Discover more from The World of Tosh Berman
Wednesday, May 26, 2021
There is a bar I go to in Los Angeles, where I enjoy having a martini or two, and I like going by myself. Compared to the sharp sunlight outside, the darkness of the room is one thing to admire there, but I'm also attracted to the hostess/waitress who works there. She sometimes wears a black dress, and often a white blouse or what looks like a men's white shirt, with black slacks. She tends to wear tennis shoes, which makes sense because she's on her feet all day or night here at her work. I don't recall ever having a conversation with her. I don't even know her name. Many of the customers here know her by name, but my brain or ears turn off when the name is mentioned. Perhaps I fear knowing her, being close, and ruining what I think is a good relationship.
I do bring a notebook here, and often, I would take a pen out, but in truth, it is a prop so that no one will bother me. When she comes up to me and asks if I want the regular, I nod my head, which is all I do to communicate with her. I remember I ordered food in such a manner. She asked me if I wanted marinated mushrooms, which I have had ordered in the past, but I shook my head no and then mentioned “just bread and butter?” I nodded yes, and there is something very pleasing in such communication between a customer and a server.
When you go to Happy Hour here, it doesn't get crowded until six or so. I make sure I get there at five and leave a little bit after 6. I enjoy watching the people wander into the bar, finding a seat either at the bar itself or the small tables around the room. I always sit at the most petite table possible. I don't want to give the feeling that I wish anyone to join me. I remove the extra chair so there wouldn't be an invite if I run into someone there. I have always fantasized that the server would join me at my seat. Of course, that is not practical and would never happen in a place like here.
My brain feels time passing by the second Vodka martini, which is one of my favorite moments of getting drunk. Here my thoughts on her get expanded into the realm of eros. When you are thinking and not sharing thoughts, there is a great feeling of freedom. I don't need anyone's approval or even understanding. There is a purity here that can't be denied. There is something pleasurable about taking a knife, cutting the cold butter in half, and placing it on french bread. I also get small radishes by habit, and I cut them up and put it on top of the butter and bread. Something elegant, pleasing, and not necessary to anyone except me.
I prefer to leave the bar and finding darkness outside. I don't want feelings of any sort except the thought of my server and the perfect union between her and me. I think of her, and she thinks nothing of me.