Cecil’s Evening View

He didn’t know exactly why or how he was still in the city, but the young man, somewhere in his mid-twenties, still entered the beat-up bar, The Window Lounge, in downtown Tucson. For tonight, it didn’t matter that he was where he was. Temporarily putting some distance between himself and the boiling-hot night, and all of its problems, was his top priority.

 

The Window Lounge looked old—but it was clear that someone took pride in the bar’s condition some time ago. As the name suggests, the one-floor bar was lined with large windows, which could use a good cleaning. These windows exposed the activity of the city—perhaps this is why the Window Lounge has lost popularity in the recent years; those seeking to separate themselves entirely from the happenings of the outside world are out of luck. The Window Lounge is a bar for realists, not those looking for a complete escape from reality.

 

The young man made his way across the worn wooden floors of the bar, past the pool table that desperately needed to be recovered, and desperately wanted to be used. Sitting down in the worn bar chair that made a creaking noise every time it was occupied, he waite

d for the bartender to arrive at his position, as he finished wiping the old drink glasses that had occupied him so many times before, and said to the young man “What can I get you”, in a voice that was rather unenthusiastic. Truthfully, he had no interest in this type of customer—even if they would be the difference between his bar staying in business and closing its doors for good.

“I’ll have whatever your most popular drink is”, said the young man lowly. Through his voice, and his body language, as his hands ran through his hair and his eyes peered over, looking directly out of one of the windows in the bar, it was clear that something was on his mind.

The bartender thought about overcharging the man for the drink that he ended up pouring. He thought about underserving the man, who probably wouldn’t know the difference or feel the need to complain if he did. At this point in the bar’s existence, though, it wouldn’t make a difference. He thought about the good days, and that’s what inspired him. He went ahead and began fixing the customer’s drink in silence.

Out of a small refrigerator under the bar, that had been there for many years, yet still maintained a temperature similar to that of a freezer’s, the bartender grabbed an ice-cold, old-style bottled Coca Cola, and removed the cap with a bottle opener.

Picking a glass—one of the same that had just earlier been cleaned to perfection, he assumed it would go unused for the rest of the night, and possibly the rest of the week. Surprised by the development, the bartender poured some of the cold Coke into the glass, which appreciated the use. Out of sequence, he slid some ice down into the drink. He was distracted.

Grabbing a bottle of cheap rum from the liquor shelf, the bartender poured a good amount into the glass—more than he would if the drink didn’t look so good at that exact moment—and then stirred the mixture together. He was generous in his proportions, but not in the quality of his beverage—a hint of the same style of thinking and acting that left his bar desolate after all these years.

“Here you go”, said the bartender as he slid the drink to the man, who simply said “Thanks”. He probably wouldn’t have cared either way, truthfully. The bartender returned to his glasses, and the man returned to his thinking; neither felt like talking to the other.

A few moments later, as the man paid for his drink and left a generous tip, which surprised the bartender, a confident and clearly well-traveled man entered the bar, walking directly by the exiting patron. After just one drink, he had left, as most of the Window Lounge customers do. This wasn’t an oasis of hope, but a stress-reliever on the way back into the outside world.

As the newly entering man, Cecil, confidently made his way over to the bar and placed his order, one couldn’t help but think where the night would take the young man that had left.

“Who was that last fellow in here, a regular?” Cecil asked the barkeep, who was more eager to talk with this type of patron. “Nope, never seen the kid before”, said the bartender. “Didn’t spend the whole time on his phone either, like all the others”, he said. Suddenly he wished that he had said more to the customer.

“What’d he order?” Cecil asked. “He asked me for whatever was the most popular”, replied the bartender. “I could tell he wasn’t a big drinker, so I gave him a Rum and Coke, which I was pretty sure he’d like”.

“Hm”, said Cecil, as he took another sip of his drink. “He really isn’t like all the others”, Cecil noted. He spoke again, “I think he came to the Window Lounge for a very specific reason—he is too focused on his problems for a quick escape’, said Cecil. “That’s why he had only one drink, and that’s why he—let me guess—stayed focused on the outside world there, right?”

The bartender was impressed by this—it’d been ages since he himself had thought about a customer of his—something that he previously enjoyed. “Yes, that’s right”, he said.

“Let me guess one more thing”, Cecil said. “He gave you a generous tip”, he spoke confidently. He wasn’t arrogant, but he trusted his instincts and thought process.

“Yeah that’s right”, said the bartender with interest. “Hey, how’d you know that?” he inquired.

“It’s all pretty simple, really. I know that the boy won’t escape his problems entirely because he’s committed to solving them—not running. Hell, that’s probably why he’s still in this city. I know that he doesn’t want to be distracted by the very distractions that disrupt the thoughts of so many others like himself—no phone use. Based on all this, it was easy to assume that he took responsibility for the service that you gave him, through a large tip”, explained Cecil. “I know what his problem is, too. He’s got family or friends that rely on him so heavily, that he can’t continue with his own future, hence the large tip and nice clothes. Now it makes sense. He wasn’t looking out that window at the city, he was looking out that window at the world, and what it can offer his future”, concluded Cecil as he took another long sip of his drink. “Impressive that he’s still here”, he added.

“That’s an impressive talent you got there, mister”, said the bartender, agreeing with the analysis, although he knew he couldn’t have reached that conclusion on his own. “What’re you, some sort of psychic?” he asked seriously.

“Nah, I’m just a man that makes due with what he has”, said Cecil, as he tosses an overly generous tip onto the bar. “Hey, if that kid ever comes in here again, give him a drink on me”, he said.

“Sure thing, chief, thanks a lot”, said the bartender, overly impressed with the patron.

“And don’t give him any of that cheap stuff again—he deserves the real thing”, said Cecil.

Astonished, the bartender simply nodded nervously as Cecil left the bar and stepped into his pristine Lincoln Continental, leaving into the night. The same night that the kid, and ultimately the bartender, would leave into. The same night, with different destinations throughout.