Sunday, April 8, 2012

Permit me an Easter Sermon

It sometimes happens, that when I return to work after a few days off I am immediately greeted by my co-workers with the story of some so & so coming by, acting like a total asshole, just mean, asking for me, of course, as 'his friend.' Yes, like this guy is 'my friend.' Okay, I know I'm a bit too tolerant, maybe even a little indulgent of a guest sometimes, and yeah, I wonder if the crazies don't hone in on me as a sympathetic type. I prefer to see it as a matter of being so perfectly calm and unperturbed that I am able to turn the persnickety asshole's energy back in on himself with a little bit of humor, kind of like jujitsu. But, as we all know, assholes can just simply keep on being assholes no matter what you do. And it sounds almost as if I have created this monster who was by a few days ago, telling people they didn't know what they were talking about, etc. Like I was responsible for his very existence in the world.

But it occurs to me in this 'my life as a Checkhov story' mode that a service industry chaps falls into from time to time, that to a significant extent a barman has to his customers a kind of negative personality. That personality is determined, molded, by the guest's interests and behavior. That personality can be perfectly bland and non-existent, at least to an extent, if the guest choses. But, engagement is largely on the guest's terms. Sure, that barman can be generically friendly, kind, attentive, ask about how the guest's day went, where they are visiting from, did they get outside on such a fine day and so on. If there are foodies present, we can always talk about the menu. If they're into wine, that can be explored too. And then sometimes, well, you're just sort of a would-be gigolo, good company kind of a guy. It's the entertainment business, after all, and one of the finest examples of how to act could well be ole' Groucho Marx himself, smoking out a charming innuendo given what comes out of people's mouths sometimes.

On a deeper broader level, there can be something almost Socratic to it, a disinterested questioning hinted at, as if to prompt one to look out the window and think about life in general. Yes, maybe this is a place for those students whose minds tend to wander from the lesson at hand, and this can be one way of bringing them back. Maybe, who knows. So then the bartender, when engaged in a conversation may, somewhat distracted as he is by small tasks at hand, utter some kind of a thing that comes out sounding a bit like a Zen koan, related, by a bit distant. Or, as some barman are, they will be very specific and talk about baseball, facts and figures, opinions, cut and dry, the great world of sports, of money, politics, news analysis, in a not very Socratic way.

The Buddha, that ultimate Socratic, taught--how to put this?--not so much by explicit direction as by giving a general where-to-look. "The Self is illusion." Once he held up a flower, and said nothing, and one of his disciples got it, what he 'meant.' It is this sort of a thing that I choose to see in a professional existence, a kind of being there for people, a kind of a blank tablet in which to discuss things that come up, opening a door, letting other doors open after that, just not getting in the way, I suppose as a psychologist might.

There is the down feeling, maybe when you go home at night, the world asleep, that you have, somewhere along the line, completely lost your personality. Which may or may not be true, which may not be all bad if it is not all good. Naturally, you go home and wish for the same comfort and backdrop to your conversation that you have strived to provide, and what is there to provide comfort for these deeper sets of worries, some nice girl who intuitively understands when you feel like all is floating away and no solid terms, terms accepted by society, to grab on to. Chekhov stories, naturally, are comforting, too, more so than drinking wine to numb the senses.

"I don't know how you do it," my co-worker adds, about my nights behind the bar. "Don't you feel trapped?" Yes, trapped. Yes, I do.

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