The Regular Reasons

by James Callan

I watch them from behind the bar—the regulars with their regular antics. Some of them call me the mixologist, others, the bartender. Most of them call me Frank. Whatever they call me, when I pour their drinks, they look at me like I’m God.

It’s nice, I guess, being that guy—the guy who comes at the end of a hard day’s work, the evening release. But it gets old real quick. I’m not their friend—not really. I’m the face of a good time. I’m not their buddy, their brother. I’m their mascot, their great enabler.

I’ve been the barman for sixteen years, but I’d seen enough in as many weeks. I’d heard it all in a single month of shifts. All their jokes, all their stories. Their befores, their afters, their nows. I’ve heard their tales, all their regular reasons.

At the regular place, they lose track of time. They drink and lose their inhibitions. Troubles are shed while lost in their cups. They’ve all lost something, some more than others.

They’ve lost wives and sons, husbands and daughters. They’ve lost patience, confidence, and dignity. They’ve lost their jobs. They’ve lost their nerve. Their home. Their marbles. The keys to their fucking car.

Dan lost his boy to drowning (thin ice—kid was seven).

Maggie, her virginity…to her father…at age eight.

Friends—they’ve lost them in droves.

Respect for others. Certainly, respect for themselves.

They’ve lost control.

Gordon struck his boss so many times that the guy needed a new set of teeth and reconstructive surgery. Gordon didn’t get the raise. Moreover, he can’t land a job. Not since doing time.

Many have bet and lost.

Some have lost their temper, losing face, losing faith, losing hope. A few have lost their limbs. Most have lost their lunch—it’s a rite of passage.

They’ve lost their will to live.

Patrick lost it all. He swung by the noose.

So what do they gain? And why do they do it? Here’s a thimble of soul-searching for the mixologist: Why do I play my part in cheering them on?

Doors open at five, and it’s “Evening, Frank” until seven; then it’s smoke and bad jokes, broken hearts until 2 am.

Most of them don’t want to admit it: it’s a broken crutch, an illusion of aid that fosters more pain than it could ever mend. But it’s there, the local pub. It’s there, the regular joint with the regular crowd. It’s there —the scotch or bourbon, the vodka and gin, the wine or beer— and the burn, man, it feels so good.

From behind the bar, I’ve seen it all—all the regulars and their regular antics. I pour the drinks and they knock them down. But who am I to point the finger, dissecting their souls like we’re two different species?

Ask yourself, I say, does this wooden counter between you and them draw a line of distinction?

No. It does not.

I’ve lost things, too—and plenty. I’ve lost the will to try and make amends. Just how the fuck could I? You don’t lose what I lose and pick up the pieces. You don’t get back on the horse. You bury it.

Sure, I might pour the drinks, but I knock them back just like the rest of us. Like all the other regulars, I’ve got my reasons.

She was an angel. My little girl. A perfect angel—in every way but the wings. But wings or no, she flew. Flew just like a bullet. My girl flew clean through the glass and onto the road.

How many times had I told her? And why the fuck wouldn’t it stick? Buckle up, sweetheart. Buckle up, you hear me? Buckle up, little angel, it’s the law.

Question for the mixologist: Why didn’t you buckle her up? Why didn’t you get off your ass and clip the simple mechanism? Ever heard of a child lock, dumb fuck? Or were you too preoccupied to take ten seconds of your time?

Buckle up, little darling.

Was my little angel deaf or just defiant? More to the point, Mr. Barman, were you drunk while driving her home?

She’d be 21. Had she lived, she’d be old enough to drink.

I look in the mirror and see a man who looks accusatory; the asshole looks half dead. The man in the mirror is always asking me questions—the same few questions that flay like a whip. But I do not answer. Not in words. I answer in my own way. The way I always have. I reach for the bottle. There’s my fucking answer.

Who wants tequila shots?! Who the fuck doesn't?

Cheers to that!

I'm the one pouring, but it doesn't stop me from joining in.

Going down, it’s absolution.

They hold up their glasses. They fork over their wages. Some say words. Others don’t bother. Behind the bar, the man in the mirror joins in. Unanimous, they raise their drinks.

Together, we empty them as one.

BIO: James Callan is a writer from Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His debut collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is forthcoming with Anxiety Press.