Triple Play Redux

According to the clock it’s 5 AM. I took melatonin at 7 PM but it didn’t help; I never got sleepy. I’m still wide awake. I’m trying to decide if I should go to bed. I wonder if I would fall asleep at this early morning hour. I doubt it. A couple hours ago I poured myself a shot of brandy. Since then I’ve had four shots and I’m still wide awake – and, you’ll notice, still able to type grammatically correct sentences. This brings to mind a blog I posted back in 1999 when I lived in Roanoke, Virginia. Or did I live at the Applebee’s in Roanoke? Whatever. I’ll post that page. It was titled “Triple Play”.

I ate lunch and dinner at Applebee's today. Now I'm back in at 11 pm for a beer. Three visits in one day. Who says I don't have a life? I do have a life. I just rent it from Applebee's.
Most people go to Applebee's during the day. But the late night atmosphere is different, especially on a Saturday. The place is almost empty tonight. A regular who goes by the moniker "Skeeter" sits at one end of the bar eating dinner. I sit at the other end. Bridgette is bartending. When Bridgette is on a roll, she's a force of nature. Tonight she's a little more mellow. Bridgette and I banter a little, although the banter is 90 percent hers and 10 percent mine. ("What do you call a dog with no legs?" "Don't know, what?" "Doesn't matter, he won't come.")

Around midnight Carolyn comes in. Carolyn is a waitress here – an eye-catching woman of 24. She has a pretty face and a figure that, even in the unflattering Applebee uniform, is dynamite. But tonight she's off-duty, wearing her "civvies", tight fitting jeans and an equally tight, figure-revealing top. Ow! When she walks down the street, I bet her name suddenly becomes "Hey Baby!" Or maybe "Yo, Yo, Baby, Whassup, Whassup!" Depends on the street. Sometimes I try to speak to her, but she doesn't slow down enough for more than a "Hi Carolyn". Maybe she's shy. Maybe she thinks I'm hitting on her and she doesn't like it. Maybe she doesn't want to waste time talking to "some old dude" at the bar who isn't her customer anyway. Who knows.

Terry goes off the clock. She puts on her civvies, comes over and sits down beside me. Terry is 32 and married. And though she's dressed simply - shirt and shorts - she looks terrific. Terry is pretty and sexy, and her workouts at the gym are enhancing everything. We talk, and for a while I can almost imagine that this young, attractive woman is sitting there because she enjoys my company. I can almost imagine it, but not quite. Because I know why she's sitting there. She's killing time until Bridgette goes off the clock, and there's no one else to talk to. Reality check. But I don't care why she's here, I enjoy her company just as much.

Soon enough it's quarter to two. The restaurant's been closed for 45 minutes. Bridgette is off the clock now and has changed her clothes. She and Terry are ready to leave. Time for me to go home.

And I do. I go home. And so at 3:30 on a Sunday morning I sit in an utterly dark room, lit only by the phosphor glow of a computer screen, headphones on, music playing, a beer beside me, trying to capture a moment before it fades forever.
You guys, be good. And g'night, all.

That’s it. That was the blog I posted that day. But for completeness, I’m posting part of the next evening’s blog which was titled “Week End”. Here it is:

Sunday night. The dregs of the week. The burnt-down stub of a week gone up in smoke. I walk into Applebee's at 9:30 pm and find the bar empty. A few people sit at scattered tables, but not a soul sits at the bar this Sunday evening. Terry is tending bar ( I knew she would be).

"You're my only regular customer tonight," Terry says. Even when she has no customers at the bar, Terry stays busy. She mixes drinks, makes frozen drinks, milkshakes, and mudslides for customers at the tables. It seems like the Island Oasis and the blender are constantly churning. She cleans, she estimates and counts (bar inventory), she answers the phone, she punches in to-go orders. She's like the freakin' Eveready bunny -- she just keeps going and going.

I order food, and Terry and I talk.

"Where did you and Bridgette go last night?"

"Nowhere. We talked a while, then I went home and she went home."

"I thought you and she had plans. I thought you were waiting for her."

"No. I just wanted a beer before I went home."

Soon it's 11 pm and the Muzak system is playing Semisonic’s Closing Time.

One last call for alcohol

So finish your whiskey or beer

...

You don't have to go home

But you can't stay here

...

So gather up your jackets

Move it to the exits

I hope you have found a friend

Coincidence? Day's end, week's end, closing time. It's 11:15 when I leave. As I walk out the door I look back. Terry is bent over, sweeping around the bar and under the barstools.

Tonight, my readers get a two-fer. Only a few hours ago I blogged about Jessie J, and thanks to insomnia I’ve already posted a new blog.

One more brandy and I’m going to bed for sure.