“Tonight is the last hoorah. I’m getting this six-pack and that’s going to be it. Do me a favor? If I come back in here, don’t serve to me.”
Last night at work, one of my favorite regulars came into the liquor store for (hopefully) the last time.
I don’t know what he does for a living. I don’t know his name. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know mine. But over the course of the last nine months he and I would always talk when he came in, whether it was about what kind of beer he was buying, what we were doing for the weekend, our problems with our boss and co-workers, and everything else that can be classified as small talk.
When he told me that he was going to treatment and this six-pack was his way of coming in to say good-bye, it made me sad. Sadder than I have been in a very, very long time.
I almost wanted to tell him not to it, but I can’t do that. He knew he had a problem, we had talked about it. He mentioned he had been to treatment before and that he wasn’t worried and didn’t need luck. He sounded sad and defeated, almost ashamed that the last thing he was doing before going to get help was to come talk to people he barely knew and drinking a six pack of Wild Blue so he could go to sleep that night.
He will be missed. Some of our regulars are probably closer to us who work there than they are their family.
I hope I see him again someday at Qdoba or Subway or in Sam’s Club and get the chance to talk and ask how he is doing. I hope I never have to see him at the store again and tell him to go home and stay sober. That is something I never want to do. I don’t think I would be able to handle it.
Stay strong, liquor store buddy. This Blue Moon is for you.
Captain Yellow Shirt 