Behind the bar there is the ice bin, and to the right of it, the bar's stainless steel workbench of three sinks. Arriving, the wines are taken from the ice bin where they have sat overnight, and they are placed into two of the sinks. To the far right I put the whites served by the glass in an orange Veuve Cliquot bucket which fits into the sink, four bottles open. Into the middle sink, plugged simply with a champagne cork, I put the sparkling wines, the rosé, and the wines of the week, and any leftover. If it is Tuesday night wine tasting, I rest unopened bottles down on their sides, plug that sink too, so that there will be enough in case customers ordered the discounted bottles of the white or rosé or sparkling on offer, last week a Jurançon sec. The same process will happen if there is a private party back in the wine room, wines chosen, but how much will they need? Once the bottles are in place I scoop out the ice that has sat in the ice bin, and pour it over the bottles in the sink compartments. And then I pour hot water into the empty bin, give it a wipe and then another rinse.
Then I will turn to the cooler behind me, and take out the fruit tray and the juices in quart containers, placing bottles of mineral water, sparkling and flat for the night. There is silver ware to ready, mis en place, the set-up, so things will be there when you reach for them, the clean knife, the escargot forks, the dessert spoons, the coffee spoons, the dinner fork to replace the one that falls on the floor with a clank. The red wines served by the glass are on top of the cooler, foil cut for the first two in the five bottle row of the six on offer. There are three back-up of each wine back in the corner beyond the stove and the cutting board in the busboy station, the recycling bin, and above, the shelves with wines laid on their sides, popular ones from the longer list of wines by the bottle.
After four nights of it, closing, the writer part of the barman has kind of lost it. It is strange, dusting one's self off, putting away that crucial business of what he does for a living, rent, health insurance, food. What is there to write anyway? Awkwardness. Too many thoughts to sort out from that lost Liberal Arts realm.
The words of the therapist held fast in the mind from early in the week, "I wouldn't want to talk to someone who'd said that to me either." "Leave her alone!" Okay. I will.
The day off comes. And from being surrounded by people to interact with, then we go to shyness, quiet.
Work seems like some form of self-codependent lie, a masquerade...
Is this why attempts at higher communication, in Shakespeare, usually end in tragedy? Are such things as words and love meant only for the old campus?