The Eternal Bartender on the Act of Lying at Taverns
By Miles Gough


Bar Truth: Everyone drinking at a bar is lying to one degree or another.

Pat, the eternal bartender, replies: How true that is. You know what they say about lawyers, how you can tell they’re lying. The answer being, their mouths are moving. With bar goers, they don’t have to even open their yap holes to be liars. As soon as that drink is in front of them, there is lying going on. The lies range from “I can handle this next drink” to “Man, I am a handsome devil and that chick would be lucky to know me.” Sometimes I think we charge less for the booze and more for the mendacity.

Now, there are lies and there are lies. I have seen my share of insane storytellers who actually think they’re on the up and up. The biggest liar? That’s hard to say, but I remember one fella way back when I was working behind the stick at this wine bar round Gallelli or them parts. Man, those were sandal and tunic times, not the best for sartorial pleasure, but that’s what we was wearing then, so what you going to do?

There was this fella, he had a following. Back then, you talk fine and weighty, you had people listening at you like you was better than the rest. This guy was alright, polite, tipped, didn’t give me no guff most of the time. But the stories he told. He sure went on. It wasn’t that he was smarter or prettier in his tales, but that he could do things. He said he cured the handicapped. He made blind people see, the lame walk, the lepers have Oil of Olay type skin and no doubt, he made the stinky take baths. Now that’s a miracle.

When this fella was really in his cups, said he was the son of God. Now that’s a DNA test I would like to see run.

The last time he was in my joint, he was telling a tale about his latest daring do. He had word that a buddy of his was sick and dying. Instead of going to see him right away, the fella dawdled, probably tossing back a few in my establishment, I wouldn’t be surprised. He finally got around to seeing this friend of his and the dude was dead four days. The fella said he went to his buddy’s tomb and commanded him to rise and come out. Then what did that dead dude do? He rose and came out. Madness.

All of the fella’s followers were open mouthed and excited by this bullshit. I had enough of it and told him and his toadies to hit the road, I was cutting them off. No one talks resurrection in my joint.

The fella never raised his voice, he was polite like I said. He told me he wasn’t done imbibing. I told him not here he ain’t. He said that was cool and could he have a jug of water. I asked why. He said he was going to go out to a field and turn it into wine. I threw up my hands. I gave the water to him and told him to have at it. He left with all his thirsty followers behind him.

Never saw him again. I guess he found another joint to tell his stories. There is always some place to tell them, and some sucker to listen to them like they’re true.


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