As I walked into the bar Wednesday evening, a jumbled rendition of Hey Jude assaulted my ears. My brain immediately took over and corrected the tune in my head, and Paul’s voice began lulling me into a beautiful dreamscape.
A man, obviously three sheets to the wind, sat at the piano, his head thrown back and his long brown hair trailing down his back so thin his scalp peeked through like a mountain bald in melting snow. His eyes were closed and he was somewhere in another time swaying gently to the melody. I swayed, too, for the briefest of moments with the sad song making it better.
The bar was lit with colorful vintage lanterns strung on decorative chains down the center of the room. The bar to the left was hosted by a young man in a blue mask. Six people sat at the bar, all displaying that familiarity of bar regulars who become buddies due their attendance frequency in the bar stools. Raspy voices indicated long standing relationships with cigarettes, only smoked outside because smoking inside bars was outlawed years ago, which only produced cold smokers with wind chapped hands rather than curbing the desire to smoke.
A man and a woman sat at one of the tables to the right finishing their meal and chatting quietly in what appeared to be a serious conversation, thankfully had on a Wednesday evening rather than ruining Saturday night fun.
Hey, Jude…Don’t carry the world upon your shoulder. For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool, By making his world a little colder.
I mosied up to the bar and waited impatiently, shifting weight from one foot to the other like a child in desperate need of a bathroom. Apparently, new customers are rare, as everyone gave me the up and down considering look, their thoughts loud and clear, “You ain’t from ‘round here, are ya, girl?”
Impatience finally getting the better of me, I interrupted the rude dismissal of my presence and asked for assistance.
“So, I ordered food down at the brewery and never got it and I would like a refund, please.”
The bartender immediately made eye contact with a woman seated in the chair just beside me. Pointing, he said, “She is the manager.”
The woman and I turned our attention to each other. As she began speaking, the smell of stale cigarette smoke struck my olfactory sense. Before I had a chance to speak to her directly, she said, “We use Door Dash for deliveries. If you have a complaint, call them.”
“But we ordered our food directly from your website, not through the Door Dash app.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “They provide our delivery service, so if you have a complaint, take it up with them.”
“So let me get this straight,” I bristled. “I paid you $35 directly through your website, selected the delivery option, never received my food, and this is my problem to resolve with your chosen delivery service if I want to receive a refund.”
Without a flinch, she said, “You got it. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Well, I don’t think you helped me with this, so I’d say no. I’d also say shame on you, but that would sound condescending and petty, when instead I would rather sound incredulous and angry.”
“Well, I guess I could call them for you, but you’re their customer, not me.”
“Not thanks,” I said with a curt sarcasm that belied my a bad temper.
Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better.Remember to let her under your skin,
Cute bar, I thought walking out through, the, well, out door. I won’t be gracing its doorstep again.
Then you’ll begin to make it Better better better better better better, oh.
Na na na nananana, nannana, hey Jude…