When I get to the vineyard, I notice all my coworkers are dressed a certain way—with exaggerated makeup, neon clothes, spandex. Like dolls from the ’80s. Which, I learn, is because they recently made a movie about a popular doll from the ’80s and today is the day you could dress up in homage. But I’m dressed regular. Because I didn’t know.
“Well did you check [scheduling app],” my boss says. She’s got a sideways ponytail and makeup all over her face, representing a version of the doll a kid has drawn on. We’re in the walk-up bar, a converted shipping container with service windows. She’s counting cash and putting it into drawers.
“No I told you, I don’t look at that shit. I refuse.”
“Well there ya go dummy,” she says.
She asks me if I’m gonna be ok in the customer-facing bar, because I’m usually in the service bar. She’s smiling.
And I tell her that I’m trying to evolve as a person.
The shift is whatever. We open the property, people come in. They drink. They walk around. They bump into each other. People post-“pandemic” have become some other form of noncommunicating entity. They’re not really there. More or less moaning to be nurtured. Just bumping into each other.
I’m working a window with Suzy, the old lady with Parkinson’s. Her hands shake and she slurs. This is her last season here. She’s wearing a pink visor. And neon jogging pants.
A customer walks up timidly, sort of wringing her hands.
“Do you do tastings here,” she says, with a pained look.
“Yes we do tastings,” I say.
Suzy pushes up her glasses.
“Ok so uh, how do you do the tastings,” says the customer.
I say, “Like this,” while doing the drink motion with my hand. And the customer laughs. Her husband laughs too, walking up with an open map of the property. Suzy laughs.
It’s gonna be a good day.
But then again, it always is, for the bartender. But who is this man? Who is The Bartender? Well first off the bartender is here to make your dreams come true. Yes, he’s here to serve. Perhaps, in some way, the bartender is always in his doll clothes!
The next customers step up, a dad and his daughter. He tries to talk bourbon with me, insinuating I “party,” on account of my sunglasses I think, or simply because he seeks attention and approval and human warmth.
“What’s your go-to bourbon, dude,” he says, folding his arms. “I’m kind of a bourbon snob.”
I used to try and be religiously serious with the customers. I would’ve told this guy I don’t drink much, etc. And then recited whatever bare facts I know. But it’s like who cares, ya know. Nobody cares. Why be like that. Why.
So I pour him a cup of what I tell him is my favorite bourbon, the only one we have, and he gets excited. Tastes it and says it’s great. And everyone wins.
His daughter asks if I can make a kiddie cocktail. Of course. I shovel ice into a plastic cup. Two cherries/big splash of the juice, before hitting it with the sizzle.
There’s a lot of people in the game who scoff at making kiddie cocktails. If you’re in the trade, you know these quote-unquote people. Bartenders who scoff at making a kiddie cocktail. And this, really, is all you need to know about them.
Because the bartender is here to serve. Me, I just give people what they want. I’ll make a hundred kiddie cocktails for zero tips, because I’m ignorant like that. What do you want. How can I help. Be grease, not grit. Serve.
And so it goes.
Ice. Drinks. Plastic cups. Flight trays. Tastings. Can you do a mule. Yeah we can do those. Changing kegs. Simple syrup. Overpouring. Spilled wine. Where’s the rag. Running foam into pitchers. The break bucket with all the broken glass. Suzy slurs something about the slushy machine. I can never hear her. Ice. Drinks. Here ya go, enjoy. I throw a bag of ice against the ground. No tip on $113.85. Nice.
Another customer steps forward. It’s a man in a white T-shirt and cargo shorts, sandals, huge gut. He’s older, with short white hair and a huge/long white beard. And for a moment, I entertain the idea that the stone garden gnome I painted as a gift for my mom, he’s become real and is here to embrace me.
Norm.
My mom named him Norm. And here he is. The version of him after he gets off work watching my mom’s yard. The party version. I swell with emotion as he orders. Should I try and get a picture of him . . . What should I tell him . . . Should I just be totally straightforward, hey this is crazy but . . .
I hand him his drink and we’re both smiling. I nod.
Yes, Godspeed Norm.
I’ll be seeing you.
And then of course, more customers. I turn my mind off and ride the flood. In service. New buses. People bumping into each other. Various groups. Bachelorette parties. Matching pink cowboy hats. Shirts that say Yay It’s Alexa’s 30th Bday!! Other people dressed like dolls. I envision pitting them all against each other in a battle royale. I mean what really is the extent of my power. What really can be done.
One of the hostesses comes up to the window during a lull, ranting with the shitstick. The shitstick is a device used to clear toilets. But in many ways, the shitstick is a metaphor for being left holding it. Whosoever holds the shitstick is left in the shit, so to speak.
“So Tania says she’s not gonna do trash, which means I have to, because Kay can’t use the golfcart after she crashed it into the garage door and shit. And whaddaya know, guess who gets shitstick duty now too! Nobody does fucking anything around here I swear.”
I have my left hand out ready to parry the shitstick, which she waves dangerously close to the service window.
“Yo get that out of here, cmon,” I say.
She grunts and walks off, holding the shitstick to her side, like a possessed caveman.
More buses. A stretch Hummer limo. Ice. Drinks. Restocking. We’re out of that. Do you want a straw. Fuck two-step wine keys. Change the CO2. I put a plastic cup over a tap. Two margaritas. Red sangria. Here’s that beer. Enjoy. Five shots!?!?!?! Ok now we’re getting somewhere.
Anytime a group orders a bunch of stuff I say, “Ok now we’re getting somewhere,” as a generic exclamation. That’s been my go-to lately. It’s encouraging. It’s intriguing. It’s noncommittal. It’s just there. Ok now we’re getting somewhere. People love it.
Suzy rings up the last customer in a multi-hour line: a woman who’s wandered off from a bachelorette party. She wears a small pink cowboy hat. She takes her change from Suzy’s shaking hands.
“Oh my god, I love your nails,” she tells Suzy.
Suzy’s nails are painted purple with sparkles on them. I noticed them earlier myself.
“Ain’t they neat,” says Suzy, softly.
She holds her hands splayed over the service window, shaking. The young lady holds Suzy’s hands, observing the purple sparkly nails, then puts her own nails up for comparison. Pastel pink. They both love each other’s nails. I’m standing there with my arms crossed, sunglasses up, observing their nails as well. It’s beautiful stuff all around.
The young woman tells Suzy to have a good one.
You too sweetie, says Suzy.
And I stare out the service window. There’s garbage in the grass. The sun is lower over the vineyard. A kid rolls sideways down the hill. And somewhere, the shitstick hits the shit.
Toward the end of the shift the manager asks me to go and help clean up a party they’d had in one of the cabanas on the hill. Alexa’s 30th bday party! And when I go check, people are gathering stuff and saying goodbyes. I find the birthday girl leaning against a table, arms folded, next to a metallic balloon 3 and 0, floating, slowly bumping into each other.
“Happy birthday!” I say, holding up my hand.
She tries to focus on me, says thank you. Sort of just breathing, with a look like someone about to ask which way did he go, George/Mortal Kombat finish him shit. She gives me a high five, then brings my hand to her cheek. And for a moment I stand there, as she holds my hand to her face. Then I gently free myself and start bussing.
People don’t know this about me, and I’ll admit it’s not my first passion, but I am a wonderful busser. I really do bus well. Can’t quite explain. But it’s like I should be singing an instructional/motivational song while doing it, that’s how graceful it is. Such graceful bussing. Moving chairs, collecting plates/silverware/bottles. Grace through logistics. Yes I can be admired in many ways.
The birthday girl’s boyfriend is gathering their stuff, holding a box for the rest of the cake. “Hey, actually, anyone wanna take a piece before I box it up?” he says.
“I would absolutely love a piece,” I say.
“Sure, come on!” he says.
He cuts me a slice and puts it on a napkin. I eat it with my hands. Three fast, huge bites. Toss the napkin and wipe my fingers on my rag. The calories already helping.
“Where’re we going?” says the birthday girl.
And I realize she’s talking to me.
The mom says something to the boyfriend and the birthday girl says, “Mom, shut the fuck up. Please. God.”
The boyfriend smiles at me and says, “Hey didja like that cake?”
I smile and nod. “Yes I did, thank you.”
Clink. Clink. Gathering. With the wiping. The collecting. Tidying.
Birthday girl’s mom says, “Cmon Alexa we gotta get going. These folks are prolly tired of us.”
Birthday girl tells her to shut up and asks me where the next place is. Asks me where we’re going. “It’s my birthday,” she says.
“Your birthday’s over, Alexa,” says her mom.
“We already had your birthday, sweetie,” says the boyfriend. “We gotta get going.”
The birthday girl asks where we’re going, grabbing my arm.
Her mom helps release me. “Leave this poor guy alone. Sorry.”
The boyfriend smiles and does a thumbs up. “Gladja liked that cake, man. Was it good?”
“It was wonderful.”
I see the hostess across the property, holding the shitstick, gesturing dramatically to a coworker, both of them dressed like dolls, one with a fanny pack.
When I’m done clearing the party, I clean and restock the walk-up bar. It’s dark out. I say bye to everyone and head through the vineyard. Floodlights guide a stretched version of my shadow along the ground, as I walk down one of the aisles, between vines. All of it harvested. Into the next season. Universe unfolding as is. Always brand new. Can’t be told shit, quite honestly. And for that, we must respect.
My shadow disappears in the darkness of the parking lot. Where I can more clearly see the stars. I catch the glint of something in the dumpster, right next to my truck. A balloon that reads Flirty Thirty. Ok now we’re getting somewhere.
On the drive home, orange and yellow and brown leaves blow across the road. The road emerges from nothing, bordered on all sides by darkness, pierced by my headlights. A sheriff tails me for a few miles but continues on when I turn into a gas station. And the employee behind the register says hello. And I ask her how it’s going. And she says it’s going.
Lately people don’t say “living the dream” anymore. They don’t even robotically say “good.” They say, “It’s going.” The dream is gone and now it’s just going. And holy shit, it all happened so fast.
And what’s more, there’s a new farewell. They say, “Stay safe out there.” People no longer wish you a good one, they say, “Stay safe out there.” Which is an exciting development, to be sure. Quite thrilling. All of it.
I tell her to have a good one and she tells me to stay safe out there.
And I drive the rest of the way in total silence except the wind through my slotted window. Through dead country, moon for a lighthouse. Clenching my buttcheeks in an attempt to make potholes less harmful somehow. A light rain begins.
Back in town I get two burgers from a chain place and eat them idling in my apartment complex parking lot, looking at the basketball court lit alienly by a couple streetlights. Thinking about the old lady at work, Suzy. Her sparkling nails, shaking on the windowsill up against the young lady’s nails. In and out, life and death. Night and day.
It’s going.
My windshield wipers move. The passenger side one is broken. Just a metal arm scraping an arch it has etched in the glass. That same shallow groove over and over. With a little screech. Been meaning to get that fixed.
I re-focus on the basketball court. Concrete with shit growing up through cracks. Lit alienly. Like a play about to happen. And I see something on the fringes, in the bushes. Some movement, something emerging. Coming into focus on the court in a slight tumble.
It’s a short man in a white T-shirt. Huge white beard, big belly, cargo shorts, leather sandals. He brushes himself off, walking toward me. Down the court. Past the dumpsters. Into the parking lot. I watch his white hair go around the hood of my truck and appear in the passenger side window.
The door opens. He labors up/in, over where the step rusted off. Settling into the passenger seat, breathing heavy, closing the door. He takes a couple more breaths then turns his head with a sharp inhale, smiling.
“How’s it going lad.”
I’m frozen. Holding my breath.
“Thanks for the drinks earlier, a fine job ya did. I had a wonderful time. And yeah, I’m yer mum’s garden gnome just so ya know.”
I breathe out. My heart’s beating hard. Eventually, I say, “Norm.”
“Aye, that’s me. The one and only!”
He’s smiling so warmly, holding the grab handle.
Norm.
My beautiful creation.
“But hey look,” he says, “I can’t stay long, I gotta get back to yer mum’s yard, been having a problem with this fokken cat, killing summa me bird friends. Gonna have to lump ’im up, I think. I just wanted to say hello and make sure you’re doing all right.”
I blink a few times, recomposing. “Yeah. Yeah, man, I’m good.”
“You good? Everything good?”
“I’m great actually. Thank you, Norm.”
“Oh, well, that’s wonderful to hear! Good good. Listen”—he looks out the windshield for a second, rubbing his beard—“Christ, now I’m feeling all shy. Look.” He turns back. “People love ya. Yer a beautiful man. I love ya meself, with me whole heart. And I just wanted to say hi.” He has tears in his eyes. “Blah blah, listen to this shit, ya got me all mushy here.”
“Haha. Wow that’s very sweet of you, Norm.”
“No, I mean it.” He pops the latch on his door. “Keep going lad. This is only the beginning. There’s so much more. It’s time to really shine. Not alone, but with us, out here. It’s time. And thank God, because we need ya.”
I’m tensing again.
“Ya understand me don’t ya lad?”
“Y-yeah, I understand.”
“That’s great to hear! I knew ya would. And hey”—he taps my knee—“I’ll see ya around. Be good.”
He swings the door out and softly curses to himself while leaning back and jumping down. The door shuts. I watch his white hair go around the hood as he heads toward the basketball court. Past the dumpsters. He walks the length of the court, slowly shrinking down to ankle-high, before returning to the bushes.
Norm.
My beautiful creation.
The windshield wipers go, broken one screeching quietly. That same shallow groove over and over. I’ve been meaning to get that fixed. 
Sam Pink is just a lil sweetie.
Illustration: Sam Pink.
