Don't Leave Me This Way
"She'll laugh," I heard Lulu exclaim, before I'd even had a chance to take off my coat and settle into my usual bar stool at The Banknote. She was talking to a shortish, long-haired man wearing a CTV logoed vest and drinking a Guinness. He had the look of a regular about him, yet I didn't recognize him as a Banknote regular.
The CTV guy turned toward me. It was clear that whatever story Lulu'd been telling before I came in, he hadn't laughed. This fact alone spoke volumes about him. If you'd ever met Lulu, you'd know it's hard not to laugh when she tells a story. The story doesn't even have to be funny; it's all in the way she tells it. Lulu is a pixieish woman with dark hair and eyes, and a dimple the size of a meteor that crinkles when she smiles—and she's always smiling. In telling her stories she imitates facial expressions, puts on voices, pretends to be chewing gum with all the daintiness of a horse chewing its oats, snorts and clicks her tongue for sound effects, and all the while wildly gesticulating for emphasis. The untutored patron who sits beside her, or passes too closely behind, is at no inconsiderable personal risk.
"Sass will laugh at this story," says Lulu to the CTV guy. Then, to me, "You'll laugh, I know it."
Then she tells the following story:
"So I'm waiting for the elevator after work, and it stops and there's a guy in it already, not anyone I know; he must work for one of the other companies up on one of the higher floors; so I get in and I've just put on my coat—you know my big puffy coat?"
Before I can offer a reply as to the state of my knowledge of her wardrobe, she continues:
"This one!" she squeals, realizing it's hanging on the chair behind her. She lifts up one of the sleeves to show me. It is indeed a puffy coat. Down filled.
"So I've got the coat on and I get into the elevator and I reach into my pockets to pull out my gloves—you know how you keep your gloves in your coat pockets?— and I pull out my glove from the one pocket and my pocket explodes!"
Lulu reenacts the elevator scene. A woman passing behind her chair ducks.
"It just exploded—feathers everywhere! And I looked up at the guy in the elevator and I said, 'Look, my pocket exploded,' and he says to me, without missing a beat, 'Good thing it's not duck season!'"
I laugh. The CTV guy does not. But Lulu's not done yet:
"And I burst out laughing, I mean that's funny, right? Duck season! And I said something like, yeah, good thing, ha ha, and then it's only later, when I'm on the streetcar on my way here that I'm peeing my pants laughing because I realize what I should have said. You know what the streetcar's like at 5:00, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking; I mean nobody talks to anyone, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm just about peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because it's so funny—duck season!—and then I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator."
Martin is bartending tonight, though it's Andrew's night, and that's why I come here on Monday nights—it's not just the $6.95 pasta pescatore special, it's because of Andrew. It's why all of us do. So when he's not here on his usual night it's hard not to feel...disappointed. Nothing against Martin, not at all; in fact, he's my second favourite bartender ever since he lent Dave his skates a few weeks ago, but he's too shy and quiet to make a great bartender, and, let's face it, there are plenty of places in this city where we could go for a pint. Like I tell my students, smart marketers know that it's not about the beer— or the coffee, or the haircut, or the screwdriver, or whatever it is that you're buying—it's about the experience. And Andrew is key to The Banknote experience.
But tomorrow is Tuesday; I'll come by after my evening class. Tuesday is Andrew's night, too. So's Wednesday, when it's half price appetizers until 10:00.
Lulu is about to tell me what she should have retorted to the man on the elevator:
"So it's only when I get on the streetcar and I'm halfway here that I think of what I should have said to the guy in the elevator, and you know what the streetcar's like at this time of the afternoon; it's rush hour, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm seriously peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because that's when I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator:"
I wait.
"No—it's wabbit season!" she explodes.
I laugh.
"See, I told you she'd laugh!" says Lulu to CTV Guy.
I've managed to consume almost half of my Beck's while Lulu's been telling the wabbit story, and I haven't been drinking quickly. Like I said, it's all in the way she tells 'em.
Martin's got the cable radio on channel 73, the throbbing disco channel. Since I've been sitting here I've heard Thelma Houston, Alicia Bridges, and a weird one hit disco wonder from a zillion years ago called "I Lost My Heart to a Starship Trooper."
"I don't suppose you'd maybe want to put the radio on channel 33?" I ask Martin, trying not to give him the impression that I wish Andrew were here, even though that's exactly what I'm wishing. "It's the Frank Sinatra station."
"Sorry, I can't," Martin replies, and he does seem sorry, "We've switched it about six times already tonight; I've got to leave it on this for a while."
Vince, one of the owners, is in the bar, and it's his favourite station.
"So where's that good for nothing Andrew tonight?" I ask, Martin, jokingly. "Too hungover from his other job as a bouncer at the gay strip club to drag his sorry ass in here?"
I like to think I'm The Banknote's resident quidnunc. Then again, like I've said before, I like to think I'm 29. But I like to know what's going on, and I think that I do. Oh, Lulu's the mayor of the place—she'll get to know the new people and make everyone feel at home; entertain them with her stories. But I watch. I observe.
I write stories.
"Andrew's gone," says Martin simply.
* * *
The next story is more about Angela and Boz. There will be more about Andrew the bartender in Don't Leave Me This Way [redux].
The CTV guy turned toward me. It was clear that whatever story Lulu'd been telling before I came in, he hadn't laughed. This fact alone spoke volumes about him. If you'd ever met Lulu, you'd know it's hard not to laugh when she tells a story. The story doesn't even have to be funny; it's all in the way she tells it. Lulu is a pixieish woman with dark hair and eyes, and a dimple the size of a meteor that crinkles when she smiles—and she's always smiling. In telling her stories she imitates facial expressions, puts on voices, pretends to be chewing gum with all the daintiness of a horse chewing its oats, snorts and clicks her tongue for sound effects, and all the while wildly gesticulating for emphasis. The untutored patron who sits beside her, or passes too closely behind, is at no inconsiderable personal risk.
"Sass will laugh at this story," says Lulu to the CTV guy. Then, to me, "You'll laugh, I know it."
Then she tells the following story:
"So I'm waiting for the elevator after work, and it stops and there's a guy in it already, not anyone I know; he must work for one of the other companies up on one of the higher floors; so I get in and I've just put on my coat—you know my big puffy coat?"
Before I can offer a reply as to the state of my knowledge of her wardrobe, she continues:
"This one!" she squeals, realizing it's hanging on the chair behind her. She lifts up one of the sleeves to show me. It is indeed a puffy coat. Down filled.
"So I've got the coat on and I get into the elevator and I reach into my pockets to pull out my gloves—you know how you keep your gloves in your coat pockets?— and I pull out my glove from the one pocket and my pocket explodes!"
Lulu reenacts the elevator scene. A woman passing behind her chair ducks.
"It just exploded—feathers everywhere! And I looked up at the guy in the elevator and I said, 'Look, my pocket exploded,' and he says to me, without missing a beat, 'Good thing it's not duck season!'"
I laugh. The CTV guy does not. But Lulu's not done yet:
"And I burst out laughing, I mean that's funny, right? Duck season! And I said something like, yeah, good thing, ha ha, and then it's only later, when I'm on the streetcar on my way here that I'm peeing my pants laughing because I realize what I should have said. You know what the streetcar's like at 5:00, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking; I mean nobody talks to anyone, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm just about peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because it's so funny—duck season!—and then I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator."
Martin is bartending tonight, though it's Andrew's night, and that's why I come here on Monday nights—it's not just the $6.95 pasta pescatore special, it's because of Andrew. It's why all of us do. So when he's not here on his usual night it's hard not to feel...disappointed. Nothing against Martin, not at all; in fact, he's my second favourite bartender ever since he lent Dave his skates a few weeks ago, but he's too shy and quiet to make a great bartender, and, let's face it, there are plenty of places in this city where we could go for a pint. Like I tell my students, smart marketers know that it's not about the beer— or the coffee, or the haircut, or the screwdriver, or whatever it is that you're buying—it's about the experience. And Andrew is key to The Banknote experience.
But tomorrow is Tuesday; I'll come by after my evening class. Tuesday is Andrew's night, too. So's Wednesday, when it's half price appetizers until 10:00.
Lulu is about to tell me what she should have retorted to the man on the elevator:
"So it's only when I get on the streetcar and I'm halfway here that I think of what I should have said to the guy in the elevator, and you know what the streetcar's like at this time of the afternoon; it's rush hour, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm seriously peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because that's when I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator:"
I wait.
"No—it's wabbit season!" she explodes.
I laugh.
"See, I told you she'd laugh!" says Lulu to CTV Guy.
I've managed to consume almost half of my Beck's while Lulu's been telling the wabbit story, and I haven't been drinking quickly. Like I said, it's all in the way she tells 'em.
Martin's got the cable radio on channel 73, the throbbing disco channel. Since I've been sitting here I've heard Thelma Houston, Alicia Bridges, and a weird one hit disco wonder from a zillion years ago called "I Lost My Heart to a Starship Trooper."
"I don't suppose you'd maybe want to put the radio on channel 33?" I ask Martin, trying not to give him the impression that I wish Andrew were here, even though that's exactly what I'm wishing. "It's the Frank Sinatra station."
"Sorry, I can't," Martin replies, and he does seem sorry, "We've switched it about six times already tonight; I've got to leave it on this for a while."
Vince, one of the owners, is in the bar, and it's his favourite station.
"So where's that good for nothing Andrew tonight?" I ask, Martin, jokingly. "Too hungover from his other job as a bouncer at the gay strip club to drag his sorry ass in here?"
I like to think I'm The Banknote's resident quidnunc. Then again, like I've said before, I like to think I'm 29. But I like to know what's going on, and I think that I do. Oh, Lulu's the mayor of the place—she'll get to know the new people and make everyone feel at home; entertain them with her stories. But I watch. I observe.
I write stories.
"Andrew's gone," says Martin simply.
The next story is more about Angela and Boz. There will be more about Andrew the bartender in Don't Leave Me This Way [redux].
Labels: girl friends, hanging in bars
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