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I usually keep bartender’s hours..
That day, I was awake at the crack of dawn.
Even so, leaving my bed took everything I had; leaving my house seemed out of the question.
I knew there was a perfect sunny day outside, because there nearly always was, and I wanted no part of it.
An insoluble dilemma lay out there.
The moment I stepped out onto my porch I would start seeing and being seen by my friends, some of them anyway.
I knew I could not look even one of my friends in the eye even momentarily without telling them that Doc was dying, and yet for the life of me I could not imagine myself doing so, could not think of the right words to use.
So I dithered around in the house as long as possible, and then some more.
I made what even for me was a special omelette, so large and complicated that it really should have been considered a full-scale omel, and wolfed the whole thing down.
Zoey and Pixel stared at me.
I frequently cook omelettes–for supper; it may have been the first time either of them had ever seen me eat a bite less than five hours after awakening.
I did all the dirty dishes, by hand, and dried them all with a towel.
Zoey and Pixel stared even harder.
I made the bed—well, I always do that, being almost always the last one out of it, but this day I decided it was not only time to change the sheets, but also to rotate
and
flip the mattress.
Then I collected the trash that would not be put out for another three days, and began coaxing the old newspapers into a more orderly stack.
Erin and Pixel were staring at each other, now.
When I started alphabetizing the spice rack Zoey came over and put a firm hand on my shoulder.
“The bad times too,” she said enigmatically, and slipped her arm through mine.
“Come on, Slim.
Let’s go open the store.”
I closed my eyes and sighed.
Three times in a row, each longer and deeper than the last.
And finally nodded.
By the time we got as far as the porch my nose and ears had already given me a pretty accurate head count and roster.
Roughly three dozen folks, nearly all hardcore long-timers.
Unusually large crowd, for so early in the day.
Had
the news about Doc leaked already?
No, I realized; the faithful had begun to gather in anticipation and support of the imminent scamming of Tony Donuts Junior.
I’d forgotten I also had that to look forward to.
I’d have balked there in the doorway if it were possible to balk while arm in arm with a moving Zoey.
After ten years in Key West I had become enough of a connoisseur to discern the differences between a garden-variety perfect day and a Platonic ideal; that day was one of the latter.
The blue of the sky looked like about six coats, hand rubbed.
Sunlight danced on the surface of the pool like Tinkerbell’s gym class.
A gentle breeze carried scents of Key lime, coral dust, sunblock, sulphur, seashore, and the competing but compatible lunch smells of several culinary schools, chiefly Cuban, Creole, and Islands cooking from Bahama Village to the south of us.
Somewhere nearby children and a small dog hooted with joy, and did something that made rhythmic crunching gravel sounds like castanets.
In the fifty yard walk to the bar, I was smiled at, nodded at or waved to by just about everyone present.
They all seemed to accept my answering grimace as a smile.
Tom Hauptman was at the stick, selling as much cola and lemonade as beer, and he’d just started making somebody a Cuban sandwich; the gloriously layered fragrances of ham, roast pork, cheese, pickle and press-toasted bread were already beginning to circulate.
I left Zoey at her usual stool, and joined Tom behind the bar.
But instead of pitching in with the sandwiches, I squatted down, opened a cabinet, and took out a grey cylinder the approximate size of a can of baseballs, if there is such a thing.
Some seated at the bar fell silent as they recognized it, and sat up straighter.
A very kind person named Colin MacDonald once fetched it back from Ireland for me.
Its simple greyscale label reads, in part:
The World’s Oldest Whiskey Distillery
BUSHMILLS
DISTILLERY RESERVE
SINGLE IRISH
MALT WHISKEY
This Premium Irish Whiskey is exclusive
to Visitors at the Old Bushmills
Distillery originally granted its
Licence to distil in 1608.
Aged 12 Years
THIS BOTTLE WAS SPECIALLY
LABELED FOR
Jake Stonebender
AT THE DISTILLERY
I cracked the lid, eased out the amber bottle and set it reverently on the bar.
Its front label mirrored the one on the can; the one on the back said:
Bushmills Distillery Reserve
is a Single Malt Whiskey
aged in oak casks for 12-14 years.
We have selected this whiskey for its
exceptional quality and
smoothness.
This fine whiskey has a soft, sherried
nose giving way to a full-bodied,
malty taste with overtones
of almond and marzipan.
The bottle was within an inch or two of being full.
I went to the dishwasher, took out a full rack of shot glasses, and began setting them up on the bartop next to the Bushmills Distillery Reserve, in rows.
Silence broke out along the bar, and slowly metastasized to the nearby tables, the pool and lounge chairs, and the croquet pitch someone had set up just beyond the fireplace.
Those who were free to do so started drifting toward the bar; the rest began arranging things so as to be able to do the same, if they could.
It was way to early in the day to be drinking whiskey, especially that whiskey, but they all knew I knew that.
I counted heads, skipping those I knew would not drink whiskey for one reason and another, and set out that many shot glasses.
When I was done filling them all the bottle had only two or three shots left in it.
I poured assorted soft drinks for the non-drinkers.
“Fill your hands,” I said, and soon the bar top was empty except for the bottle.
I picked it up and took it with me to the chalk line before the fireplace.
People made way for me, then waited for me to make my toast.
Whoever had closed up for me the night before had not only shoveled out the ashes, but had taken the trouble to set
up the next evening’s fire for me: a pyramid of wood on a base of kindling and crumpled newsprint.
I thought about lighting it, or having it lit; either seemed too much trouble, too theatrical.
A fire in the morning in Key West is ridiculous, like a cold shower outdoors in Nunavut.
I’d been trying to think of the right words since the night before.
It seemed time to give up, and just say whatever the hell came into my head.
Only nothing came into my head.
I turned and looked around at my friends.
They could all see I was in pain.
Not telling them what it was was impolite, keeping them in suspense.
I lifted the bottle, as one lifts a glass to propose a toast, and everybody lifted theirs.
“Empty your glasses,” I said, and upended the bottle and drank until nothing came out.
Nobody argued or questioned or mentioned the early hour; as one they drank with me.
I tossed the bottle a few inches in the air, changed my grip on it to its neck, and flung it into the fireplace, so hard that it managed to destroy the fire setup before exploding against the back wall.
“I planned for that bottle to last a lifetime,” I said, and then shook my head.
“I just didn’t know whose.”
I could see faces begin to change, and understood that keeping them all in the dark any longer now would be unforgivable—and still, forcing out the few simple words was harder than fingertip pushups.
“Doc’s dying.
Maybe one week, maybe four.
Not eight.
Brain tumor.”
Five seconds of pindrop silence crawled by, and then something happened for which I can find no other adjective than that most overused of words, awesome.
Maybe you were in a crowd when you heard about 9/11, or about the Nameless One backshooting Johnny Lennon, and you know what I mean; if you don’t, I hope you never find out.
When two or three dozen adults all suddenly burst loudly into tears at once, it goes beyond sad, or tragic, or even terrible; it’s all three of those, certainly, but most of all it’s just…awesome.
Groans, sobs, wails, wordless outcries of all kinds.
Loudest was Long-Drink McGonnigle, who fell to his knees, bellowing like a speared bull.
Lex made a gargling sound, cut the water in a running dive and disappeared.
Every couple there turned to each other and embraced, their empty glasses still in hand.
So did many singles; multiperson hugs formed simultaneously in several locations.
Some people just sat down as if their strings had been cut, on the ground if necessary.
Fast Eddie’s head was on his keyboard, his hands clasped on the back of his head.
Noah Gonzalez turned on his heel and walked away as if rejecting the whole business, then stopped and came back—then left again, then came back—I remember thinking it must be hard for him to keep pivoting that way with only the one leg.
Tommy Janssen dropped his empty glass, beat his temples with the heels of his hands three times, then held his skull in them as if to keep it from bursting.
I found myself in a group embrace with Double Bill, Josie Bauer, Arethusa, either Suzi or Susy Maser, and my wife.
A group embrace with everybody sobbing in a different rhythm is really weird, but there was some comfort in it just the same.
An empty glass burst in the fireplace.
I didn’t see who started it.
Suzy Maser was second.
Then Omar.
A few seconds later, three more glasses arrived together, then a scattering, and finally the barrage began in earnest.
The hug I was in broke up in order to participate.
That fireplace is designed specifically to retain broken glass under just such conditions, but shards sprayed from it now, and so did brick chips.
Finally it dwindled away as we all ran out of ammo—except for Long-Drink.
When his glass was gone, he threw his hat after it…and then his sunglasses, and then his cigarettes, and then his beeper, and then his watch…he was reaching behind him for his wallet when Omar and Tommy put hands on each his shoulders and made him stop.
Gently but firmly they got him to his feet and led him away like James Brown, to the cottage he shares with Tommy.
I was vaguely glad it lies to the north of my own, between mine and Eddie’s, so they didn’t have to pass Doc and Mei-Ling’s place to get there.
Maureen hurried ahead of them and got the door, then followed them in.
Eventually people started talking, of course.
But you know, even in my grief I noticed then that not once did one person ask me a single stupid question.
Nobody said, “Are they sure?” or, “Can’t they do something?” or, “Why don’t they operate?” or, “How’s Mei-Ling taking it?” or any of the useless things people always say in such situations, because they feel they have to say something and there
is
nothing sensible.
I was asked only one question, and it was a pretty good one; I only wished I had a happy answer.
Fast Eddie called out, “Yo Jake.
Mike don’t answer?”
People stopped talking to hear my reply.
I found that I could not trust my voice, even with a single syllable, so I just shook my head no.
And that made everyone slump a bit more, but nobody felt a need to follow up with, “Not even his machine?” or, “Did you let it ring ten times?” or, “Are you sure you got the number right?” or any other intelligence-insulting question.
Okay, we can’t order up a miracle, it was worth a try, let’s move on
, was the general attitude.
Do you see why I’ve devoted my life to hanging out with those people?
Within the next couple of minutes, we had sorted ourselves out, quite automatically, without direction or conscious decision.
Each one of us needed help, to one degree or another, some more, some less.
Each one of us had some kind of help to give, some more, some less.
We’d known each other a long time, and been mutually telepathic more than once.
So we triaged ourselves, without needing to think much about it.
We mixed and matched and remixed and improvised until those in need got some and those with surplus gave some, and everyone found at least some measure of solace.
With the help of alcohol, cannabis, tobacco, coffee, chocolate and food—but most of all with the help of each other—we got through that morning together.