as out of control.  She batted her eyelashes, and dropped thinly-veiled sexual innuendoes.

I remember she was wearing a wedding band on her left hand, although that might have been for public relations purposes.  In any case she made it quite clear that she was “attracted” to this owner, my client.  After the meeting, as I left the two of them, they were ordering another round of drinks.  They seemed ready to make a night of it.

It apparently worked.  That owner went with Iron-Clad, and he paid for it many, many times with register lock-ups, confusing reports, and things that just weren’t programmed right.

I’d run into “Iron-Clad” sales reps several times after that, and they were all the same — hot, flirtatious young women.  A few years later, “Iron-Clad” went out of business.  Maybe they should have put some money into refining their system, rather than simply hiring “hooker-type” sales ladies.

It was by far the worst computer register system I’d seen . . . but I guess that owner had a really good time while being sold.

 

A Waitress who knows her way around . . . .

Sales people aren’t the only ones plying sex to get what they want.  I’ve watched a few workers use the same sexual signals to manipulate their bosses.  Most of the time they don’t even have to follow through . . . just dangling the possibility was enough.

I remember this one restaurant where I was tending bar — there was a particular waitresses who probably shouldn’t have even had a job there.  Sure, she was smart, she had experience, and she certainly could have been proficient at handling her tables.  She could have given her customers great service, followed the rules, but she just didn’t feel like it . . . that would have required some effort.  And at this unnamed restaurant she’d figured a way to get around all that.

I have to admit, she was quite good-looking.  She had a stylish haircut, and a figure even those crappy uniforms couldn’t hide.  But beyond that, her most important asset was that she absolutely exuded sexuality when she was trying to get away with something.

It’s hard to describe . . . I’ve only met a few women who could manage what she did.  It was like heat from a car radiator, something you could actually feel.  It rolled over you when she had her motor running.  When she looked into your eyes, and flashed that smile, you could almost hear her thinking:  “You’re a man.  I’m a woman . . . do you know all the fun things we could do to make each other feel good?”

I’m serious, all of that was in her smile when she wanted something.

She order her drinks without ringing anything in, and then try to get away with it when you asked where the slip was.  “Oh, I must have forgotten,” she’d turn on that smile, “Can you make them anyway.  I’ll get to it later.”

The first time, I did give in, and then I was chasing her for half an hour trying to get the un-rung slip.  At the end she was looking through all the dupes on the spindle, claiming that she’d rung them all in, but the chit must have been lost.

On more than one night, she somehow lost entire rounds of drinks — or so she’d say.  She’d claim the drinks tipped over while she was carrying them to the tables.  The manager would just house them all, without checking anything, and then tell me to make them again.  I don’t think he was even getting anything from her.  Just the tantalizing sense that someday he might get lucky was apparently enough.

I remember the last night I worked there; she’d been really out of control during that shift, and I was a little pissed.  I was cleaning the bar when she walked up.

“Well, we’ll all miss you,” she said with a big smile.

The night was over, it was my last night, so I didn’t say anything negative.  It’s funny, maybe you consider someone your worst enemy at a certain job, but when you meet on the street after the two of you are no longer working together, it’s as though nothing ever happened.  Like the two of you had been best friends.

But on this last night it was more than that.  As this waitress and I talked for a minute, I felt such a warm, sexual vib coming from her.  She just smiled that smile, and with that look of promise in her eyes . . . I was surprised to find myself genuinely wishing her well.

She was really good at what she did.

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