Jack dresses in his black suitchecks himself out in the mirror and for a split second he sees an undertaker, not a bartender. His job is to serve alcohol to anyone who asks even though some may be obese, middle aged and possibly at risk of a stroke or heart attack. They want their drinks. They need their drinks for hammering out business deals or chiseling information from the unsuspecting client. He will not refuse them their drinks.
He took the bartender position at the Sizemore Hotel about a year ago. The manager said, ‘Look Jack, always be happy, serve drinks and get money in the till. There is nothing else to it. Knut, the day bartender will take you under his wing.’ Within three months, Jack is the evening shift bartender with one day off per week to attend courses at the New York University Law School. He is grateful for the job.
Jack’s a natural for serving drinks; tall and dark, lean and agile, young and efficient. He mixes the perfect gin and tonic, Margarita or Daiquiri, to the beat of Jack be Nimble, Jack be Quick and serves them in record time. ‘Thank-you sir or ma’am’ or ‘you’re welcome’ and he is off to serve the next customer. He is not prone to small talk which he leaves to the customers who deliver ample nonsense in proportion to the amount of alcohol they have consumed. They call him ‘Jack the quiet evening man.’
Standing at the bar and looking around, Jack thinks about his Uncle Casey who keeled over and died after a big turkey dinner and a few bourbons. Most days after work, Uncle Casey ran to the bar from his punishing job as a congress man for the Nevada State Government. Jack sees lots of Uncle Caseys all around him. Men with pink and plush faces and loose tongues ready for the long- winded talk that always starts after a few drinks. He can’t wait to finish law school and get out of here to a place where he can help people and not harm them.
‘Hey Jack, get us a bottle of bubbly. There’s my man.’
Jack looks and sees a heavily painted oversized blonde resting her ample bosom over the lip of his bar. There was never any shortage of women at the Sizemore.
‘Coming right up. I’ll bring it right over to your table.’
He grabs a bottle of Moët Champagne and has a fleeting mental image of her and her friends guzzling the bottle to the last drop. ‘Ya gotta seize life by the tail,’ he often heard. She wants her alcohol and it’s his job to serve her drinks. Anything else would be considered bad business at the Sizemore Hotel.
Jack is quick to put the champagne and six chilled flutes on a tray and bring it over to her table. She is taken up by her companions yakking full tilt in their long-winded talk of grandiose plans. He sets the flutes out and pours a little of the ice -cold bubbly in each one.
She flaps her giant black lashes and lands a twenty on his tray. ‘There you go. You’re the best.’
Jack deposits the twenty into his jacket pocket; a small contribution toward law school.
Back at the bar, he stands and surveys the tables looking for empties. He contemplates the drinkers and sees himself as their enabler. The undertaker notion creeps back into his mind. From ancient times, humans turned to alcohol to ease their mental and physical pain. He can never change that.
Ten years after Uncle Casey’s death his father dropped dead from a heart attack. Jack remembers getting drunk and his father having to pick up him at the police station. He just stood there alone and ashamed until Jack was released to his care. ‘Jack promise me you will stay away from alcohol. It will harm you. I know.’
His eyes land on the bottle of Moët and he sees the plump blonde get up and teeter on her stilettos. He feels uneasy when women lose their balance after drinking. The bartenders call them ’fallen women.’
Her drinking companions pay no attention to her as they wave their hands in the air and shout above the racket of the bar. He sees her coming over to the bar.
‘Another bottle of Moët please.’ He detects a slight slur.
Jack feels unsure. ‘You alright?’ he asks.
‘I’m alright for another bottle of Moët.’
He hesitates. ‘I mean are you alright for a ride home later on. Just wanting you to be safe.’
She fixes him with her steely blue eyes and puckers her painted lips into a pout of disapproval. He feels a flicker of worry stir in his gut.
‘I’m good. You needn’t worry. My daughter will come if I call her. Now, how about the Moët?’
‘OK. I’ll bring it over in a few secs.’
She rotates sharply and he hears a horrid crunching sound and she topples backward. Next, he hears the sickening thud of her head hitting the sharp edge of the bar.
Jack gasps and springs into action. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, he does a super human leap over the bar. He yells, ‘nobody touch her. Leave her as she is.’ He dials 911, grabs the silver foil rescue blanket from the emergency kit and covers her. He rushes over to her table and finds her companions in their noisy circle oblivious to their friend motionless under her silver cover.
‘I’m sorry. Your friend has fallen and hit her head. Emergency help is on the way.’
They lift their dumbfounded faces up at him and the sound of sirens fill the bar. Then the sirens stop and there is a ghostly silence. The doors of the bar burst open and three burley paramedics barge in and stand staring around until their eyes catch sight of the victim. They run to her in a blur of orange helmets and yellow vests. Jack fixates on the flashlights, stethoscopes, scissors and rubber mallets swinging like pendulums from their uniforms. Gentle as doves they surround the collapsed painted doll and lift her as if she is a goddess and place her with care onto the gurney. They arrange bright red blocks around her head, fasten a blood pressure cuff on her arm and secure her body with a series of straps. A radio crackles, ‘Victim of bar fall, possible head injury coming in stat from Sizemore Hotel.’
One of the paramedics looks over at Jack, ‘Too much onboard, right?’
Jack nods.
‘We’re off. We can get any ID from her purse.’
The shriek of the sirens is replaced by a funereal hush and Jack catches a reflection of his black self in the gilt bar mirrors.
Hotel staff arrive and soon the bar is cleared. Around midnight, Jack walks back to his bedsit in Greenwich Village. Rambunctious drinkers tumble out into the streets but he is not distracted; his mind is consumed with the ‘fallen woman.’ When he passed the night clerks on his way out of the hotel, one of them called out, ‘She’s gone to Mercy Hospital. Hope to God she’ll be okay!’
Was he to blame for harming her after serving her enough alcohol to make her fall. Maybe he should have refused to sell her another bottle. But that didn’t make sense because she never had a chance to drink any of it. But then, should he knowing she already had too much, have gone over to the table and cautioned her friends. He had never done anything like that in the past. If she had not have fallen, none of this would be going through his mind. If he was her lawyer, what would he think?
He passes Jezebels on Bleecker Street and hears the noisy frenzy of revelers on molly or coke or alcohol; sounds of those out of control. Tomorrow, he’ll go to Mercy Hospital and find out if she is alright. He doesn’t even know her name. A nameless woman whose head collided with his bar. An anonymous, possibly lonely and unloved woman who might suffer permanent brain damage. He wants to know more about her. Who is she? What should he have done?
Early next morning, Jack goes to Mercy Hospital and tries to find his ‘Joan Doe’.
‘Are you family? How do you know her? Sorry we cannot release her name. Family members only.’
Jack wonders if the story about a daughter is true. He hopes so.
She paid for the champagne with a credit card. Maybe her name is on the credit slip. When Jack gets to the bar, all the cash and credit slips from the previous evening are in the accountant’s office. The accountant asks, ‘Why do you want to know? I hear the cops are coming in to interview witnesses. You will be their chief witness. They’ll tell you, her name.’
Jack senses impending doom. He had stood by and watched as she became increasingly intoxicated. The hotel did not want this incident on their record. Bars were all about happiness, clinking glasses, happy hour, not some woman hitting her head on his bar. The bartender is supposed to be your friend not someone who would ever harm you. He thinks about law school. Was it even possible he could be charged with a misdemeanor or what about aggravated assault. He is losing control of his world.
Just then he spots Mr. Grueller, the hotel manager loping like a free- range antelope toward him. A tall gangly man with a long, creased face, he looks like the better part of his life is behind him. ‘Jack, in my office now!’
Jack tails him into his dull airless office. ‘Well Jack, what can you tell me about last night.’
Jack tells him about the table of drinkers and the plump blonde woman. ‘She was trying to order a second bottle of bubbly and I asked her whether she had a ride home and if she was alright. I was concerned about her safety.’
Mr. Grueller’s black beetle eyes latch onto Jack. ‘Good one. You did okay there.’
‘And I did go to Mercy Hospital this morning to see if she’s alright.’
‘You did what! Such an action implies guilt. I know you mean well Jack but this will not do.’
Jack’s heart plummets. Now he is probably going to get canned. Law school will be over. He looks at Mr. Grueller. ‘What should I have done?’
‘Never go and see the victim. You should not have gone to Mercy Hospital. Look the police will question you. Do not mention your hospital visit. Stick to the facts. She insisted on another bottle of champagne. She wasn’t alone. She’s not your charge. But you did ask after her safety.’ Mr. Grueller taps his forehead with his pen. ‘Okay Jack. I think this is manageable. You go on back to the bar. Your shift is starting. I’ll come for you if the police want to talk to you.’
Jack stands up to go. No one is saying ‘this is not your fault.’ What exactly is the responsibility of the bartender for the safety of patrons who drink more that they should. How much is too much? Knut never mentioned any bartender book of rules.
In the gilt mirrored bar Jack is encircled by endless reflections of a black shadowy figure.
‘Jack, Jack, can you hear me.’ It was Mr. Grueller. ‘Detective O’Hara will see you now. Just follow me. Knut’s here. He can hold the fort.’
Detective O’Hara dressed in his police uniform sat in Mr. Grueller’s office. Jack looks at the heft of O’Hara, his ruddy face and bristling eyebrows and feels like a lamb being brought to slaughter. O’Hara gives him the onceover and says, ‘You seem like a nice young man. I have some questions. Just keep it simple.’
When Detective O’Hara starts up his rapid- fire questions, it’s like someone pulled the rip cord on an outboard motor. What, when where, how. Jack sticks to simple answers. O’Hara says, ‘You don’t want any part of a drunk broad falling in your bar. Do you? That could only lead to trouble.’
Jack hears himself saying, ‘I don’t see her as a drunk broad. She has a daughter and last night she just had a little too much to drink.’
O’Hara’s face takes on a wild look. He slams his palm down on the desk. ‘How do you know she has a daughter!’
‘Well, I asked her if she had a ride home. I let her know I was concerned about her safety and that’s when she told me her daughter was picking her up.’
Detective O’Hara’s face turns from red eyed fury to a more civilized look, ’Good boy. You did the right thing there.’
‘But,’ Jack said,’ how will I know she’ll be alright?’
O’Hara sighs. ‘You’re young. Don’t stress yourself. I’ll deal with this woman.’ He stands up. The meeting is over.
Jack sees it all now. The hotel will avoid any liability and Detective O’Hara has seen it all before. He can easily squash the blonde nameless woman. He holds the power.
These days, Jack is no longer a bartender. When in his black courtroom robes, he sees a lawyer, not an undertaker but every once in a while, he catches a glimpse of the ‘fallen woman.’ She’s always there to remind him that everyone is entitled to justice.