I've Been Riding With The Ghost, I've Been Doing Whatever He Told Me
The things that form us generally stay with us, tendons running along our bones. Sometimes they are baggage, sometimes memory, sometimes an informant on our actions and reactions. My dad died over thirty years ago a few weeks before Christmas on Friday the 13th. His passing and the holidays always means he’s especially in the ether of my mind, more so if I spend time with family in Maryland.
The name Attitude Adjustment Facility came from my father, it was a slogan he used for Souris’ Saloon, the family bar. Bobby Souris was a king of merchandising. This was the 70’s and 80’s, branding wasn’t the ubiquitous thing it is now. So many ballpoint pens, an ashtray here and there, t-shirts, fans, a rain jacket, a small leather change purse on the 50th anniversary of the place, keychains. Two different kinds of calendars, year-at-a-glance and a pocket calendar with a wood-panel grain. A clicker, just a plastic rectangle with a metal strip that made a clicking sound when you pressed it. I think now they are used for dog training–back then, I doubt it.
I’ve been carrying an old bottle of Souris’ Vodka from apartment to apartment, city to city, for years like the crappy heirloom it is. It’s not some secret family recipe, crafted after hours of tastings, it’s Paramount Vodka from Ohio.
In the past year, the Souris’ whiskey has seen the light of day, a much cleaner, newer looking bottle that’s probably just been in a box in a cousin’s basement all this time. Paramount again. Just a few days ago I saw a Souris’ Peach Schnapps and Amaretto. I’ll chalk it up to some extreme house cleaning during the pandemic by a relative. On my better days I imagine someone grabbed a case as a talisman of a life and family business and stowed it away. On my worst, I just think I’m related to a selfish hoarder. It makes no difference, these bottles are best unopened and undrank.
I told Vince the ghost of Bobby Souris would rear his head at some point over the holidays. That could be something irresponsible, extravagant, or fun, most likely beyond my means and/or possibly dangerous. There’s a place in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware where his old friend bartends. That’s what I got, that’s what I can do. Find my father in old bartenders. My mom said he is considered the best bartender in town. I don’t remember him at all. He had to be young because over thirty years after Bobby’s death he is still around. His name is Hoagie.
We walked into the restaurant, a newer steakhouse, and I knew immediately that the man behind the bar was Hoagie. A tall, big man with white and gray hair slicked back, his style and look somehow akin to my father’s.
“Do you know Bobby Souris?”
“Yes.”
“I’m his youngest daughter.”
We sat at the marble horseshoe bar and ordered martinis. I told him this was the only good bar in town, every other one looked like an operating room. He laughed. All the other restaurants, the other bars, are bright with TVs, filled to the brim with boomers booming. This one feels like a place I want to be, rather than a place I have to be.
Mike is his real name and he is a great bartender. A constant stream of people come to see him, to just sit for a drink or two and catch up. The bar only has seven seats but the restaurant is full, he makes everyone’s drinks. There are no pour spouts on any of the bottles at his bar and nothing to measure the alcohol. He just takes off the cap and free pours. No counting, it’s intrinsic. He is also fairly quiet. In my experience, the best bartenders don’t talk that much, they let you unravel while they do their business. These new ones are too friendly, they just give it away. You should have to earn a bartender’s endorsement.
Hoagie’s constantly leaning on one arm or the other, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I can tell his body hurts, maybe his feet, or his legs, or his back. Or all of them. My mom told me he’s had a stroke in the past year, and here he is, back behind the bar. He’s around my father’s age when he died, 62, but who knows, that could also just be this lifetime of magical thinking.
I originally told Vince we shouldn’t go see him because I didn’t want to be stuck at a bar with my dad’s old friend. What a lie! That’s all I want. I want to know how they met and why his name is Hoagie. I want to know about nights at the Rusty Rudder, the fun times before the owner went to jail, what other bands played that night with The Shirelles, who was the guy with the plane who flew my dad places, were the virgin daiquiris really non-alcoholic, was my dad was ever good at being a bookie…stories! I want them all, to fill in the holes and question marks, to revel in memories from when my dad was alive…I want to know everything, but it’s too busy and he’s got a lot of drinks to make. Also, as previously mentioned, he is quiet.
I asked if he met my dad at the beach, maybe at the Rudder or Obie’s.
“I went to Towson.”
“You went to Towson State?” I repeat, like it was the craziest idea in the world that he was one of thousands of people who attended this public college that was down the road from the bar. I mean, hell, that’s how my parents met.
“Yeah, it’s America. You can go wherever you want.” He replied in a Delmarva accent without skipping a beat, emptying a bottle into a shaker. The perfect punchline.
A group of five came in, three women and two men I knew would be awful. We all knew they would be awful. There’s something about entitlement that announces itself early and often. It’s also not hard to catch a whiff of a Tucker Carlson fan. Our drinks were finished, it was time to move on. I asked for the check and Hoagie shot me a sad look and said “You’re leaving?” He only charged us for one drink. I handed him a crisp hundred dollar bill for the tab. When he asked the server if she could break it, I got to say “Keep it.”
And he did.
The ghost of Bobby Souris likes to spend money I don't have. It’s fun.
Great one.
Thanks Millicent
Love your writing and always look forward to an attitude adjustment