Several months ago, I was in Chattanooga for a workshop. I took myself to a local bar that presented itself as safe for a single lady in the early evening hours. It had been raining, and I didn’t feel much like shopping with some of the other ladies on the trip. And truthfully, they hadn’t invited me. I learned about their activities the next morning.
At any rate, when I arrived at the well-lit restaurant on the end of a forgettable beige strip mall, I was pleased to ascertain there were three empty barstools, all in a row. I opted for the farthest one against the wall. I settled myself and the bartender was immediately there, ready to provide assistance. I must’ve looked like I meant business. Or maybe I just looked desperate. Either way, I got prompt, friendly service. I was enjoying my beer when an older guy walked up and sat down on the stool next to me. I nodded to him, as etiquette dictates, and he returned a greeting along the lines of, “how do you do?” He had a spiral bound notebook with him, so I immediately made an assumption that he was a local contractor who caught up on the day’s paperwork at the local watering hole. I have seen this in action countless times over the years. Forget scouring the internet and community “speaks out” Facebook pages for reliable contractors: simply park yourself at the neighborhood grill and bar. A specimen of every trade will eventually wander in. And most don’t have the heart to make excuses why they can’t come when they’re looking you in the eyeball.

The man ordered a shot of orange juice, a tall glass of ice, and a bottle of rotgut champagne. Well, actually, he didn’t even have to order it, the barkeep said, “the usual?” and placed it before him in moments. I cocked an eyebrow at his choice, but far be it for me to pass judgment on someone’s poison. I like gin. You gotta have thick skin if you’re gonna drink gin by choice in public.

As it goes, he struck up conversation. I don’t remember the particulars, probably led with a remark about the weather. To which I replied I was disappointed it was raining, because I had just washed my car that morning in preparation of the drive. And he let it be known right quick that he found me stupid.
“Because I didn’t check the weather and therefore, wasted my time, effort, and money?” This I could understand. But no, it’s because what difference does it make to have a clean car? It doesn’t affect performance. I agreed, but it makes me feel better to have a clean car, like it does to keep a clean house. Less stress, and you can easily find what you’re looking for, or even send someone else to get it, because you’ll know exactly where it is. You’re not digging through closets and layers of clutter looking for something for an eternity. But yeah, I could see where washing your car is a little different than running a vacuum and keeping the house picked up. But still.
He went on to say it’s as stupid as people who rent storage units. Now, this, this I could get on board with. I do understand if you’re in a transitionary period, like between houses and living in an apartment short-term and instead of selling all your possessions only to have to buy them back in the short-term, it made more sense to store them. So he’d no more than voiced his disapproval of people who rent them and how stupid he found them (clearly the storage building owners flat make a killing) than he tells me his wife had three and he paid $276/ month for them for ten years!!!!!!!! I’m like, holy moly! That’s a crap ton of stuff. So naturally, I have to know what his wife does and what warranted three storage units for all that time. Was she a professional holiday decorator?

Of course she’s dead. Of course she is. Because these are the people I tend to meet: the outcasts, the misfits, the broken hearted. They flock to me. The way he looked away, face breaking, I thought this was a new loss.
“I’m so sorry. How long has she been gone?”
“Eight years, three months, and 29 days.” He said it like you’d give your social security number at the doctor’s office. May something in 2017.
I pause, because what do you do with someone whose grief hasn’t moved on after all this time? There’s nothing you can do for this person. They’re burrowed down so deep in their sorrow there’s no digging them out. So I decide to do the humane thing, what I would want someone to do for me: bring them back to life, just for a moment.
“What was her name?” I asked quietly.
Never turning to me: “Faye Levella.” Flat, like even her name pained him.
“Levella, I’ve never heard that. Pretty,” I lied. Sounds like a name that would get made fun of all through school. Sounds like a delicate soap.
He snorted. “Really?”
I gritted my teeth. Oh, how bitter he is. It’s not a common name, surely he realizes. Even in the hills and hollers of Appalachia, where we hear one-of-a-kind names all the time, this one was original. I did a quick Google just now to see if I’m the one off base. I found that at its most popular, in 1932, it was #852 in female baby names. The only additional information I found was that the name is believed to have roots in the Latin name “Leva,” which means “light” or “to rise.” I tried to think of something else nice to say, but obviously he was set on being a trial. “What did she do?” I asked, because everyone had a job at some point.
“Whatever she wanted to!”
“So she didn’t work? Ever?” Was he a tyrant? Obviously I couldn’t picture him as nurturing, loving husband from the image I was getting now.
“Well, she was a hairdresser but she didn’t have to work, I bought her everything she wanted!”
“Including storage buildings to put it in!” I crowed, hoping a joke might make him crack a bit and smile.
No dice. Bitterness reigned. My guess is, he was an ungrateful husband who didn’t realize how sweet she was to him and he took her companionship for granted. Since she died, he’s spending these years repenting, but obviously it’s too late and now he’s become so miserable nobody can stand to be around him. Of course, this is just my opinion. His coworkers may find him a dazzling jewel in a sea of grey, ready with a new set of jokes every day and a box of doughnuts on Fridays.

He said he doesn’t have a reason to go on after losing her.
Of course I recommended a dog. He had a dog, a Shih Tzu, but it died after his wife. I was sitting next to a country song for sure at this point. Shih Tzus and storage units and Faye Levella at the Clip’n Curl.
I told him maybe he should think about getting another one; that it’s good to have something to come home to and be responsible for. He said he didn’t want another small dog, the gentleman who rents his downstairs was elderly and he didn’t want to have something under his feet and get him tripped up. So I suggested a big dog. He had his mind on some, he wanted a pair, I think it was Dobermans? I can’t remember now. He was talking about how expensive they are. I suggested he check with rescues and shelters. Lots of times they’re eager to put you on a list for a specific breed and call you when they get one. He scoffed and began berating the local shelter. It’s clear he’s determined to be miserable, but I’ve got a tenacious spirit, myself, especially when it comes to the welfare of dogs.
“Well, I’m sure they’re not the only outfit around who has dogs! And lots of rescues will set up transports from other states! I have a friend that helps out with that kind of thing! She even found me a dog in Michigan and they could get it down here pretty quick. People sign up for different legs of the journey. Maybe that’s something you could do! Since you don’t mind your truck being dirty, especially! It could fill some time, doing a good deed.”
The Grinch just huffed and took a swig of his dirty champagne. But maybe I got to him there.

The bartender set him down a fresh glass of ice.
“You ever try a French 75?” I asked him.
And this is how I got an earful about how he was a bartender downtown in his younger years and he’s tried every drink there is, and this one does the job just fine. He’s trying to expedite his meeting with Jesus and reunion with his wife. He’s 70 and says he loves the Lord and is eager to meet him. Miserable for over eight years, drinking his evenings away instead of facing the darkness and seeking light.
I finally told him I hoped he could find comfort and peace through the church, did he have neighbors who participated in a Bible Study or pickleball or something he could join in with them?
“Oh, I live in one of those subdivisions where everything is perfect and everybody is just hunky-dory!” Sarcasm dripping from every pore.
I narrowed my eyes. “You might be surprised if you talked to them,” I told him. Few things are as happy as they seem on the surface. We’re all faking it till we make it. It’s better for the attitude. You can’t just lay down and give up. You gotta have a reason to go on.
Just like me: I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was paying and had stood up when he said he hoped I was married and had a beautiful life. I didn’t volunteer anything, and he asked if I had children, and I said no, and he said I was still young, so there could be one. Clearly he was blind as well as bitter. I told him he just cursed me. He laughed. So I got my wish, I got a short burst of laughter from a man who was bent on staying miserable for the rest of the days he was left here on this earth.

I never found out if he was a roofing contractor, he never so much as gave a glimmer of a hint about what he did, even when I told him of the game I like to play in bars, guess the occupation. He just insinuated that I was stupid for wasting my time again. Sure, buddy, but I’m not the one bitter and alone with a bottle of champagne and orange juice every night at the bar where even the bartenders don’t seem inclined to make conversation with me.
My hotel room never looked so good. Clearly it had been a mistake to go out.

A few days later, I found myself at TJ Maxx picking up some jerky treats for my bestest boy. It was here I had the most wonderful conversation about dogs with my cashier, Kenny, who wound up crying on me when he showed me pictures of his Bichon/ Lhasa that passed in April. His name was Ollie and he was 15 and he got him as a Christmas gift for his wife one year. Kenny and his wife never had children. Ollie developed cancer and doggie dementia and forgot his name but would still answer to Sweetheart and Baby. I encouraged him to get another dog but they both work and his mother-in-law lives with them and she doesn’t want the responsibility. Kenny appeared to have a disability and was at least 60 so I assume the MIL is way on up there.

And that is the story of how two very different people deal with loss. And how I found them.

The following day I was at Publix getting my sandwich and the guy bagging struck up conversation. I thought I was in for another one but he wanted to talk about what he was going to school for. He was studying Marketing or Computer Science, something that will be on trend for a long time, but what he really loved and wanted to pursue was his art. I told him to follow his heart. Artists generally will. They’ll choose their passion and starve before they give up on it. He showed me a picture of his latest masterpiece. He was proud, and he should be. We should share our talents. If it brings us happiness, chances are it might bring someone else some, too.
It’s funny the people you meet when you don’t have your nose stuck in your phone. And if I chose the option for contactless pickup who all would I have missed? You never know how you might get to influence someone’s life, or how they might influence yours.