I'll Tell You When I've Had Enough

As Morgan and I walked up the sidewalk toward the bar's front door, an old guy who'd been having a smoke out front tossed the butt, turned, and went in before us. He was a haggard sort, probably in his fifties, and walked slowly with a cane.

He took his seat at the bar where a fresh Guinness was waiting for him, and we settled in a couple stools further down. The place was mostly empty otherwise. We ordered our first round and waited.

"You know," I heard the bartender say behind me, "I think I'm going to have to stop serving you now, and I think it'd be best if you left. I don't know what it is, but there's something else going on here."

She wasn't talking to us, thank god, but to the ragged man with the cane.

"I'm going to take this Guinness away now, too," she said.

Surprisingly, the man didn't cause a stink. In fact he seemed fairly penitent about, well, whatever it was. A minute later, he quietly gathered himself together and left. Best of all, he didn't return later with a gun.

What struck me at first, apart from how well he'd taken getting cut off, was how gently the bartender had handled the whole thing. The words weren't angry or sharp. More than anything else, they were sad. There was a sense of mild exasperation, maybe, but mixed with concern.

The other thing that struck me was that I'd never seen a bartender remove an entire beer from someone before. I've heard of them refusing to serve any more, but never to backtrack and take a man's beer away.

Of course, we didn't know what the story was with this guy, and didn't ask. Wasn't our business.

It's odd, for all the bars, all the years, all the long nights, that was only the third or fourth time we'd ever seen someone cut off at a New York bar. Maybe it has something to do with the taverns we frequented or the hours we kept. Maybe it was a new trend.

First time I remember seeing it happen was about ten years ago. Even then it was more a case of someone cutting himself off, rather than a bartender making the decision. Back in the mid-'90s, we spent most of our evenings at Botanica. It was a block away from the office and stayed pretty quiet on weeknights, so we'd meander over there after work and stay there a while. Jay the bartender never let our pints run dry.

We were sitting at the bar one night, when a kid in his early twenties came in, took the seat next to Morgan, and ordered a drink. It was only a minute or two later that she felt him pressing against her.

Expecting the worst, she turned and saw that he'd passed out, and was slumped against her shoulder.

She straightened him up, making sure he didn't fall off his stool, and caught Jay's attention. He woke the fellow up and offered him a glass of water. Morgan asked him if he'd eaten anything, and suggested that maybe he should stop by the bodega down the block and pick up some juice or something.

The young man seemed quite confused by the whole situation. He explained that he was supposed to be meeting someone there. At least he thought it was supposed to be there. Maybe it was some other bar he was supposed to meet them at. In any case, he thought the best thing to do was get outside, get some air, take a walk around the block and try to clear his head. It seemed like a good idea, so that's what he did.

We don't remember seeing him ever again, so maybe he figured it out.

Some years later we were at a bar in Brooklyn, one of our favorites. It was a Tuesday before Halloween, and wasn't very crowded.

The television behind the bar was showing An American Werewolf in Paris-the lousy sequel to An American Werewolf in London. There was no sound, but for some reason everyone along the bar seemed captivated. Then a loud, slurred voice arose from the far end.

"I know this movie," he said. "It's ahh... ahh...No, I know this-what this movie is..."

"American Werewolf in Paris," someone told him.

"No, that ain't it," he said. "It's, ahhh..."

Some time later, long after the rest of us had turned our attention back to the screen, he came up with it. "Oh! I got it. It's American Werewolf in London... yeah, this is a good one!"

"I don't think that's it," someone offered.

"No, it's American Werewolf in London... it's really scary. These two guys, see...they're on a trip, and one of them gets bit by a werewolf..."

"I think this might be the sequel to that one," someone else said.

"No, it's not. It's..."

On the screen, one of the characters was riding the Metro.

"See?" the drunk said. "They're in London, and he's bleeding because he just got mauled by his friend who's a werewolf."

"They're not in London," an Englishman corrected him. "They're in New York, and he's bleeding because he just got mauled by an Eye-talian."

On and on it went, and after a bit the drunk's insistence became nothing but funny. Nobody could convince him otherwise-not even after the Eiffel Tower kept showing up in the background. So everyone gave up and let him ramble on. It was better than the movie.

Eventually he quieted down and asked for another drink. The bartender brought him a glass of water instead. Then, more out of gentle concern than anything else, began suggesting that he should maybe get himself something to eat-even offering him a little of her own dinner.

I was too wrapped up in the movie to notice, but later Morgan told me that he eventually stood up and slowly weaved out of the bar.

"There you go," the bartender said behind him as he headed for the door, "that's right."

These are all very obvious examples (except maybe for the old man with the Guiness-I still don't know what the deal was there) of people who probably should've been cut off earlier than they were, their entertainment value notwithstanding.

The only example I can remember of a completely unfair, unjustifiable cut off was, coincidentally, also the only time Morgan and I found ourselves cut off.

It's a long story, but suffice it to say we were at Ruby's, and had only had two or three rounds before we found ourselves subject to the attentions of an insane and shirtless Russian. It took a while for his intentions to become clear, and once they did, we wanted nothing to do with him. I turned to Sammy the bartender, at once trying to ask for his help in getting the hairy little pervert away from us-and also in getting us another round (we were pretty dry, and could've really used another beer at that point). But he ignored us and our efforts to push the crazy man away.

Eventually I did catch Sammy's eye, and held up two fingers, while mouthing the words "please help." He just shook his head and looked away again. He wouldn't serve us anymore, even after the creep left.

To this day I don't know if he thought we intended to give more booze to the old man, or if he thought that in our crazed drunkenness, we had somehow brought this upon ourselves. In any case, he was dead wrong.

We stayed away from Ruby's for a long time after that, but the next time I saw him, Sammy asked me how I'd been, and acted like nothing had happened. I did the same.