You never wanted to write after a shift, when you got home.  There might have been a few ideas while you cleaned up, ate something, did the checkout report, counted the cash, lugged up the last few bottles of wine, but by the time you were clean of it, perhaps still there, the ideas of expression and of the impressions you had during the night's service, the thoughts drained out of you into the realization that you were all alone in the restaurant, that there would be no more socializing for the evening, that you now needed to just get home and take care of yourself, then you had no desire to write.  You thought of the next day, what you would eat when you finally woke up.  There was nothing to write, and you just wanted to absorb like a sponge, to let the adrenaline calm even as it contented to rise.

There weren't any characters, no stories.  Nothing to report, really, just life, just the churning shift of the night, the enjoyment of there not being any live jazz to contend with.

Bored you would be.  There were little projects to do, dishes, cleaned, some made dirty again, so breakfast would be easier.  Give yourself a bit of a haircut, far less a trouble to do it yourself then face the whole complication of going down to the Haircuttery, and down there you wouldn't end up stylish anyway, and still with the same head and hair, and at home you could just do it quickly enough and simply with a buzzer beard trimmer without the feigned effort of talk and the awkwardnesses.  There was also a monkish pleasure in keeping things simple and simpler.

And then somewhere along the line you realized you were not able to fall asleep, not ready to think about it.

But it was a perfect job.  It was an excellent job.  There was a deep love in you for it.  It was work, and it seemed to match the natural human skill set.  It was the best town to be a barman, a great variety of conversation, a gathering of interesting people from all over.


Then you would fall quickly into the workweek.  Alone, after work on a Saturday night, you turned on the television.  Mainly out of boredom, too lazy to read.  And then you could not fall asleep.  Then finally, you did, and then slept and slept.

Outtake interview by Burns of Shelby Foote, the writer talking about Lincoln's literary skill.  He was writing in American, like Twain would after him.

Time to go to work.