The Eye-Opener

It all starts with a bowl of soup.

I’ve spent the better part of the last three or four years being bitter. I’ve been bitter about work, bitter about life, and bitter about myself. I’m not sure where this bitterness has come from.

I have my theories. Thousands upon thousands of hours of dealing with drunks is a likely source. Thousands upon thousands of hours of being, not necessarily smarter than, but, certainly, significantly more aware of everything around me than the vast majority of my co-workers and supervisors is another factor. Constant frustration can certainly wear on you. Who knew?

I’ve been given the gift, maybe the curse, of a very acute power of observation. When I bitch to my mom about the things I see at work, she sees it in me. When I talk to my best friends about my frustrations with the public, they see it in me.

But what do I really have to be bitter about? I make good money doing a job that I’m good at and that most people actually have a generous respect for. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you try talking to people in a mostly genial manner for nine hours a day, five days a week? But remember, the people you already know want to be treated like you’ve never met them before and the people you don’t know want to be treated like you’ve been friends for years. Every time you see them. Every week. Every day. Go ahead, give it a try.

I pay my bills, I put some money into savings, and, to a certain extent, I have the freedom to do whatever I want with the rest of my time.

Maybe my bitterness comes from the tediousness. Tenacity? Tenaciousness. Tedinacitiousness? Whatever. I’ve been doing this a long time. And as much as the bar business changes from day to day, in a sick, inversely-exponential kind of way, it stays the same. Yes, I see new faces every day. But at the same time, I clean the same bottles, I make the same drinks, I shake the same hands, I pour the same beer for the same regular like I have four days a week for the last year just to have him tell me that today was the day he was going to try something new but that it’s MY fault that I didn’t wait ask him what he wanted to drink before I poured it, and I deal with the same people who ask for their drinks with “light ice” because they somehow think their drink will be stronger if they get it like that.

Here’s a quick lesson in physics and displacement: Fill one glass full of ice and fill a similar glass halfway with ice. Pour one and a half ounces of rum into both glasses. Now, without adding anything else, you get to fill both glasses the rest of the way with coke. Just by looking at both glasses, which one would you choose? Good. I didn’t graduate college and I can figure that one out. Go tell all your friends.

So there’s this bitterness. It’s quite possible that it exists because I can’t control what other people do and, apparently, I really need to. Strike that. I don’t NEED to. I feel this urge to because I see how things can be done in a good way, the appropriate way, in a bar, but nobody else seems to think that way. Again, it’s the power of observation.

I don’t want to be bitter. I was unemployed (under-employed, to be completely truthful) for five months. That was awful. I was getting unemployment benefits. That was awful. That was bitter. I could be forced to have a job cleaning urinals at the local biker bar. That would be even more awful. Like I said before, I make good money at a good job that I’m really, really good at. So why is there this bitterness?

Before I move on, I’d like to get back to that bowl of soup. Wait, much like Willy Wonka, I have to go back before I can move forward. So I’d better move along.

I used to be cheerful. Like, all the time cheerful. I’d smile and laugh and nothing could bother me. I went through a phase where I literally was saying to my mom, as she ranted about something in her life, “Let it go.” Over and over and over again, I said it to her: “Let it go.” Somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to let it go.

When I worked downtown, I would take the same route to work every day. And every day I saw the same homeless lady with her dog on the same corner. I thought to myself, more than once, “I could do something for them.” I was thinking that more for the dog’s sake than the woman’s. I had this grand plan of getting a few cans of dog food for the dog and a few cans of ravioli for the woman, then delivering them and wishing her and the dog my best. But it never happened. To this day, I still think about them and wish that I’d done something. I couldn’t let it go.

I’d become bitter. Why should I spend my hard-earned money on something for a beggar? I worked hard for my money. It’s MY money.

Yes, it is my money. But I have a lot of it. I have more than a lot of people could hope for. And yes, I have a tendency to spend my expendable income rather frivolously. And yes, it’s my right to do with it what I please.

But why couldn’t I do something for someone like that woman? Why couldn’t I take ten bucks a week and deliver some canned and ready to eat, albeit cold, ravioli to a homeless person? Why not?

And now I’ll get back to the soup.

Two nights ago an older homeless gentleman came in and sat in the middle of my mostly empty bar. How did I know he was homeless? Well, his missing teeth, scraggily clothes, and general lack of good hygiene were three sure signs. I eyed him suspiciously as I approached him, as I’d removed homeless guys from my bar and seen homeless guys removed from bars in which I frequent, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

He calmly and quietly asked if he could have a glass of water, as he was waiting to meet someone. I obliged, as he didn’t seem to be much of a trouble maker, although I did doubt his assertion that he was meeting another person. He sat there for about fifteen minutes and drank his water and watched the game that was on tv. I went to ask him if he would like some more water when he leaned over a little and humbly asked me if we needed any kitchen help that night. I told him I was sorry, but that we were fully staffed for the evening. He thanked me and started to gather himself together to leave. I abruptly told him to wait and he got this worried look in his face. I smiled and said it was nothing bad, just that I wanted him to wait.

And that’s when the cheerful, non-bitter Kevin in me came out. I went in the back and poured a bowl of soup into a to-go container. That night we happened to be serving New England clam chowder with a garnish of bacon. If you know me, then you know my love for bacon. I put extra bacon in his soup.

I went out to the front and gave him his soup and wished him the best, just like I wish I’d done for that homeless woman and her dog. He didn’t ask for anything else. He didn’t say he’d be back. He didn’t try and bless me with God’s love. He simply said thank you and walked out the door. And for the simplicity of his gratitude, I will be eternally grateful.

It made me realize this: I have no reason to be bitter. I have a good life that I get to enjoy the way I want to.

And I want to say that I didn’t write this for me. Well, maybe a little, I did. But I didn’t write this to receive praise from you. I wrote this FOR you.

Don’t forget what makes you happy. Don’t forget the people that make you happy. Don’t be bitter about the things you can’t control. Laugh about them, instead. Give what you can, if you want. But things could be worse and there’s really no reason to be miserable in our good fortune.

I liked that the “old Kevin” came out for a little bit. I hope that homeless man comes back. I’d like to know his name. I’d like to buy him another bowl of soup. But mostly, and a little selfishly, I like what he brought out in me, and I’d like to see that again.

--TheKevin--