1897

For someone who can’t drink, I spend a lot of time in bars. Perhaps I am secretly hoping for second-hand intoxication, possibly I just enjoy being near what I can’t have, but whatever the reason, they feel like a second home. It makes me choosy though, remember, I’m still sober when the lights come up, so I’ve gotta be careful. I like a bar with something of the devotional about it, a hallowed place, a sacred space, alcohol the religion that draws worshipers without prejudice. I like a barman with precision, never a short man, a barman must tower, he must have the height to match the stature of his role. The barman absolves, he is the benevolent attender to all our failings, at our side in our weakest moments to serve out forgiveness and soda. As he stirs and blends, measures and mixes, burns the alcohol from the absinthe, waters down the whisky, and levels the levels to leave you standing, he must have stature. You can measure the quality of a bar by the specificity of its snacks, and as I sit at this one, nursing a lemonade, and eating shaved peanuts and sharply honed vegetables I feel rewarded in my choice. I like a napkin with my drink. Something to put on the bar and place the glass on. It really frames a drink. It turns the consumption of the beverage into a two-handed affair. Makes the left hand feel as useful as the right, you know what I mean? Tonight I share the polished counter with a line of men, business men, with nowhere to be until morning and only one way to get there faster. Men in suits, crumpled suits and pressed shirts. A line of us sitting there on stools, facing the taps, like cows waiting to be milked. A phone rings, and we look down, a cellular device next to every glass in case we become necessary. There is something of the effortless cool about not recognising your own ringtone. It supposes a lack of mastery due to super importance, that we have far greater things to concern ourselves with than our technological customisation. The guy at the far right picks up his clanging, flashing piece, looks at the number and sets it down. Let the world intrude not.