Something Worth Coming Back To
A Saturday at the bar — tomatoes from Sue, a lovesick bartender, and the quiet question of what people are really settling for.
Eli was in love again.
I knew this because he had started polishing things that didn’t need polished.
Most people think love makes young men reckless. Mostly it just makes them weird.
He was wiping down the same section of bar for the third time when I came behind the bar.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“You missed a spot.”
He looked down.
Then looked back up.
“There isn’t a spot.”
I knew this. He realised I knew this. He stared at me as I poured myself a coffee.
“You gonna tell me about her?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He waited.
I waited.
Thirty seconds later he cracked.
“Her name’s Claire.”
“Naturally.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means her name was always going to be Claire.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Neither does being twenty-three.”
The smoker was already rolling outside.
Saturday.
Best day of the week.
Not because it was busy. Because it was unpredictable. By noon we’d probably have fishermen, cyclists, retirees, families, tourists, and a handful of classic car and motorcycle enthusiasts enjoying the scenic ride up one side of the river, over the bridge and back through town down the other side of the river.
The menu wasn’t finished.
It rarely was.
Briskets were smoking.
Sweet corn waited in the cooler from the roadside stand out on Kellogg Road.
There was half a case of apples that needed to be used or they were going into the fermenter.
By three o’clock we’d know what lunch was. Until then it was just ingredients and possibility.
The first customer arrived ten minutes after opening.
Fishing hat.
Sunburned neck.
Light beer drinker.
I knew all this before he sat down. People tell you who they are long before they open their mouths.
“Morning Jack.”
“Morning Rick.”
“What’s new?”
“Not much.”
He looked at the tap list.
Same thing he did every week.
He’d been studying it for six years.
Like someday a Busch Light might accidentally appear.
“I’ll take a lager.”
“I know.”
Eli poured it.
Rick took a sip.
Looked around the room.
Nodded once.
Satisfied.
People think bartending is talking.
Mostly it’s remembering.
Around eleven, Sue arrived.
Right on schedule.
Retired schoolteacher.
Tomato wizard.
Every Saturday in the summer she walked through the front door carrying a paper grocery bag full of tomatoes and a variety of herbs.
She set the bag on the bar.
“Morning boys.”
“Morning Sue.”
Eli reached into the bag and pulled one out.
The thing was the size of a softball.
Red as a fire truck.
Still warm from the sun.
A couple sitting at the bar noticed him admiring it.
“Good tomatoes this year?” the man asked.
Eli held it up.
“If you’re the type of person who spends all summer growing tomatoes just to turn around and give your freshly picked, sun-ripened babies away to everyone, you should be knighted.”
Sue laughed.
The couple laughed.
Eli kept going.
“At the very least you should get the Medal of Freedom.”
“Careful,” I said.
“Why?”
“Encourage her and she’ll start bringing zucchini.”
Sue pointed at me.
“Don’t test me, Jack.”
Then she stayed exactly long enough to ask how everybody was doing before disappearing back into town.
Just like always.
The lunch rush arrived.
A table of fishermen.
Three couples.
A family with two kids.
An old woman who ordered the roast beef almost every Saturday.
Same table.
Same meal.
Same drink.
For six years.
She wasn’t there for the food anymore. The food was just how she remembered her husband. Most people have a meal like that. A dish attached to something they’ve lost. The line between food and memories is as thin as pie crust. Nobody puts that on the menu.
After it slowed down I found Eli staring out the front window.
Again.
Claire had apparently texted him.
This was obvious because he had the expression of a man who had just discovered both hope and despair simultaneously.
Love is efficient that way.
“How’s Claire?”
He sighed.
“I don’t know. She said she might come by.”
“Might?”
“Yeah.”
“Might is one of the most dangerous words in the English language.”
“Why?”
“Because people hear what they want.”
He thought about that.
Then immediately checked his phone again.
Twenty-three is a difficult age. You’re old enough to make permanent decisions. But still young enough to believe text messages contain hidden meanings.
Claire never showed up.
I knew she wasn’t going to. Not because of anything she’d done. Because life rarely cooperates. Eli tried not to look disappointed. Which made him look extremely disappointed.
Around four o’clock he disappeared out back.
I found him sitting beside the smoker watching the river.
Not writing.
Just sitting.
Which worried me more.
“Wanna hear something depressing?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said with sarcastic enthusiasm.
I sat down anyway.
“The older I get, the more I think everybody ends up settling.”
“For what?”
“Life.”
I laughed.
That seemed to annoy him.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“You don’t think people settle?”
I watched a leaf float down the canal.
“Sometimes.”
“See.”
“But not for the reasons you think.”
He folded his arms.
Young people always want answers.
I remember.
It’s one of the reasons being young is exhausting.
“What do you think people want?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Love.”
“No.”
“Happiness.”
“No.”
“Success.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I pointed toward the dining room.
The old woman finishing her roast beef.
Rick drinking his lager.
The family laughing.
The couple sharing dessert.
The river keeps sliding by.
“Most people just want something worth coming back to.”
He followed my gaze.
Neither of us said anything.
The smoker popped softly behind us.
A train whistle sounded somewhere across town.
The river kept moving.
“So that’s it?” he finally asked.
“What?”
“The secret?”
I smiled.
“There isn’t one.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Yeah.”
We sat there quietly.
Then I stood up.
“Come on.”
“Why?”
“Because table seven’s glasses are getting low.”
He glanced toward the dining room and stood up without another word.
And for the first time all day, he laughed again.
— from The Last Saturday, Chapter Two