One of the bartenders remembered that I drank
Abita draft from last night when I was in here, and that counts for something for me. I stood at the bar close to where I sat last night, waiting for a stool to open up. The Saturday night regulars are a mix of
French Quarter locals, college kids, and people in town for conventions. Lots of Hawaiian shirts, halter tops, tattoos, skin tight leisure pants,
Chuck Taylors, and a little
Abercrombie and Fitch thrown in for bad taste.
Again it was the trio, an older slender woman, a tall towering guy in a bandana and the bartender who gets me my drinks the most. When I go out to bars, I avoid all drinks but beer, so that I can tip more. I just don't see the point of drinking mixers, wine, or shots when all I'm doing is paying more for the alcohol and cheating out of a tip because, well, I don't have that much money to throw away in a bar. I can bring a 20 and be content for a few hours and still tip a dollar for every $1.75 mug of Abita. I figure that if I'm coming into their world, I own them something, since it's getting me out of the house.
I am a pretty easy patron. I don't hit on the bartenders and pretty much keep to myself and avoid stirring any action up with the people around me. Mid way through my stay there, some older man sidled up next to be and elbowed his way in on what would have been my space. He looked from side to side, at me, past me, all around the room. Every time he looked in my direction, I swiveled my chair away from him. I just wanted him to leave, but he ordered beer after beer, lighting smoke after smoke.
I think I may make Molly's a semi-normal ritual for me on the weekends. I like the fact that I can go the whole 3 hour duration and not speak to anyone beyond nodding for a refill. I like staring over the labels of all the liquor behind the bar and watching people come in and out. I like not having to think about anything for a change. I don't drink myself into oblivion. I walk home from there alone. No one messes with me.
This guy Eric that used to work at Kaldi's as a barista now works at Molly's; he came in to bum some ice for the other bar down the street he was working at last night. He saw me and said hello, rattled off his hours at Molly's in case I ever wanted to stop by when he was working. He asked if I was alone, but in that flat way where it's more a statement of fact. When he said it, he showed a wince of concern, since I'm sure that is not normal. I don't go to Molly's to meet people, and I don't take people with me when I go. I go there to be invisible. Mission accomplished.