letter twenty

11.3.2010

Dear Bar Owner,

you had your first official shift last night. i tried to stay awake until after closing, so i could call you and see how it all panned out after we last spoke, at the beginning of the shift, when the hum of the television and friends could be heard in the background, behind your nervous and hopeful voice. with only four hours of sleep from the night before in my reserve, however, i fell fast asleep around 9. fighting a bossy cold. i texted you as soon as the weight of impending slumber tugged at my eyelids. i woke at 12:22 for a few seconds. thought of you. wondered if you had closed or were staying open until 1. fleeting thoughts. fast asleep soon thereafter.

i woke to a quiet house save the television. bumbled around our home. acknowledged the strangeness of leaving lights on and prepping for the day without care of the sounds such kitchen fumbles made. usually, while you sleep through my morning routine, there's no illumination. unmatched socks and spots of bread mold have been the results of such timid morning practices. not so today.

as soon as i arrive at my desk from the first chilled morning of the season, i text you. do tell me of your shift. call me when you wake. and, you do. it goes something like:

i felt fine last night, but every morning i wake now, i'm nervous again, feel like i could throw up. just hearing your voice though, calms me down. our friends came by. friends of friends too. some curious stragglers. my mom - she told me she hopes that next week i have wine glasses and better wine than the sutter home small bottles. someone who works at a local restaurant was happy that the bar was open again. previous owners had been closing at 5. friends commented on how the beast of a jukebox being gone and the red walls were already lending a new air to the room. still nervous though. need to hire more people. we don't have the funds available yet to do so...

i tell you how i've started a separate blog to detail this new life. you laugh at that. we soon end the conversation. you promise to send photos of the progress. i assure you that you are only two days in. it'll get better once the old sign is down and ours is launched. when we put trees out front. when we stay open to certain times each night. become reliable for patrons. i'll launch a facebook page. handle the marketing. get the word out.

just before we hang up you say, it's all for us. that you'd never put yourself through all of this just for you. i laugh at this, knowing that if you were still single, you would be leading a different life. you'd have no reason to return to the town of your roots. you wouldn't own a house there in preparation for our family. you'd most likely be living that bartender life. you know, the typical one. the one you strayed from after i walked into the barroom. i'm both elated and guilty. the level of stress you endure wears upon you in the silver strands breaking through your dark locks and beard. you wear it well, my dear. and, i hope you don't resent it. i hope the surprise of this new path enlivens you once it's all set in place.

i truly hope it's all that you want.

letter nineteen

11.2.2010

Dear Bar Owner,

i'm writing on this hazy tuesday morning with an equally hazy mind. we've had quite a run of it the past few days and i believe it's now catching up with me. you worked until 6:00 in the morning friday night through saturday so you could make some pocket change building a takeout window at the cambridge bar. i woke a tad early on saturday with many chores in mind that i kept at bay until the hour you woke. the lack of sleep. the worry of what was ahead for us on monday. it was all showing in the puffy lines on your tired face. my poor man. i poured you a glass of juice instructing you to get some nutrients. you left to meet with the guy who rents the pool table and other "amusements" at the bar soon to be ours. i took care of housekeeping to be sure all was in order in our home before i left. tangible cleaning/sorting eases my mind.

we spent saturday night with our friends decked out in a psuedo preppy best for halloween shenanigans. then sunday we met with our attorney. he had the financials spelled out. he had a problem. a large problem it turned out. we worried that the deal would take more time. again. then, monday finally arrived. you didn't want to wake to meet with the current owners to count their inventory. apparently they didn't either. "let's just call it an even exchange." we agree. you return to bed for a snooze before the hour arrives. when i wake you, you ask if we can just not go. i don't want to be without you, you admit. can't we just stay in bed and snuggle.

you are not one to snuggle. although a grand idea, i don't allow for this avoidance. get up. this is the moment you've worked towards. for a decade. let's jump in.

paperwork, close to a foot thick, makes everything final. the issue of the day previous is muted, not gone, but not as costly. you rest your hand on my leg. you're warm, sweaty even. nervous. i hold your hand, patting with reassurance. when we're asked for our licenses, you shuffle your wallet around and sneak a glance at a note i wrote to you on friday morning. you nod at it - keeping it close it seems. this small gesture makes me happy. those simple words do make a difference.

the attorneys wonder about the name of the llc. you explain that it references our pup. the closing attorney says that anyone who names something after their pet is good in her book. talk of our dogs is filler between the itemized list. five pages long.

two-and-a-half hours later, we are outside again. congratulations in our wake. we stare blankly at each other. we do not grasp what we've done. we kid that we don't even know where the light switch is in the bar. we decide to open a p.o. box. then, standing in the post office parking lot, you say, let's just go to city hall now. we're in it. why not go and make it really official. i entertain the idea for the rest of the afternoon. instead of going straight to the bar, we visit our soon-to-be bartender and always friend across the street at the bar she is currently at. she raises her arms in paused cheer until we smile and say YES. we are here to check out the competition. the day regulars cheers with us a celebratory shot. it's blue and fruity. we munch on warm flat bread 'wiches from across the way. mustering up a slight buzz to relieve us of the morning's stress as well as fuel a calm enough to visit our new endeavor.

hours later, we are there, light switches in place illuminating a room filled with friends helping paint away the dirty nicotine white walls with a bright, energizing, warm red. i learn the register with the help of perrya. she kicks into gear making drinks, wiping the coolers, washing glasses. attention to upkeep an indication of how she's waited, like us, for this moment. she's invested somehow too.

hilarious dancing ensues. we marvel at our new identities as "the owners." we close at midnight. cash out. yeah! turn off the lights. perrya hugs us outside. seems to abound with excitement. i love you guys. she's not one to say such admissions. all of us are tired but aglow. i worry about when to return to the city. vow to sleep for a few hours then drive back when it's still dark. you cuddle up to me. this arrangement also new. but, we need this closeness. soon i'll be back in the city, somehow returning to normal when everything is but that.

a deer's shape and glowing eyes will wonder from the road what i'm doing driving at this hour. it's the hour of deer grazing in our area. not of people driving. the road is vacant save for truckers and a few suvs. i try to maintain my usual granny driving but am impatient to return home for more sleep. my throat is scratchy and aids in a raspy singing voice. sing a duet with bonnie raitt. relish the talking heads and ben folds five. scan until i hear jim morrison, your favorite. then, grow teary eyed when the neil young song i want to play at our wedding fills the speakers. i haven't yet mentioned this song to you. yet, every time i hear it, my eyes are wet with the visualization of us dancing at our wedding. of you surprised by my song pick but singing the words into my ear. because i just know it must be familiar to you.

the city still rests beneath a dark sky when i return. the skyline still lit as if in night. i grasp at an hour or so more of sleep then ready for work in our quiet abode. is this how it shall be now? separate? i try not to ponder. i grow weary the closer i maneuver my car to the office. i can't do this much longer, i admit. now that we've made this first step possible, i need to continue. what dream of mine may i bring to fruition now?

i relate the goings on to my office friends. by the fifth retelling, my throat is scratchy. you phone me just to hear my voice. share that the newness/nerves haven't worn off from a night's rest. you want me there with you. me too, sweetheart. we console each other with mention of the day's plans. with comforts of mention that we'll be together at the end of the week. that somehow, we'll make it so we don't have to be apart.

and, just like that, through a pile of paperwork, our days and nights are changed. i'm no longer simply a bartender's lady. i'm now an owner. serving a supporting role to yours. and, somehow, it feels like something i was meant to do.

letter eighteen

10.29.2010

Dear Bartender,

Four days from now, we'll be in the thick of the planning. Tearing down a ceiling. Tearing up a carpet. Laying down wooden flooring. It's going to be a big, dirty job. And, when all is in place and dusted off, we will have a bar. A bar!

Yesterday I was numb with exciting energy. Today, after telling my office mates and sending an e-mail to my boss about the time off needed, I've passed the climatic point. When you call from a drive in my car, listening to NPR, you begin to rattle off what is on tap for you. A meeting with the accountant moved to Tuesday, after all the numbers are flush...

What's wrong? Why so down? You ask.

I'm bored. Tired. And, frankly, let down. Telecommuting options for work do not seem possible. I want to split the time with you between Poi and the city. I don't want to broaden our opposite schedules. I don't want to be alone THAT much. Yet, I do not have an option. I will remain working in the city and you will be working and living most of the week 60 miles away.

The glow lasted 24 hours. Almost exactly. Now, I'm simply worried. Fret about the negative repercussions. See the week ahead of you not really including my help. I have to wonder now, if all my musings about my role were just a fantasy.

Am I going to be living by myself all week? What will be the point of that?

But, I chalk my tone up to tiredness (true) and boredom (true, true) because these are things I know to be true at this moment. All other worry, notions, wonderment are just that. For now. After the ups and downs since April, I've learned to feel the emotions but to not allow them to take over because they evaporate tomorrow when another course of events takes us on yet another path.

Ugh.

letter seventeen

10.19.2010

Dear Bartender,

so, here we are! a week away from our closing. last week, i had planned on spending time in the city. a last hurrah. then, on friday, you mentioned an appointment with the insurance agent on sat morning. wanting to play a part in this planning, wanting to simply be in the know, i cancelled a belated birthday dinner and plans for an early morning yoga class. fri night i celebrated a belated birthday dinner with a dear friend. over polenta strewn with roasted veggies, scallops atop Moroccan spiced veggies, a bibb lettuce salad with autumn flair of apple slices, sugary pecans and sharp cheddar crumbles we caught up about the past month and she shook her head in disbelief that we are *this* close to being bar owners. we cheered the heck out of our ginger beer spiked with scotch and fresh lime juice, to us & them!, to the year ahead!, to our weddings! it dawned on me that, holy shit, we are going to be owners of a bar. our lives will be joined further by this venture. i will no longer be on the sidelines, cheering on my bartender. i'll be on the field with you, planning our plays.

last night, we attended another beer event. i wanted so badly to write, the bitter end on our v.i.p. name tags. soon, however, we will be associated, perhaps even defined, by this bar name. impressions of us will be predetermined when introductions are made. strange.

i am planning to surprise you with business cards. am waiting on our dear friend to amend the logo design and send it to me so i may rush order cards i'll custom make for you. i tried to secretly surprise you, but you are an impatient man. you wonder aloud about when i'm going to make cards for you. three times you ask. i assure you with fake annoyance that i'm working on it. i never let on what that actually means. your title will be head hippie in charge. you beam when i suggest that.

days away. can you believe it?!

let us trail away one last weekend before the world taps on our shoulders. we'll spend time with friends, grooving to your favorite band. the only music that quiets the constant worry and concern of your mind. for three days, we'll let go. we'll visit our old stomping grounds of our alma mater. we'll regress. then, on monday, we'll be adults. officially.

letter sixteen

10.15.2010

Dear Bartender,

we are a bit more than a week away from the closing date. judging by how we're edgy - toward each other - of late, the pressure may be presenting itself. work has been terrible for me this week. although i didn't mention the particulars, when you snapped at me about signing the sba paperwork, and i shot back that i needed to run before i lost it, i suddenly felt like the bonding we'd felt over the past few weeks, had dispersed. the end of the honeymoon? as i dressed in my running garb, in another room, i talked myself off the ledge. returned to kiss you atop your tv watching head and headed out as you claimed that you liked me all fired up - don't go soft on me. the run helped ease my tension, but we were still nudgy. playful. sarcastic. nudgy still.

then, yesterday, when you said that you had to go to mattapoisett to meet with the insurance agent in the morning, regarding the bar, i felt like i should be there too. i had sets of plans to cancel to do so and as i tried to rework my weekend in mind, you took that as me being mopey. then after much prodding about your thoughts, you unleashed.

i had mentioned turning your old bedroom in your dad's house into a photo studio so i could stop carrying my props and book to and fro every weekend. somehow this combined with my supposed moping caused your angst.

at first, i thought you were refraining from sharing your feelings because you were going to tell me to stop being a dreamer. cut out the blog. the photography. the creative goals. live in the reality that if it hasn't happened now then it's not going to.

that's what i thought your reluctance was about.

instead, you broke out in a tirade about how talented i am and how you admire what i can do and how i don't have any confidence in myself. how i don't push for what i want. how i won't stand up for myself. how i'm the strongest person you know but how i don't use that strength to get what i want.

you silenced me.

you spoke the words i've been needing to hear. sleepless nights for two weeks because i feel stuck in a toxic job and now that you're moving ahead, i wonder how i may as well.

soon, i was teary. you brought up my childhood. your childhood. how both were less than stellar and played on our emotions. often. how you've since let go of the past. that you think i'm still holding on to my own.

perhaps you are right. yet, i explained, it's because of the childhood that i strive to become what i was told i couldn't. i was always told what to study. where to go to school. how to drive. how to answer the phone. all that control had the same effect. self-doubt. depression.

you held me close while i explained why i try so hard and how i feel stuck and not living up to my potential. unsure how to move forward. more education? a better camera?

neither of us had the answers. i'm sure that we should.

even though we've been pushing each others' buttons this week, we somehow came back together stronger. yet again.

its our faith in each other. our adoration. our constant challenging. these are the elements that will carry us through what is about to happen.

i told my boss today about the bar. i was nervous. he asked about the wedding and i said that we had something else to focus on right now. and, you know what? he never asked if we'd be moving or if i'd have to leave. the standard questions that everyone else has uttered. he only wondered if we'd rely on the company for any products. we did talk about the barroom and our initial plans for improvement. and, how i don't think we even know what we're really taking on. and he said, that will come round two months in when you look at each other and say, what have we gotten ourselves into. it was the most honest conversation i've ever had with him though. and, perhaps that's because i finally had something to talk about that proves i have more potential than he gives me credit for. either way, it's been quite an interesting 24 hours. i'm still considering your professions. i want to be my most for you. and for me. maybe if this bar encourages writing, then we'll both reach our respective goals from the same source...

we'll have to work and see.

letter fifteen

10.5.2010

Dear Bartender,

the past few days have brimmed with social goings on. and, despite feeling the drain of "on the go" I motored on beside you. because, you made a good point. these are lingering moments in this town we've resided in for what seems like ages. soon, we'll no longer be able to do these things. see these people (as much). we must do it now because we can. it's fleeting and you recognize this fact and encourage both of us to sacrifice sleep and time spent mulling over chores and projects so we may enjoy these last moments in this city. in our condo. the place that's been home for over six years.

you feel lovey and feel abnormal feeling so. professing so. i pull into a parking spot and shuffle toward home. someone calls my name. my full name. i turn to see you a little ways ahead. we walk toward each other. perfect timing. returning from work at once. seemingly together. i laugh watching you run toward me with a look of eager surprise. you rattle off our plans for the evening. a walk to our favorite burger pub in spite of potential rainfall. a pit stop at the thirsty scholar to see if your "wednesday night crew" is there. then, dolphins vs. patriots game at our house, surrounded by our local friends. just like old times.

i rush to clear away the workday from my person. shed clothes. refresh with new ones, hair tousle and sneakers for the walk. i head to toss out the recycling while you warn me not to do so. i got it. don't you dare bring it out. the challenge only fuels my want to fulfill this mini-chore before we leave. least i may do. you run after me, collect the pail and we grab items from the pail in unison. you, bottles, cans. me, cardboard and paper bags. shuffle, shuffle. toss, toss. done.

my hands feel grubby. you turn me round and hold me in front of our door. i'm so desperately in love with you. love in your eyes. warms me but also makes me shy. i want to freeze this moment. i also want to be inside, away from prying glances of snooty neighbors. you apologize for being uncharacteristically sweet. i say, please don't stop. you admit to not knowing why you've been feeling this way lately. i acknowledge similar thoughts. wonder aloud if it's because of everything we're committing to do together these days. combined plans. hopes. they must bring us together.

the next day, you agree with this sentiment. hold me in your arms. tired from a night spent late with friends. two nights in a row. my lunch break spent in your arms. solidifying our feelings into something other than words.

letter fourteen

10.4.2010

Dear Bartender,

this past weekend, we attended the new bedford oktoberfest. there was a banner. that banner announced that the bitter end will be opening in october 2010. yes, our bar. opening! although the banner was tucked in a corner, it was there. a soft announcement of sorts. we sipped from craft brews. you hummed sweet nothings in my ear about plans for our future. now that this bar opening is real, with a proposed closing date in a couple of weeks, we're softening up to the idea of the next steps we'll be taking. together.

you repeat often these days that you're doing "all of it" for me. for us. each weekend is spent motoring around poi for home goods to rehab our someday home. with each power wash that removes years of neglect from the surface of this house, you are readying our home. with each coat of stain you spray on with an unruly sprayer from high atop a ladder, we are "this much" closer to making that place our home.

with all of these little big things in motion at the same time, i think we're both starting to calm. warm to the concept of it all happening at once.

grown up time. it is.

you and i fare better with plans in place. now that the reward of the worry and paperwork we've endured since may is coming to a close so the thick work may begin, i feel the realness of it all is maker us happier and contented together. we're slipping from the cusp onto dry ground, bare and ready for our building of the next phase.

and, damn it, i think we're actually ready for all of this, even if we're not quite sure what it's going to be like, taking it on together is bringing out the best in us.

cheers, baby, we're days away now. soon you'll have what you've been working so hard towards for a decade. i look forward to the smile you'll have when working your own business. i know just how that look will be. and soon, i'll no longer have to imagine it.

letter thirteen

9.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

do you realize that our potential closing date is also the anniversary date of our engagement when you mentioned oct 7 last night over the phone, you didn't make note of it. in fact, i didn't realize it. i just felt a faint recognition of the date. as if i had something to do that day...then, when i was about to fall to sleep, i remembered. what a fine coincidence, no?

you wonder if we should take off for the vineyard with friends this weekend or if we should attend the Oktoberfest in which our first official mention of opening will be pronounced on a sponsorship banner. it would be a last hurrah of sorts. and, you say, if this closing date is the actual date, well then, we won't be able to go to the vineyard for my birthday as is now the tradition. instead, we'll be pulling up carpet, moving a bar top, feeding hungry friends whose construction know how will be in full effect so we can have a soft opening a few days after.

i fancy the image of us running off to the vineyard. our last boat trip for this season. letting loose for a couple of days before our life's work takes charge. i also wonder if we should be at the festival, spreading the word, rubbing elbows, sipping stouts and pumpkin ales from plastic cups.

i may be excited by the later option. seems a start of something. i am worried, however, that we may need the trip away to clear away residual stress from the process that's worn us both out, but more so you.

i'm torn. but, i think i know what the answer should be.

letter twelve

6.22.2010

(this post is more "notes" style)
as we wait for word from our underwriter, we are stuck in the "in between." we travel to hartford and saratoga springs to see phish. nils leaves before me. departs after i do. he is relaxed for the first time in months. although the beer flows freely, a perk of magic hat friends, we both maintain an even flow of buzzed calm. the music tends to the distraction of mind. concerned only by where to eat late lunches, what to drink once at the venue and where to land our crew while guessing the set list. high fives when one of us "calls it." intent staring at the stage and swaying loose bodies when we're surprised by a not often played tune. we walk. we talk. we sneak in a kiss or hug when due. we laugh until abs sore. we must add depth to facial laugh lines. we do as we normally do. all the while, we wonder how much our lives are to change with a simple sign off of approval.

perrya and i concern ourselves with drink recipes on the ride up. i break in a new notebook, scribbling confidential and top secret on the first page. as billy drives and talks on his cell, we devise the possibilities for cocktails, infusions, theme drinks, names -- all the while looking forward to the chemistry session of shaking them into fruition. what will the crowd like? who will we attract with a bellini? a berry-driven mojito. two cans of bud and a shot from the well.

somehow the thought process comes naturally. sure, i've worked in bars and restaurants. heard many stories from nils and friends. yet, this is a side of the business i haven't been privy to. the planning. yet, the impressions scatter forth too rapidly for me to capture with neat penmanship. the red sharpie caresses a few pages with our stream of boozeness. i take a photo with my phone and text it to nils. see, we're working...the message never goes through. yet, as if he had rec'd it, he sends me a picture of the hefty cobb salad he's about to rearrange with a hungry fork. later we muse about the timing of these photos given he never rec'd mine.

letter eleven

8.16.2010

Dear Bartender,

still waiting....still waiting...cue the appropriate song...

more papers were signed this weekend. the edge of signing these documents was somewhat curbed by doing so at our attorney's home. the meaning of the signing, however, was not dampened by the location. the pens clicked all the same as they would have elsewhere while we signed our names here, here, initialed there and there. the breakdown of everything. the projection of the next five-to-ten years. it's all so real.

after the signing session, papers are stowed and discussion covers the rumors around town of how we apparently already own the bar and whom we've hired, etc. etc., the improvements you plan to make in four days before a soft opening. are we just weeks away from closing now? nothing is set quite yet. appraisal is still needed. please may it schedule for this week.

this moment is so very strange. we must plan for the beginning without the excitement of doing so. nothing is set. yet, everything must be ready at a signature's notice to begin.

renovations. drink list. interior improvements. tap line installation.

i see the weight of it all bearing down on you. the stress of the process is a norm. but, the terror of making this move, taking on this responsibility without the confirmation of knowing it's all going to turn out as you plan, well fine sir, that's plaguing your mind now. after viewing those numbers, and viewing your worried eyes, it's my burden too.

I've never shared such an immense burden with you. a burden that you strive to hold solely upon your person. your thoughts. your hopes.

sure, I'm beside you. we write the business plan. we discuss the theme, drinks, um, everything. even so, this is your business, your next step, your decade's worth of experience being tested. I'm a partner, but not the one giving birth to this business.

i find myself caressing your face more these days. taking your hand. offering comfort to sway those worry lines elsewhere. but the reality is thick and you refuse to be distracted. and, babe, it's this intense focus that has gotten you this far. and it will carry you forward toward success. fear is in the idea of failure. would be failing yourself more, however, if you stayed where you are despising your daily grind?

being here is an accomplishment in itself. i hope, someday, that you may realize this. you are too far ahead in will and mind right now to see. i perhaps i see for you. so i may tell you so. someday.

xo

your girl

letter ten

7.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

could we be just days away from a commitment letter from the bank? truly?

so we were told on monday, when luckily, we both found ourselves in mattapoisett on the final day of our staycation for your birthday. after a call from d at the bank, once dropped, twice picked up, i quickly showered and readied myself presentable after having only worn my cargo skirt and tank top sans shoes for most of our vacation, spent on the boat. an application needed to be signed. an application that should have been already completed weeks ago. you set aside your annoyance and we made the trip to the bank. fed the meter an additional 30 minutes to its already remaining 4.

d is energized. conversational about her weekend spent at rained out baseball games of her kids. we sign next to the x on each page. verify that the information from the other application is correct. chatter about the bar. our plans. whether or not 51% of the property is the business. whether i'll be part-owner. you've reached the "whatever is easiest" phase of responding. whatever will get us in and making money. after four months, you are ready. the imagining needs to cease in honor of the tangible.

my stomach turns. only a bit. i've already filled out paperwork. for some reason, being in the office makes it more real. the air conditioning in the bank cools my sandal-clad toes. i cross my ankles, resting feet closer together. we resume common discussion with her about when our wedding will be. how our type of vacations/weekends are a blur in her memory after having kids. we scoot out quickly and greet the heat with heads heavier than before.

we could have a commitment within days. then the appraisal. hopefully it'll match near to what they're asking.

this weekend, we taste test drink recipes. perry texts me today to see what we need. glasses/cups. i'll be taking photos. that will be fun. tipsy fun, no doubt.

i want to remember all of this. if/when we are able to begin, it'll be a blur. just like it is for d when she imagines life before her kids. life before this bar will be something else. we are already not planning to far ahead with vacations, etc. in anticipation.

xo

your girl

letter nine

7.14.2010

Dear Bartender,

it's been weeks. weeks since we've heard any updates from anyone about the loan status. when/if we may close. the eagerness to begin is thick. your frustration with the silence is understandable. i'm at a loss of how to console other than by kissing your worry away. assurances that this is just how it goes. slowly.

then, this week, the progress flooded in.

you attended the license committee meeting on monday night. while i grocery shopped and cooked a pot of corn chowder (that's what i do in these times of worry -- cook comfort), you waited out an awards ceremony until your moment arrived to speak to the town about the transfer of license. you came home late sharing the good news. they actually wished me luck with the new business.

our architect-friend also e-mailed you sketches of what the building's facade may look like if you have your way with it. how cool is that?! you exclaim. i got chills when i saw the secret name in the subject line. is it becoming something real? do i dare say, i think so? i've driven passed that building so often. spent late nights and sunday afternoons beside that bar. never have i imagined that it could look as lovely as it does in his sketches. even when my mind pictured the improvements you were mentioning as we drive by each weekend. just the sight sparking conversation. these friends of ours. amazing. guiding our path in their own ways. one discovers the suitable name. another guides you through the legal process. and, this one, sketching our dreams on a piece of paper. sigh.

with these two occurrences, the veil of worry is lifting. yes, yes, i know new worries will come with the business. but, your frustration with the process and not being where you want to be in this moment--behind your own bar--that's scattering away.

now, we wait for the state to grant you a license. and, while we do so, the fun is beginning.

i find the sysco glass catalog online and send it to you. virtually flipping through the pages. imagining what the drinks perrya and i devise will look like in all of the styles of glasses. a glass. a simple glass will lend an air to the vibe of the room. sangria in mason jars? old style highball glasses? thin? thick? ah, the sweet relief of minutia.

letter eight

6.24.2010

Dear Bartender,

You let me ramble on. Laying phrases of stress upon your curious ears. All about the next day's blogger event at WBUR. I didn't know what to cook. I had a recipe to write. I had a fritatta to make for dinner. You had, as I'd requested, sauteed the ground meat with the special seasoning. You remained leaning against the stove-side wall. Quiet. Watching my moves through cabinets and drawers.

Need anything?

Yes, potatoes.

We have one.

That's perfect.

An onion.

Here's one in a bag. White. Oh, and there's half of a red onion in this container.

I'll use both. This fritatta is all about using up the fridge remains. Shredded cheese. Remains of blue cheese from boat trip.

Here. Anything else?

Eggs.

As I set out the cutting board, grab the pink knife my sister bought me for Christmas, and continue to ramble, your silence starts to seep in and pauses my activity.

I look at your face. Clearly you're holding something back. Your eyes say, ASK, ASK!

Wait? Did you hear back from her. Holy crap, how could I forget?

Yes, maybe I did. Your smirk turns to a full smile then you catch yourself and resume the serious face. As if in doing so you prolong the suspense.

Well, tell me! Did it pass? Are we approved.

Yes. You are unbelievably calm.

I put down the knife and walk over to you for a hug. How could you let me ramble on?

Then, we settle into the you talk/I cook routine. I ask whether you found out via e-mail or phone.

Phone.

What are her impressions?

She thinks the bank will approve also.

So, we're almost there, yes?

I think so. Her boss approved it. Now, it's up to the bank.

I'm kneeling down to reach the large skillet in the cabinet. I turn to you and simply say, holy fuck.

Well put.

We're just about there. I shuffle you out of the kitchen so you may rest before work and I may cook our dinner quickly without distraction.

Yet, my mind is full of thought now. So close. A fritatta is the perfect meal for us right now. It'll fill our bodies to match the weight of our minds.

What's next?

xo
your gurl

holy f*** fritatta

1 lb ground meat, seasoned
extra virgin olive oil
1 potato, chopped
1 small white onion, chopped
1 red onion, chopped
1 heaping tablespoon minced garlic
5 eggs plus 2 egg whites
1 1/2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
any bits of leftover cheese
1/2 cup milk
pinch crushed red pepper flakes

set oven to 350 degrees.
saute vegetables.
saute meat.
whisk eggs.
layer potatoes/onions.
layer meat.
pour eggs over the lot.
cook until set, about 5 mins.
transfer to oven for 15 mins.
cool for a few mins transfer to plate.

letter seven

6.23.2010

Dear Bartender,

today is the day. the day when our financials and loan request are presented to the committee. we don't know what time this is happening. and, when i asked you today, you said it made your stomach turn and that you'd rather not think about it. throughout all of the other bar buying opps we've had, we've never been this far. this close. this nervous.

phish allowed you to chill out last night. well, since last thursday, really. you called this break your mini-summer vacation. and, somehow, we both forgot about everything going on, just danced and enjoyed time with our friends, until you said that tomorrow (today) is the day adulthood starts. i stopped dancing and wondered why i hadn't addressed the date. sneaky lil bugger. you smiled, nodded toward the band and resumed dancing with a quick mention about if anyone is going to push you into this new phase, it's these guys.

so. now. we wait.

the decision is out of our hands. i really hate that lack of control.

we are "before the bar" right now. and, if that panel decides in our favor, a single e-mail or phone call will shuffle us rapidly toward everything "after."

are you ready? are we?

i think so.

letter six

6.15.2010

Dear Bartender,

We're on the cusp. Swaying to and fro. For days. Weeks, even. Knee-deep in plans for this endeavor, while waiting for the bank to shoot the starter gun. The frustration of the ebb and flow has surfaced again. You're anxious. Tired. Elated. Grumpy. Close. Distant in thought. All for the better.

I do feel the distance. We both do. And, as I hugged you goodbye last night at Green Street, leaving you with PerryA, your future right hand woman, so you two could hit one more stop on the research train, your face went all soft and concerned. You asked if all is good. Oh good, I thought, you feel the distance too. Literal distance. You in Poi. Me in Cambridge. Every. Weekend.

Yet, as you delve into plans for this proposed business, the distance grows more. I can't help but wonder if I'll ever see you when immersed even more so in our opposite lives of employment schedules. I know we're strong enough to make it all work. I wonder though, when we'll ever have quality time to nourish US. I curse opposite schedules even more as the days pass and we discuss decor of the bar, the name (should we include the or lounge?), and PerryA and I are assigned the luxurious task of developing the drink list. I see you moving forward. For you. For us.

And, yet, I'm drifting through days of the same after the same. Will I simply continue working my usual gig? Will I need to commute into the city? Then, I'll never see you during the week...And, you'll branch out into the new life and others will join you and I'll scamper in and out, barely part of it all. Perhaps not, but as of right now, seems it could be so. I hope I'm wrong. Because I can't take the divide growing any larger than what we deal with now. I cherish the hour we spend between our work schedules, tucked on the couch, minor utterances, many looks of acknowledgment. Then, you're off.

I have enjoyed scouting out bar ideas with our friends whose talents will grace the pages of this business. I appreciate that you respect my opinion about decor, theme, name, drinks, vibe, clients, etc. etc. etc. All of the things that you focus on at once when I encourage you to view one at a time. One by One (a Billy Bragg & Wilco song is playing right now, how appropriate...). PerryA laughs that that's what I'm good for -- narrowing both of your attentions to one topic. One moment.

Please don't take my nervousness as a negative. The transition is close. Oh so near. And, being nervous is natural. My nerves stem from wanting to build it all together with you. Not apart. Can we do it?

We have thus far.

xoxo
your girl

letter five

5.19.2010

Dear Bartender,

I've had much in mind to write to you; however, I haven't sat down to do so. Perhaps it's the holding pattern I find we're in right now. Or, at least, that's what these couple of weeks have felt like.

Last weekend, you went with a carpenter friend to measure the bar. When I asked you how the trip went, you rattled off your plans for introductory improvements for the opening then those that'd elbow up to the occasion once the business finds its groove. You seem calm. Quietly focused. The frustration of the paperwork, nagging computer use, and waiting for e-mail responses and phone calls has subsided. Now, you're back to your comfort zones of carpentry and bar service.

Funny thing is, this impending change looms in the background of our usual daily happenings, despite being the one circumstance that will change EVERYTHING -- where we live, where we work, how often we see each other -- simply everything.

I'm nervous. I don't share this energy with you. Nothing is wrong, per se. I just don't know what I'll be up to once all of these changes surface. Makes me feel...unsettled. Unsettled before being settled. I try to imagine what job I'll have. I can't. I try to imagine where we'll live. I can't. I try to imagine how I'll help with the business. I can't. All of these selfish unknowns test me. Do I just let go of the concern? Hope it all with fall into appropriate place?

The last time I found myself among this sort of mindful company, was over six years ago, just before we started dating. I moved twice. I fell out of love with a longtime someone (and like with another). I watched for signs.

After a few months of doing so, I landed in Cambridge, blocks away from you. A friend brought us together. Soon, we were dating. And, that's when I realized that letting go of plans could lead to my perfect outcome. Now, I must rekindle familiarity with this lesson. Trust in the unknown. Nervous. Curious. It's all good.

letter four

4.30.2010

Dear Bartender,

After your meeting with the adviser, you were totally spent. The weight of the burden of the computer work you had ahead of you was resting atop everything else you're balancing at the moment. When you arrived home, I heated up lasagna. Set your place with sriracha sauce, sparkling water and three heaving slices of pasta squares. You went back into the kitchen to retrieve the beefy corn soup from the fridge. I want soup too. I shooed you out of the kitchen with strict instructions to sit down. Relax. I'll warm up some soup.

Three minutes later, the steam is rising towards your face. You slurp the hot liquid in between bites of the also steamy lasagna. Isn't that hot? I inquire while staring up at you from my reclined position on the couch. Ya, but I'm starving. I watch you. You watch the sports program on television. Eat, eat, eat then sit back. Moments of repose before another shift. I ask if you got the note I left in the morning, wishing you well. Drank the water I left out. Ate the snack bar. I see that you're wearing the button down shirt I put out. Do you know why I did those things? You curl your face inward, trying to beat out the smile with a scowl. Because that's the only way I may feel like I'm there with you, supporting you, when I have to be at work instead. You snicker. Rest your head on my shoulder/chest. Many moments pass before you rise again. Time for work...

The next day, you call me at work while you're waiting to park in the bar's lot, stuck behind a Sysco truck. 15 mins so far. This happens a lot. Then I hear you talking to someone and you say that you need to go. That you'll call later.

One workday for me. One gym visit for you. Later on, I return home and you're typing at the computer. The monitor's glow shines on your glasses. Concentration straightens your features. I rest my bag in its usual spot. Place my lunch things on the counter. Teeter over to you. You type for a few seconds. I ask if there's anything I can do. No, not yet. I have just a few more hours of work left on this. A bit today. Some tomorrow. Then I need to send it off to her again.

You spin the office chair around. What's up, my nerds? You motion for me to sit on your lap. Tender kisses. You are calm. You grab the Excel sheet and explain the breakdown of first year projections. Line-by-line. We talk about advertising costs. What the notion of good will is where a commercial loan is concerned. You strategize potential profit. Your earnings. Retiring at 50. Having the building paid off by 45. I comment about how you seem in better spirits. Ya, this stuff is actually pretty interesting when you look at it. Well, baby, you like things to be broken down into lists. It's no longer a large single number looming over you with no reference for why it's so large.

I rise and we discuss concern over the appraisal. The only factor at this moment that could blow up the whole deal. If the town's appraisal is much higher than the appraisal we must pay for next, then this whole project, work, fantasizing will have been for naught. If the appraisal comes in really low then the asking price needs to be lower and the owner may not budge. And, since we're both mentally prepared to make this move, uproot our city life to the country, we're really concerned about this block. It's totally out of our control. Unsettling.

You break away to continue typing. I watch you from the couch. Typing with only two fingers. This sort of computer work is foreign to you. Perhaps that's why you were fretting about this portion of the process?

You call me over to edit the spreadsheet. We triple check to make sure we've saved both documents. You head to work turning yourself around in the alleyway not sure where you parked. The usual routine. Nightly dance. I head to yoga. All seems per usual. All except for what's resting on our minds now. As we can't discuss with others what's going on, the burden is fully ours.

letter three

4.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

On Monday, you returned from Mattapoisett. So much marked off on your List. Most regarding the boat. Her launch is a week away and your joy rests just below the few lines left to check off. Days away from the waves. Your only stress release.

I made sure to be home soon after work let out. I wanted to serve a meal for your return. To bake a full blown lasagna, thick with ground turkey and chuck, and seasoned ricotta cheese. Our baking dishes are slight. Sauce and cheese bubbled all too near the edges. There was much meat leftover. Just as I was storing it in a dish, I recalled a bag of frozen sweet corn kernels, an opened box of beef broth and a couple handfuls of cooked wheat spaghetti leftover from the scrumptious chicken parm you tossed together late last week. Soon a pot was warming these tidbits together as well as onion slivers and a heavy handed seasoning sprinkled from the secret spice blend.

You called, delayed in traffic. I assured you not to worry. Your timing would be perfect. And, it was. You walked through the door just as the lasagna began to rest. Calm its puffiness. We noshed on half-bowls of the mishmash soup after I shooed you away from a too hot tasting direct from the pot.

I perched on the granite counter top with bowl in hand, turned toward you on the other side of the bar top, freshly showered, balancing your checkbook. Soon we were discussing the business plan we needed to flesh out. We started to plan the vibe of the bar. What did we want exactly? That moment was when it first felt REAL.

That was also the moment I scribbled down the soup's recipe, wanting to seal it in mind forever. The soup that came together on a whim. The soup that we nibbled at pensively while discussing this phantom business. A business that could take over our lives. As I had spent a late night filling out the business plan outline, I felt confident that we could write the first draft quickly. Assured you of the same.

We settled into the Monday night norm. Eating by the television. Watching Seinfeld's 10 year part 2 recap. All seemed usual. Until, the notion of the plan nagged at the back of my mind as I began to feel too comfortable settling into the couch's deep leather cushions after a couple gooey squares of lasagna devoured.

We need to write this thing. A matter of fact you shared while lounging. Asked if I'd get it started then you'd be over.

I'm not sure if you're aware. Aware that writing the plan---contemplating the phrasing, typing quickly to capture our thoughts in unison---all of it, delighted me. I'm beginning to see the role I'll play in this act. Up until this point, I wasn't sure. I've been a bystander for so long. The girlfriend. The life outside the bar. Now, I'm supposed to play a supporting role. It's new.

Somehow, I CAN do this thing. Write this plan. You knew before I did. You banked on that. Sure, we nipped at each other a couple of times. I was tired from daily computer overload. My eyes losing focus after a certain hour. Well, I have the next 40 years to work on this, you remark. Knowing stress is the factor at play, I grab your face and kiss you. Rub your beard. Bring us back from the depths. Console us both. Somehow.

Type, talk, pause. Type.

A few hours later, after many turns of phrase, financial calculations, quick attempts to summarize the atmosphere, food, competition in just sentences not extensive paragraphs, we're spent. The first draft is complete. We both head to sleep shortly thereafter.

Today, you are traveling south to meet with an adviser from the small business association. I know you dread the drive. That's many miles to travel in a day, before your shift, and after working until 2:30 AM. It's much to take on. I try to soothe your annoyance/concern/burnout by stating that it's one step closer to what you're striving for. Soon, you'll have a business and that space will fill your days. Worth it?

This morning, I made sure to leave a sticky note on the mirror, wishing you luck. I poured cold water into a thermos and sat a Kashi bar next to it, knowing too well that nourishment would be furthest from your mind during a hasty day. You're meeting with the adviser to discuss the business plan we wrote (in a single night!). Pat on the ole back.

What will today's meeting bring? And, is there comfort found in the trinkets I leave behind. I want to be on the road with you. Be by your side as the strategy continues. I think you'd feel better for it. But, I have my own workday to contend with and I can't escape it. The only way I know how to show you that I am thinking about it all too, is by these minute actions. Do they help?

letter two

4.20.2010

Dear Bartender,

You were upset yesterday. Despite being together over the holiday weekend, I think we both were feeling an awkward distance from each other. Sometimes when you're working on the boat---sanding dusty bits into the air, muffling your hearing and speech with the sander's scream and a face filter mask---I let you be on your way.

I know how much you detest this portion of the boat work. I stay away so as not to be a distraction. This wooden boat, in so many ways, makes me feel inadequate. Yes, we've discussed this lacking on my part, but I don't think you can fully grasp just how much so. All of this---the rehabbing, the handiwork, the art, the driving---all of it is foreign to me. Yes, I want to learn. But, you're in a rush to get your beauty back on the water and you don't have time to teach me. Right now, that is. Please don't see my apprehension and care of your attention and need as dislike or nonchalance. I simply am ignorant of this pursuit and need many years to get at it. You've had a lifetime. A lifetime. I'll get there.

On top of that stress, you are amid this bar business. You woke to meet with the bank rep to fill out a commercial loan. I should have gone with you. Then, you wouldn't have shook your head in my direction later that day when I returned to the boat shed after spending the afternoon with a friend. You wouldn't have turned your head when I asked what's the matter. You wouldn't have had to admit that you feel alone in all of these pursuits so what's the point of any of it.

You remark: How is the business plan going? Meaning why wasn't I at the house writing the plan instead of being out with a friend. Honestly, I don't know what this bar business has in store for us. I'm not a player in that business each day. You are. I'm a bystander. A confidant. Not a participant. You rush away before I have time to answer. Before I may explain my hesitation about starting the plan without you near to coach. Because of my self doubt, your comment runs deep. I had trusted that we'd find time to build the plan together before the due date.


I listen to your rattling engine trail away. I curse my doubt. I sit upon the cooler in the back of the boat shed and hold my hands over my agonizing face.

I wonder...How may I write about a business I don't know? How have we gotten to this point? We are both scared of what's to come. The weight of the responsibility is taking over.

If we hadn't had the spat in the boat shed I wouldn't have found the need to drag you for a walk on the beach. To reconnect. No distractions. We talk. Finally. Linked arms. Pink sunset on the water. Calm. We share doubt. Unknowing. We sit upon the bench you built six years ago and marvel at what may be ahead. You spew forth plans of renovations. Quick renovations. Your words flutter sketches upon the sand and sky. Each page flips to a new update of the bar room in my mind. Heightened ceilings. New windows. Bar-top move. Outdoor lighting. New sign. New name.


You emphasize the need for the business plan write up this week. No later than Thursday. My Timberland boots crush shells and I tell you to give me thirty minutes of your time detailing your/our imaginings. Then I'll write. Writing. That, my dear, I can do.


Then I try to imagine myself behind the bar when we visit the spot on Saturday night. I catch sight of you scanning the room. See those wheels turning. When the glaze of thought and planning lifts, you catch my sight and smile.

You ask me how others are satisfied with the mundane. The everyday. Never striving for more. I don't know. I'm trying not to let go of that myself. Especially, since you're not as well.