It's about eleven thirty when you walk through the doors of the Moonlight Lounge. As soon as your eyes adjust to the smoky darkness, you see twenty or so people who you know by name or face. They are all wearing white tuxedo shirts and black slacks. Some are still wearing their black bow ties, and some are still wearing aprons. Every bartender and waiter in Fresno knows this is their place.
The bartender sees you and reaches across the bar. “How was
your night, Steve?”
“Decent,” you answer as you shake hands with Dan, “better
than last night for sure.”
“Whatcha havin'?” asked Dan.
“I’ll take a Captain Coke and let me get a G&T for Ryan.
He’s a few minutes behind me."
The crowd is loud with war stories of a night dealing with
picky eaters and bad drunks. The tales are told and retold as a steady stream
of restaurant workers continue to file into the bar. Laughter rolls through the
room like the wave in the stands of a football game.
At the end of the room, where the bar turns and meets the
wall under an outdated 27-inch Panasonic television set, sits The Pope. He's the only customer in the place who doesn't work in the food and beverage industry. He's a Yugoslavian immigrant who has been operating A-1 Tuxedo and Men's Wear since he came to America 30 years ago. The story is that he was the first tenant in Highlander Village, the strip mall where the Moonlight Lounge is located. His real name is Gero, or something like that, but his customers call him George. Years ago, the regulars at the bar started calling him "The Pope of Highlander Village." He works late altering suits, and making custom tuxedos, and then spends the later hours of the night drinking vodka and holding court the bar. He's easily old enough to be the father or grandfather of every one of the late-night customers, but he is respected and held in high regard by every one with whom he shares the rail. He always has a new joke to tell, is always ready for a game of dice - as long as a drink is on the line, and is always gracious when he wins and gracious when he loses. He calls you and the other food service regulars his "puppies" and treats all of you well.
Some time ago, The Pope had an apprentice named Nick who
worked at his shop. But nobody really liked him. Nick was a know-it-all who
told bullshit stories, was a name-dropper, and claimed to know many famous
people. He just got under your skin and rubbed everyone else the wrong way too.
One night a year or so earlier, you and another drinking
buddy decided that it would be funny to throw an entire pitcher of beer in
Nick's face. So you made drunken plans for a week. "Next time Nick comes
in," your friend said, "we'll wait for him to start talking shit and
I'll calmly douse him with a pitcher of Coors Light." It seemed like a
reasonable plan.
Finally, the night came. Nick had come into the Moonlight
Lounge after a late night at the shop. The Pope wasn't there that night
and Nick sat at the end of the bar, in The Pope's regular spot. Within minutes,
Nick started in on a tale of growing up in Brooklyn, and how his mother learned
to make spaghetti from Cora Rizzuto, wife of famed Yankee announcer Phil
Rizzuto. "She had just arrived in New York and lived in a Bushwick
apartment building two doors down from the Rizzuto's," he explained.
"Mom taught Cora how to make Cevapcici and it became one of Phil's
favorites. In return, Cora taught mom how to make Spaghetti..."
You looked over at your buddy as he finished paying for a
pitcher of Coors light. Patiently, he stood next to Nick and listened to the yarn grow longer and longer. "...Cora started making her meatballs with a combination of lamb, beef and pork, just like the Cevapcici," Nick continued, "and it became the secret ingredient." That seemed to be the perfect moment. Your buddy raised the plastic pitcher over Nick's head and turned it over, soaking him with all 48 ounces of beer.
Nick was surprised at first. But just when you expected the
punches to start flying, he stood up. For the first time since meeting him,
Nick was silent. He should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead, he looked
hurt as he calmly and quietly walked out of the bar.
You were drunk. Your buddy was drunk. Everyone at the bar
was drunk. So you all hooped and hollered and laughed.
The next night, when you showed up, The Pope was there. He
wasn't mad, but he was clearly disappointed in you and your stupid friends. You
immediately knew that you had fucked up. You felt exactly the same way that you
felt when your father was disappointed in you when you were a kid. You felt
like shit. He gave you a slight talking to, but you don't remember anything he
said. But you don't have to.
After a week or so, Nick showed up at the bar wearing a
yellow raincoat, galoshes and big yellow rain hat. It was funny and you thought
it was a classy move. You also figured that The Pope instructed him to do that.
The Pope knew what it would take to win you and your drinking buddies over and
advised Nick accordingly. It did the trick.
Funny thing was, Nick cut way back on his tall tales. You
decided that he must have got an earful from The Pope too.
But that all happened a couple years ago. Nick eventually
moved on to bigger and better things and the rest of you still show up every
night after your last customers are gone.
*****
As yesterday turns into tomorrow, you settle into a ratty
barstool between Ryan and Tom and start on your second Rum and Coke. Ryan is
finishing his first Gin and Tonic. Tom has probably been there since five or
six o’clock and is drinking his usual rusty nail with a Coors Light back.
Oddly enough, there are several regulars named Tom. But to
you, it’s not confusing at all. Tommy is a bartender at The Firehouse Pub, a
college hangout located across the street from the Fresno State University;
TomTom is a bartender at The Airport Lounge, which is NOT located at, or near an
Airport; Ten Pin Tom bartends at Ten Pin Lanes, a bowling alley located just a
few miles away; Big Tom, who isn’t all that big, and Little Tom, who isn’t
little, but is shorter than Big Tom, work together at The Palace, a dance club
which attracts an older crowd; and, of course, you are sitting next to Tom. Tom
is about 45-years-old and works for a company that makes and sells awnings and
patio covers. But on Sunday nights, he bartends at the Moonlight Lounge.
Years earlier, well before you were old enough to legally
drink, Tom started the Sunday Night Drinking Club. The rules were simple. To be
a member you had to be at the bar on Sunday Night. Then, between Midnight and
2:00 A.M., you had to drink the following by yourself:
- 1 pitcher of beer
- 5 cocktails
- 3 shooters
- 3 shots
There were other rules too. Things like fouls for spilling
or vomiting, prospective members had to stay for the entire two hours, and Tom
monitored the proof of any chosen liquor. This last rule assured that the
contestant didn’t down a bunch of pussy-proofed stuff like Malibu or Amaretto.
Although it sounds easy enough, it took you a couple tries
before you were able to join. You learned that there is a combination of pacing
and order of consumption that is necessary to complete the task.
Other than your name written on a cocktail napkin and taped
to the back bar mirror, membership doesn’t really get you anything special. But
it’s kind of an elite club and you are proud to be a member.
*****
For the next hour or so, there is a constant parade of
customers. At first, they are only fellow bartenders and waiters coming in after their shift. But as it gets later, the crowd turns into a roughly organized assembly of characters that are mostly college kids but are mixed with gang-banger-wanna-bees, nerds, jocks, douchie-looking assholes, mustachioed hipsters, and small groups of half-lit girls. They are coming from a large variety of dance clubs, micro beer tasting rooms, and college hangouts where Last Call takes place by 1:15 A.M.
You and Ryan and Tom are right where you want to be. The
drinks are flowing, the conversation is fun, and none of you can give a shit
about anything else in the world. You have a front row seat at the best place
on earth.
Dan yells “NEXT TO LAST CALL” at 1:45.This is the time when
the Moonlight Lounge stops selling cocktails and beer and only serves shots and
shooters.
Kamikazes, Purple Hooters, and Pinkies are ordered. Fireball
shots seem to be the shots of the night, and dozens of those are ordered too.
You hear “LAST CALL” and instinctively know that it’s 1:55
A.M. You and Ryan and Tom finish your drinks, push several twenty dollar bills
across the bar, shake hands with Dan and about a dozen or so more people and
are out the door with everyone else by 2:00 A.M...
Read Part IV >
Read Part IV >
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