Barkeep

Chapter 1

Alex Cartwright had owned the Goff's Tavern for nearly twelve years. It wasn't much to look at: a dimly lit five-stool bar with only beer, whiskey, and the surprisingly popular Zima. Alex liked to ponder why Zima was so popular. It was one of the least noxious aspects of the watering hole to consider; much more pleasant than ruminating on the abundance of patrons or the path they took to enter this tiny hole in the wall. Yes, Alex Cartwright, owner and sole barkeep at Goff's Tavern, liked to ponder the popularity of Zima because it was a distraction from his duty. You see, as most know, a bartender's role at a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall pub is much less about the drinks they sling and much more about the kind ear they offer. And at Goff's, the compassionate regard kept him in business. Well, that and the fact that all humans are fragile mortals that could depart the living at any moment.

It was this day, almost twelve years after acquiring Goff's in a rather peculiar manner, that Alex Cartwright pondered Zima, meaning 'winter' in many Slavic languages. Winter, the cold, dreary abyss of time that most often endured rather than welcomed. He felt a kindred spirit with those maligned months.

"Ruth would always get mad at me if I had more than one out with the boys," an older gentleman with bushy white eyebrows recalled to the young preppy man beside him. Alex opted not to settle too long on the ages of his patrons.

"Is Ruth your wife?" The young man spoke with a bounce in his voice. Bars were of comfort to him.

"Oh yeah, I'm here just waiting for her," the older man noted. "Sometimes I feel like I've been waiting on her my whole life, but it was a good one; I wouldn't change a thing. Some people are worth waiting for, ya know?"

"She'll be along soon," Alex soothed gently. They all would be along sooner or later.

"You know, I think that's her now..." The gentleman perked up on his stool. "Yep, I know that ruddy old engine anywhere. I hope she hasn't been waiting too long. Would hate to have her sore at me." As he spoke, he popped from his stool much more spry than his appearance would have allowed him.

Alex smiled to himself. "Go get her, friend," he reassured. Even though he had said the line countless times, it felt genuine each time.

Alex was happy whenever anyone got to leave his bar. Not simply because it opened another seat to be filled with an eager patron, but because it was easy for those on their way out the door. He knew moments later that his door would swing open, and another tentative soul would enter, unsure why they were even entering this unremarkable space.

"Oh, hey." The gentleman caught Alex off guard with his pause. There was rarely a pause when it was one's time to leave. "How much do I owe you?"

"Not a dime. This one is on me," Alex smiled back. He hadn't charged a single patron a cent in his twelve years behind the bar. It was a perk of his situation.

When our dear friend the barkeep clutched the astoundingly standard key to Goff's in his hand, a few realizations hit him or perhaps were bestowed upon him by some invisible entity. Either way, he suddenly understood Goff's rules. He would not be saddled with the hum-drum life of a bar owner. No, Alex did not need to worry about over-serving a visitor or running out of drinks. He also understood that the key was merely symbolic, as the doors would never lock. As long as Alex owned Goff's, the beer on tap would always flow, the whisky bottle would never run dry, and the cooler would always have one more Zima. Alex would never worry about who would tend the bar when he left. The bar would exist, and the patrons would simply wait for his return. It could be ten minutes or eight hours, but the guests would never grow agitated. To them, it was as though they had only waited a moment or two. Even more unusual was the bar's effect on Alex. He never grew hungry or tired or even needed to use the restroom despite hours of serving drinks and listening to the stories of his travelers.