Almost Famous

Montreal is my favorite city in the world. That's probably a misleading statement because I haven't been to most of the world. I've never been overseas and I've never been South of the Border, so I guess that leaves two countries I have been to: the United States and Canada.

So, OK...it is less misleading if I say Montreal is my favorite of the cities I've actually been to, even though it is accurate to say it is my favorite city in the world because it is my favorite of the cities in my world, or the world as I know it.

That ridiculous bit of pointless explaining done, I need to tell you that Montreal is a fabulous place, and if you are a single male you should shut your computer down and head there this moment. I mean it...drop whatever you are doing. If you are a woman, well, sorry, but I can only speak for my particular side of the plate, but I would imagine the deal is pretty much the same.

But I'm not here to be a one-man Montreal tourism bureau. I just need to tell you about Mr. Bartender. People who know me are cringing right now because they have heard this story umpteen times, but why shouldn't everyone else get to hear it?

Mr. Bartender works in the bar at a chain motel out by Dorval Airport. The bar is a weird little place. I have only been in this bar twice, and I can tell you that it's kind of bizarre, which might be how one would imagine a bar located in a chain motel right near an airport.

The first time I went into this bar I'd just had a major tiff with a woman (yeah, shut up, everyone) and had decided to treat myself to a martini. I drink martinis when I am tired and can't sleep, or when I am vaguely homicidal and need a bit of a sedative in order to keep myself from getting a free punched ticket to Pound Me in the Ass Prison. I know that this place was mentioned in that "Office Space" movie, and I will believe that it really exists until proven otherwise, and I do not care to be in on the proving.

So I sit at the bar and order a martini. It's a weird little place, like I said, with odd-looking red curtains all over the place and a slot machine in the corner that probably hasn't paid off a nearly worthless Canadian quarter in years.

The bartender nodded and went to his work. I could tell he was a true artist; he was really into making this martini, like Mr. Sandwich was really into making my salad (see entry Mr. Sandwich). I would bet this bartender fully realizes that whenever he is making a martini for a pissed-off and depressed looking man, he is probably saving him from a long stretch in PMITA Prison, and I bet this bartender feels like he accomplishes good in the world for preventing this.

He was an odd-looking fellow, too. I don't mean this in a nasty way; he just had the kind of look about him of someone you don't forget. He looked like a cross between a 50ish Jerry Lewis and Moe of the Three Stooges, and topping off this unusual appearance was a very distinctive nose with the appearance and approximate texture of a couple tater tots smooshed together.

He was smiling and ready to serve, but didn't have much to say. I got my drink and sat there sipping it, eagerly awaiting the moment at which the gin would start making me feel like my old self again.

No one else came in, of course, and we were alone in there, me sitting with my face in the gin and him standing there pretending to polish glasses so that it would look like he was actually doing something. I had an old friend (see entry "Monkeys of Brass") who might have mangled a couple old sayings to describe the moment and said that you could have heard a mouse fart in church.

At one point, he put down the glass he was polishing.

"When I was working in Israel," he said, "I once served MISTER B.B. KING!"

Huh. I think B.B. King is pretty good and seems like a nice guy, and we both happen to use the same diabetes testing rig, so this seemed like a mildly interesting thing for a moment. He really emphasized the MISTER part of it too, and I found that kind of weird. Perhaps a lifetime in a service industry job can turn you into a servile kind of fellow, which is why I have never had a service industry job...I would just as soon tell a customer to blow it our their ass, no matter if they were MISTER B.B. KING or Jane Doe or George Bush or whoever.

So that was all the guy said to me. I finished the drink and went back to Relationship Damage Control Central, feeling better prepared to handle the job with a bit more discretion.

Several years later, I happened to be in Montreal, at the airport, and happened to be pissed off about something, and of course for this reason I wanted a martini. So I checked into this motel and went to the bar.

And there he was. Same guy. Same slot machine. Same red curtains all over the place, probably still unwashed since my prior visit. Polishing a glass, probably the same one he had been polishing for years. Again, like my last visit, we were the only two people there.

I ordered the martini. He nodded and fixed it, carefully, artfully, not spilling a drop during the mixing or straining processes. I sipped it. We were both silent.

It was so quiet I could almost hear the snow landing on the roof . Mr. Bartender with the potato tot nose polished his glass. Then, suddenly, he put it down.

"When I was working in Israel..." he began.

No! Could it possibly be? The moment hung in the air like English Leather in a heat wave. Could he possibly be about to tell me that he...

"...I once served MISTER B.B. KING!"

Same story, same inflection. And that was the last thing he said to me. Unbelievable. A man who'd lived 50some years and had one fucking story to tell. How was this possible? How many regular customers, if there were indeed any in this place, had committed hari-kiri with a swizzle stick right on the fucking stool after the 3,000th recounting of a chance encounter with MISTER B.B. KING?

It gives me the chills to think that this guy is probably at that bar this very moment, waiting to pounce on a customer and relate the tale of his moment of glory, serving MISTER B.B. KING. Go check it out. If you plan on staying for more than one drink, be certain to bring a ceremonial sword with you, for I am certain that no one who remains there more than an hour gets out alive, or even has the slightest desire to do so.