Bartender

I love winning! I LOVE winning!" he said laughing loudly over the bar. And he was a man, she knew, who had come to love winning because he always, always, did; except once. Or at least once when it mattered most. For that loss he had found no forgiveness, it was obvious in the tone of his voice that begged someone to defy him. He had a daughter once, from his first marriage. She died when she was three months old. He had told her as much among other details woven into the afternoon’s stories.

"Tell her the one about that time you...." his companion would say as she laid a hand on his arm. Without missing a beat, another story of this party or that woman would flow seamlessly with the preceding topic of conversation. So for what seemed like the better part of the overcast afternoon she listened, often laughing for lack of an appropriate response to his tales of less than appropriate behavior. More often though she strove to school her features and control the blushing that so frequently gave away her innocence. He was a shameless flirt and, if not altogether forward, the older man had no qualms about talking of lovemaking and mistress-taking among other things.

Yet they talked of other things too. Travel, culture, family and, breaking nearly every rule a bartender should wisely follow, they even spoke of ethics and religion. She was never shy to plainly state her chosen direction in life and talk about the person who inspired her to do so. Yet regardless of the fact that he knew her beliefs it could only be described as surprise, pity and respect wound together in the man's eyes when she quietly asserted that, despite his heartfelt advice to embrace youth and love with as many as she could or would, she intended to love and be with only one man.

It was humbling, she admitted to herself, to take such an unmoving stance on a subject which she was by far the least educated or experienced among the three conversing. Even believing herself to sound idealistic, something she left behind years ago, and in that likely sounding quite foolish as well, it was without embarrassment that she gave no hint of second guessing herself; that, she did not do. For she truly did believe, even in that humbling moment, that she would find just one.

"I'm so proud of you," he began. "That your religion is so important to you. I think it's just such a great thing. I am not a very religious man, at all. But I think it's great for you."
It was not the first time she had heard him say this, except this time he went on.
"It used to be different for me though. But when my daughter died of leukemia we parted ways and it's been that way ever since. You don't mess with me," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You screw with me and that's it!"
With an emphatic slap on the bar he took his wine glass in hand, as if to portray a casual confidence in his statement, and continued.
"God took my daughter away from me which He should NOT have done. Jesus f$%^&*# owes me one!"
He looked away, sipping the chardonnay with none of the heat and emotion in his voice and words affecting his outward appearance.
"Explain to me how God would let a wave come up out of the ocean and kill 200,000 people if he was really out there anyways?"

Immediately the conversation shifted as he, again without pause, joined the conversation that had started nearby. She, however, was still leaning against the counter on her side of the bar speechless, just as she had found herself throughout his entire exposition. Bitterness and grief had hung so heavily to his words that it was not a nervous blush she had worked to conceal but the tears that sprung unbidden to her eyes. Carefully she had been able to keep them from showing as he spoke looking directly at her. He did not want her pity, she knew, and neither were there any words, had she thought of some, that would have reached his ears while he spoke of this long-harbored grudge against God and the injustice done to him. Still taken aback by the open door she had just seen into this man's past, it was the surge of compassion that came with her tears which found resolution in taking this man up on a request he had made earlier. He had commented on her religious beliefs before, but the first time that day he had brought it up was to say, "Next time you talk to Him, tell God I could use some help." After this explanation of their estrangement her answer, though not out loud, was to reply simply, "I will pray for you Jack. I will."

It is not every day you see a piece of a man's soul, even less often the bound and tormented pieces of one who is the picture of success, wealth and freedom. She did that day. She saw the truth that a man who loved winning had tragically lost a daughter, but truly he had chosen his own greatest tragedy and lost so much more.