Day CXXXV

Pat's Bar

     Some of the things we do aren’t so funny. This reminds me of the professor, I don’t know why they called him that. I guess it’s because he thought he knew everything, like that dude Cliff on Cheers, the sitcom. He and Joe became crimies, brothers in crime when Joe was still hung up on dope. On the corner of 150^{th st}  street and Brook Av was Pat’s bar, a nice nabe hang out. Mostly guys would go there for a beer after work, before going home. Mr. Sullivan gave me a job, he and me pops were pals, when I couldn’t find work after the military. I worked six months for him, and he taught me to mix drinks, and to be patient with drunks. Talk about second hand smoke, man, Pat’s was always full of smoke.

     In the mornings the bouquet of ashtrays full of butts, ashes, and charcoal, mixed with the aroma of beer which never leaves a bar. They fused into a malodorous stench which was enough to make me want to hurl. At eleven in the mornings Pat opened up, and the first thing he did was to turn on the two overhead fans. He opened the doors wide, and left them open for a at least an hour, to make it breathable. Then he made coffee, and served it, and his charming self until one in the afternoon, when he could legally serve beer.

      During the day seniors sat there sipping tap, telling war stories. I worked weekends, from six in the P.M. till closing, which was approximately between two thirty, and three in the morning. It all depended on how quickly we got the drunks out between two thirty and three.