Several months ago, I wrote a multi part column entitled Syd’s League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. This was a collection of stories I’ve accrued over my many years in the bar business as they pertain to what I like to call, the elder statesmen in the pub. It was a collection of stories either told by, or about, aging senior gents who sit regularly in the bar and have done so for much longer than I’ve been alive. The piece was compiled of humorous stories, or just little pearls of wisdom that these elderly guys have bestowed upon me and others. Unfortunately, when I wrote this story initially, there were a few stories that I had forgotten and left out. Not being one for taking diligent notes, and having spent many years lacking mental lucidity and clarity due to my lifestyle, it’s easy to see how some things could slip my mind. So here now are a couple of stories I’ve since recalled that I deem worth repeating. Hence making this Part 5 of the series. Please accept my apologies for the delay.

To briefly recap, we all know these guys, and every bar in America has at least one. He’s the older gentleman in the bar who’s probably retired and has decades’ worth of great stories that he’s reluctant to share. He comes in every day and sits quietly, always in the same stool, sipping away his remaining days. He says very little, but when he does speak, he’s worth listening to.

Here are two more Old Guy Stories that unfortunately slipped my feeble mind when I wrote this piece originally.

OLD GUY STORY NUMBER FIVE:

In a bar I worked in several years ago, I had a pair of regulars who would come in at least twice a week. They were a married couple, though you wouldn’t know it on the surface for they never sat within fifteen feet of each other. He, a gent of his late seventies, would always sit alone in the corner at the far end of the bar, farthest from the door. She, a lady of her late sixties, would sit at the first stool as you came in the front door. In front of this first stool atop the bar resided one of those touch screen video games. She had a penchant for playing this game for hours upon hours as her spouse sat quietly at the opposite end of the bar sipping his cocktails fantasizing that they were hemlock instead of gin.

They seldom spoke to each other, let alone others. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that she didn’t speak. In fact she never shut up. She just never spoke to anyone specifically. She just barked loudly and incessantly at either the video screen, or some imaginary friend who accompanied her. No one but her could see this friend, but they were very close and fought often. I for one was mildly offended that after years of waiting on them I was never introduced to “the friend.”

She would sit all day pumping her husband’s retirement fund into this silly machine, playing it addictively and competitively as if there were some great reward at the end, other then bragging rights and your initials on the screen. Her husband was perfectly content to both finance and allow the delusion to continue as it kept his “beloved” at bay. It was no secret that he would deliberately turn his hearing aid all the way down in the hopes that someone else would have to deal with her. In all the years I happily served this entertaining duo, I never once saw him smile.

He always sat in the same position while slowly sipping his way into premature embalming. His right elbow was always resting on the bar with his forehead cradled upon his balled up right fist. He seldom looked up or even spoke. His torso and lower body were always slightly angled to the left so he could see both his wife and the front door in his peripheral. I was convinced that this posture was for one of two reasons. The first is that from that position, he could see when the Grim Reaper finally walked in the front door. He wanted to be cognizant of His arrival not so that he could flee, but so that he could greet him with a big hug. The second reason for this posture, I believe, is that he wanted to have a clear view should his lovely bride ever begin to clutch her chest. Either would be a welcome sight to this sad old man. He always just silently stared down at his drink with a perpetual look upon his face that could best be described as crestfallen. This look constantly enveloped his wrinkled face as he mulled over thoughts of either a life long gone by, or never actually lived at all.

The extent of the conversation I ever observed between the two was her bellowing from the opposite end of the bar near the video game,

“Need more money Jackass!”

This was always a Hallmark moment; such a sweet little pet name. Can’t imagine why he was eager to get to “the end”.  He would always quietly hobble to her end of the bar, hand her another 20, and return to his resting place.

On one particular day, this regular ritual took place. Only this time, instead of immediately walking towards her with more money, he slowly lifted his head from its’ perch on his fist and looked up at me. This is when he said the words which I will never forget.

HIM: “Syd.”

ME: “Yeah buddy”

HIM: “You see that woman over there?”

ME: “yes sir.”

HIM: “ I’ve been married to that woman for 32 years.”

ME: “Congrats man. That’s beautiful.”

HIM: “If on our wedding day I had killed her instead of marrying her, I’d have been out by now.”

At this time, he put both hands behind his head, clasped them together intertwining his fingers and leaned way back in his stool as if to be completely relaxed. He closed his eyes tightly and smiled from ear to ear. It was the first and last time I ever saw him smile.

OLD GUY STORY NUMBER SIX:

Another bar I once worked in also had the familiar face of the aging daily imbiber. He too always sat in the same stool, drank the same thing, arrived and departed at the same times every day and said very little. On this day, the bar was occupied by all the usual suspects. They all sat in their usual seats drinking their afternoons away discussing nothing of significance. As always, all seats were within ear shot of the “elder statesman” of the bunch in hopes that this would be the day he would regale us with a story or some pearl of wisdom.

It was a relatively busy lunch shift and the bar occupants were engaged in their usual mindless banter of poorly researched opinions about sports, politics, and world affairs when suddenly there was a distraction. In walked a young lady in her mid to late twenties who was absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. She was practically perfect in every possible way and prior to meeting my wife, was probably the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. She had to walk past the bar en route to her lunch table and every head turned to check her out—every head but one that is. Even the female patrons were ogling her—she was THAT hot.

The one head that did not turn was attached to our aging friend seated in the corner of the bar who mumbled something under his breath as she passed. We were getting our wish. The seldom linguistic, leather-faced, scotch-swilling fellow, with nearly eight decades of Earth dwelling under his belt was speaking to us. Only I was close enough to him to hear his first barely audible comment, which was this,

“Somebody somewhere thinks she’s a (insert proper term for female canine here).”

I chuckled and the following exchange ensued.

ME: “How can you not even glance at her? She’s perfect.”

HIM: “I’m 82 years old. What, do I have a chance? I’ll stick with this glass of scotch. It’s a sure thing.”

ME: “What did you mean by what you said when she walked by?”

HIM: “You show me the hottest girl in the world, and I’ll find you somebody who’s tired of doin her.”

After that, I was useless with laughter for the next few minutes but the words of this wise man seemed especially poignant and I will always remember them.

That’s all for now friends. I just wanted to share a few more stories about the Old Guys in the bar. I hope you enjoyed them. Thanks for playing along.

Until next week,

Syd Nichols

To read about other Extraordinary Gentlemen:

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