Sometimes I feel like a schmuck, sometimes I don’t…...
So there I am, riding amongst the great unwashed this morning, minding my own business, tuned into a strange array of mind warpingly blasé songs, when what to my wandering eyes appear (hey isn’t that a line from something famous?), but a gentleman named Henry. Now Henry isn’t a stranger to me. Somewhere in the past 10 years or so, Henry and I were known to each other. Generally in a phrase like that, the sentence would end…Henry and I were friends. But this Henry and I were never friends. Our relationship was somewhat A-typical of a relationship that a bar-keep might have with a patron. And so it was with Henry and I. In a world so twisted, torn and entitled, many years ago (seems like 100 years) I was working in a sales job, one with huge potential, but little of it was in the here and now. We decided that supplementing our household income was a good enough idea, so I took a job at a friends bar, tending to the happy, sad, uplifted and downtrodden clientele of the day. Working at the bar three nights a week enabled us to survive with a toddler at home and another on the way. Far from perfect, but a great situation made from one not so great. Henry was one of the regular clients of the establishment. I will add that this establishment catered to a relatively upscale crowd with mostly families in on weekends.In the years I served Henry, I never said much more than hello to him. Many attempts to strike up conversations were me with looks of anger and dismay. Henry, like so many single 30 something males had an air of happiness to him that most likely covered up for an emptiness that most, myself included couldn’t imagine. Henry, it turned out, was only here for the beer. He would occasionally bring a friend or business acquaintance along with him, but more times than not, Henry would defer to George Thoroughgood and drink alone. Henry was also a creature of habit. I could count on one hand the number of times that Henry’s bill at the bar ever changed or altered it’s course. Henry would order a pint of Upper Canada lager, then another, another and another, followed by an order for take-out food (1lb. Wings mild), another beer would be ordered, then the bill would be paid - $39.80. Henry, would read into his pockets find two crisply mutilated $20.00 bills, hand them to me and tell me to keep the change. I’ve never scoffed at a tip in the past, nor would I. As Catherine would tell me, it’s what the person can afford and what they feel is right. I never thought twice about it. After paying the bill, Henry would almost always pick up his take out bag stand up, leave, and then walk back into the restaurant and order “one more for the road chief.” This time he would pay me in exact change – no tip, he’d guzzle this one down and march, stumble, stagger or waddle up the street to his home. Writing this, I am actually smelling the sweating wings in the paper bag, the smell of the bar, it’s very realistic. I think I served Henry close to a hundred times in total over a span of 2 years. He never knew my name, nor did he care, he never answered a question or a comment I made to him either. In the end, I left that job, and Henry told me on my last night something that I will never forget…..when his bill arrived, he gave me exact change and grunted a big “thanks” without eye contact. I toiled and sweated over Henry for more than 100 hours and he paid me somewhere in the region of twenty bucks for it, but I have no regrets about ever treating Henry any differently than the swarms of Henry-wannabes and Henry-soontobes, who I served less often but who usually left me $10.00 a visit for bills less than Henry. TIP has a meaning and I never lost sight of it, but Henry to me, though I would never tell him was just a lonely old sot who knew no better.
Surprised doesn’t even start to tell you about this morning’s encounter. It’s ten or so years later now, I have aged a lot since those days, and put on a few pounds – haven’t we all? Henry was no older than 40 as a customer (I’m confident that he once told me that he was three years my senior), so I will grant that this man who sat next to me on the bus and who was easily 70 years old couldn’t be Henry. This poor older man got on the bus (at a stop less than 5 blocks from that restaurant in fact!) and walked right towards me. The smell was not nice, the looks were worse. The man, dressed in clothing that wasn’t fit to be worn, walked right passed me, and then as if on cue, there was a tap on my shoulder. I removed my earphones and turned my head, only to be looking eye to eye with this man.
“Geoff?” said the weak and timid voice. “It’s me, Henry, remember me from the restaurant?”
We spoke for a few minutes as the bus pulled in the station, then I started to walk away, but before leaving Henry I reached into my pockets and found the only money I had, a ten dollar bill, I handed it to Henry and told him he’d left this on the bar many years ago, and I had kept it for him all along. I told him that it was for coffee and food only. He looked at me, at first puzzled, then a wry grin came to him as if he knew I was lying, but wasn’t convinced. He said to me…”coffee? Sure, I could use one of those and maybe for lunch I will have a pound of wings….”
The years have been very hard on Henry, and my service 10 years ago has most likely helped lead him to his demise, but before meeting my wife and learning about tolerance and understanding, I am not sure that Henry would have gotten the time of day with me. He now not only gets the time of day hopefully he gets a nice warm meal and a hot cup of coffee.
Thanks Henry, somehow or another your curmudgeony old soul helped me to learn a lesson in life that school could never teach me.
posted by G.M. Shier @ Friday, April 24, 2009
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