And so this is. . .

T’was the Night Before Christmas and I didn’t care. . .

I didn’t then and I still don’t. So this will be published on December 24th. Day before Christmas and all that. I’ve made no secret, neither on here nor my blog, what I think of the holiday season. In fact, last year I reinforced it by detailing the history of the holiday.

I F-ING HATE IT.

Rather than bore everyone (again) with yet another rant, I decided to tell a story.

A Christmas story.

This story occurred on Christmas Eve 1990.  I was still working at TGI Fridays.  That night, I was doing the server thing (we called them dub dubs, short for w/w, short for waiter/ waitresses.)  In fact, I was shift leader, which meant that I would be the last dub on the floor.  At the time, that Fridays closed at 2 a.m.  Last call was 1:30.  Period.  365 a year.

TGI Fridays King of Prussia (now long gone and replaced by Bonefish Grill) had three levels.  The ground level was nonsmoking.  The middle level (and center of the restaurant) was the square shaped bar, maybe four feet up from the ground.  The upper level, L shaped along the back 2 walls, was the smoking section, and it was maybe five feet above the bar floor. The bar and upper section were accessed by stairs, and an elevator for wheelchairs.  It was all wood, brass, and junk on the walls.

Christmas eve was busy early, as some people were traveling and stopped to eat or drink.  However it died off by 9 p.m.  Did I mention we were open until 2?  So by 9:30, I was the only dub left, as it was Christmas Eve and everyone else had a life.

A little background here — November 1990 was my first suicide attempt.  I was drinking very heavily and still really didn’t care if I lived or died.  I was originally scheduled for Christmas Eve, and volunteered for shift leader, but off on Christmas.  Several people wanted off for Christmas, so I switched with one.  I didn’t want to be at home (I was still living with my parents.)  Also, it meant someone owed me a MAJOR favor.  In any case, it made someone who mattered in the world happy.

In the back corner of the bar was a replica olde tyme gas pump which doubled as a clock.  By 11:00, all the side work was finished.  The only staff left in the store was a manager, a dishwasher, one line cook, a bartender, and me. The manager was. .  . well, a jerk.  He kept saying things like “find something to do!”  Heck, I remember that I even polished the brass railings that night, which took an hour or so.

In any case, I was walking up the steps to the upper level when the clock started chiming twelve.  I looked over at the bar, where Betsy, the bartender was standing.  We locked eyes.  Betsy was in her late twenties, and absolutely gorgeous.  She kept to herself mostly, but absolutely exuded confidence.  She was a fantastic bartender, and had many regulars.  I think the entire two years I worked there (we worked together the whole time) maybe twenty words that weren’t work related passed between us. Betsy was the woman I desperately wanted to be, deep inside.

Betsy and I looked at each other, and listened to the clock chime.  I know I felt a deep loneliness — I felt loss, confusion, and pain.  And, for the only time, I saw vulnerability in her eyes.  Perhaps even a sense of regret.  After the twelfth chime faded, we both said, quietly, “Merry Christmas.”

Two hours later, with the restaurant closed, the staff silently walked out into the cold night.

Almost twenty eight years later, I still remember that moment, that look that passed between us, with crystal clarity.  I don’t know why.

I quit Fridays in August 1991 to work at Chessex Game distributors.  While I know what happened to some of my coworkers after all the years, I have no idea what happened to Betsy.  I doubt if she remembers that moment.  Perhaps, it lives on only with me.

Merry Christmas.

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Category: Transgender Body & Soul