The kitchen has closed, at 9:30, and as a final act has sent up the light dinner as the jazz trio has ordered, given a twenty dollar allowance.  They will be done at ten and the bartender is looking forward to that milestone of the evening.  But, wait, oh, here they come, at 9:45, I hear them coming up the stairs, and then moving in on the bar, calling the bartender's name, as if he was expected to be excited and happy that here they are at the very end of the evening with the restaurant about to pack up and go home.  A Glenlivet on the rocks for the youngest, and two Malbecs, one for the very same guy who kept me an hour later than I needed to be the night before with one of his friends, people I happen to enjoy.  "I'm cleaning up, and I'm going home."

The trio has played Brazilian music, bossa nova, and when they are finished, packing up their instruments, I put the music back on, on the mini iPad Pandora station, Joabim, something that matches, soothing, quiet, like I would imagine taking out a broom and finally sweeping up.  Tall has brought in Beats headphones, wireless, white, and guy who extends my night says, out loud, "I want to hear some good music." He puts on headphones, and soon is singing along, loudly, as people do when wearing headphones, particularly when intoxicated, "there's a fire in my ass."  That is the song lyric, apparently.  Headphones are removed.  Guy tries to share them with me, no thanks.  The girls giggle.  There's talk, of wet undergarments.  "My xxx isn't big," he says.  One of the females, knowing he's being inappropriate, hushes him, in the way that is encouragement to the intoxicated.

Okay, fine, toleration.  Don't take it personally.  I've eyed a glass of wine I might want to grab, to say, 'that's it, I'm not serving you anymore.'    Ah, well, such is life.  That's how it goes.  Maybe you don't like your job so much, for various reasons.

The singer of the trio comes up to the bar.  "Hey, why don't you have the X club here, forty or fifty people to hear (her) sing..."  I don't express much enthusiasm.    Send an email.

Later, guy sort of pulls me aside.  "You have a poor business sense.  You said no, {and now the offer appears to be off the table, because of me}.  And worse, you've hurt (the singer) because you've taken away the possibility of her being supported by (her group of peers.)"  He looks at me.  Shrugging, his pocket square... well-dressed.  I like the guy.  Very much in many ways.  "We'll still continue to come here...  (but, we find this place very disappointing, and it's your fault and the fault of your poor business sense.)"

The waiter, whose shift I covered with no prior warning, so he could go to his own bachelor party, really important, dude, thanks a lot, I allowed to get out of my hair around kitchen's closing.


The White Goddess is far away.   Forgotten.  The ritual of finding Her disrupted.

I read of how Ted Hughes brought trout up to Sylvia Plath, cooked for her over the fireplace.