I Pray You, Remember the Porter

by Bobby Crace

I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars, but I always seem to find myself in one.

When you move to a big city, you can count on compromise. You might live in a penthouse with a mean rattlesnake of a partner. You might live in a studio apartment with a soulmate. You might live in a two-bedroom with ten roommates. But most likely, you’re going to have to get one of those jobs that makes you wonder why you ever think to do anything.

Now, I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars, but in the big city you can usually find a job at one. So it seemed natural for me to fake a few smiles and show off some tattoos until an owner gave me a job behind one of their bars…

And then fifteen years passed. 

Every sight you can see at a bar, I’ve seen. Every smell you can smell at a bar I’ve smelled. There’s nothing in nightlife that could shock me. I’ve bartended orgies, weddings, concerts, nightclubs, raves, lounges, bar mitzvahs, museums, hotels, dive bars, live bars, roof tops, basements—I’m trapped…because I can’t make any money unless I’m behind a bar. 

Now, I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars, but the bar doesn’t want you behind it. The bar wants you to quit—to graduate. So it’ll give you signs…But I’ve never been good at noticing signs. When I was a little, I believed in the Bible so my mom would like me. And the Bible taught me that if I make myself suffer, I’ll get a treat. So that’s why I’m not good at quitting, because if I make myself suffer, I think something good is gonna happen.

Now, I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars, but there was this one time the bar gave me a sign saying that I should quit. I was working a bunch of shifts in a row because management loves to take advantage of a depressive like me game for more work. The owners had me working at this bar and that bar. And all the shifts began to melt into one sleepless hangover complete with a full disbelief in human beings. Because, when you only see hundreds and hundreds of people in the context of a bar, you start to forget what people look like.

But I was going to tell you about the time that the bar told me to quit: So I got home at 6 a.m. after a busy Saturday night shift. And I was hoping to catch a couple hours of sleep before I had to go open another bar at 9 a.m. for some overseas football game. Now, I rolled out of bed and made it to the train, but the train operated like it had a hangover, because it spit me out about a half hour late. I started jogging from the station because aggressive brunchers will give you shit if you’re late. The internet told them that the bar will be open at 10 a.m. and that’s the only amount of time they’ve prepared themselves to wait. 

I was out of breath and almost at the bar, when I turned the corner and ran into a wall of blue and red sirens. 

A police officer came up to me and said that the block was closed. And I told him that I worked at the bar in the middle of the block—where all the cop cars were pointing. He said that he couldn’t let me through. 

So I called the bar owner, and he eventually came and got me. When he pulled me under the yellow caution tape, he started saying all kinds of nice things like how I’m such a vital part of his business and how he always hears great things about me. 

Then as we got closer to the bar, the owner turned to me asked how would I feel about cleaning up some rather gory shit. 

Well, I asked, how gory and he said, “Look a guy got shot in the bar last night. The cops have done all their forensics, the body has been removed, but the cleaning crew they recommended costs a ton of money. Can you believe that?”

“Okay.” I shrugged.

“Like a lot of money,” he added. 

I stared at the owner for a moment. He was younger than me—the service industry is owned by trust-fund babies looking to buy a career at the party. So eventually he said that he would give me two hundred dollars to clean up the murder mess before I opened the bar. 

I said that I’d do it for three hundred, but I was going to take my time.

He agreed. 

Now, I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars because I’ve done a fair amount of janitor-work in them. And I tell you that because I was ready to clean up the murder scene with a concerning amount of unconcern. And I did it…I did it the way I always do things. As a product of trauma; as a product of depression; as a product of fifteen years of big city bartending, I just did it…and it sucked. 

But it wasn’t that bad. I’d be more grossed out if I had to change a baby’s diaper, and folks do that all the time. 

So, I started cleaning. The blood from the murder was like maple syrup, and the black floor negated the red which negated the reality of the situation. I found that the pieces from the murder scene were easier to clean than vomit. I’ve cleaned up a lot of puke at bars, but the murder mess maintained an innocence. Death made the mess seem nobler. I felt reverence cleaning up the murder scene, whereas I’ve always felt resentment cleaning up a bar at the end of the night.

So that’s what I was going to tell you: I don’t like bars and I’ve never liked bars; The bar will give you signs to quit. And cleaning up murder is easier than cleaning up puke. 

What’d I do with that three hundred dollars? I don’t know. It went to the same bottomless pit that all my money goes. Wasted. Rented. Billed. Groceried. Every advantage turns into a deficit so quickly that it’s tough to differentiate between a success and a failure…

Now, did you want a vodka soda or a vodka tonic?

Bobby Crace teaches at Stony Brook University and ghostwrites for Kevin Anderson & Associates. His own work has been published by Routledge, The Brooklyn Rail, Eclectica, The Under Review, Mayday, and other journals.

Socials: @bobbycrace