Drinks on the House
“It’s nothing,” Clem explained. “You stand behind the bar, you get people drinks, you take their money.”
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When it started raining I came out from behind the bar to close the front door, which was wedged open to let in the 70-degree breeze. Winter came up to me as I was shutting the door. He’s one of the four or five homeless guys I recognize by face in my neighborhood. I don’t know his real name. I started calling him Winter last spring when I saw him walking down the street late one night in a ski cap, layers of shirts and sweaters, and a chewed-up pair of snow boots. The guy he was walking with had on a T-shirt and shorts, and together they looked like summer and winter. It’s easy to make jokes like that when you’re watching from the third floor.
“Hey man,” Winter said. “Can I get 50 cents?”
“Yeah,” he said. I got him a bottle and walked around picking up empties, and when I came back he was half done with his beer.
I was about to walk the peanuts and the shot over to Winter. “Um, getting people drinks and taking their money,” I said.
“OK,” said Clem, grabbing the Jack Daniels and a new shot glass. He smacked the glass down in front of Winter. “You put the glass in front of the customer, and that’s where you pour the shot.” Clem filled the new glass. “That way it don’t spill. Got it?”
