Brisket, Mac & Cheese was packed with people. I had a plan. The process was simple. Call ahead. Put in an order. Pick up the order. Walk back to work. Eat that tasty bbq brisket, Mac & cheese, or brisket, mac, cheese & curly fries. Shut the door to my little office. Nap for an hour. Things usually worked out.
That day was supposed to be a sit down meeting. Normally you called ahead for a pick up because things were busy. You always had your pick of places to eat in the restaurant, even on the busy days. Every once in a while, I would change my mind and just eat in the corner or out on the patio, depending on the season.
It was still cold out. You could sit next to the window and watch the people walk by. You could sit in the pit, the nickname the waitresses came up with for the center of the restaurant. You could also sit at the bar.
Sitting at the bar was dangerous. It wasn’t as dangerous as Lakeside or The Yard. Lakeside and The Yard made the drinks strong all day, every day.
At BMC it was like the corporation heads had come to the bar and specifically asked them to water down the drinks until after hours. The days of the three martini lunch were dead … unless you knew the bartender. Thankfully, I didn’t.
That day the window seats were taken, the pit was packed, and the bar was barely visible.
“What’s going on,” I asked the overwhelmed bartender.
“It’s the Ala Tima Holla conference at the convention center. It’s been nonstop for the last two days.”
“Well damn! Looks like the bills are paid and the food will be on the table this week!”
“They’re tipping me like I’m one of their sisters,” She said leaning to shout whisper. “Rent’s paid, too. What do you need, Hun?”
“Business lunch. I’ll take a water for now. If it falls to shit I’ll take a Jack and coke, a real one.” I winked and she winked back. I could always shut the door to my office and nap for an hour.
The 50” tv above the bar was playing the local news. The sound was off but that was ok. The bar was a bit too noisy to listen. Even though the 10 day forecast looked cheery, the scroll below the screen team kept showing more and more hard numbers of infections.
A mask had already become part of my daily wear. I wasn’t paranoid but I did have an 81 year old Mom that I liked to visit on the weekends.
Chris Kilkirkland was right on time. We had a solid discussion about open opportunities.
“Your resume looks great,” he said digging into some tasty pulled pork nachos. “Sadly, the Hartford location is kind of saturated.” I felt my heart drop. The machines were just about to kick into gear.
“BUT route 8 could use a rep. You’d pick a home location and then visit the other banks once a week.” My heart jumped.
He had a little cough. I had barely noticed it earlier. It hadn’t gone away in the 20 - 30 minutes we had been talking.
“You’d work the whole corridor from Bridgeport to the Berkshires.” He could see my smile through the mask.
“Can’t say I’ll miss driving into Hartford every day.”
He coughed again.
“I’m not sick,” he said putting his hands up. “I promise.”
Luckily my hands were still a little greasy from the brisket sandwich. He offered a fist bump and I accepted.
“I’ll be in touch next week with the paperwork,” he said picking up the bill. “We’ll go from there.”
“Once again, thank you. I’ll keep my eyes open for it.”
From the bar I watched him walk back to his car. He had a spot right in front of the plate glass window.
“How’d it go?” asked the bartender.
I gave her a brisket covered thumbs up AND a wink.
“You know what? I will take that Jack and coke …. A real one.”
She winked back.
The process was simple. I had a plan. Walk back to work, shut the door to my little office, and nap for an hour. Things had worked out.
That day was supposed to be a sit down meeting. Normally you called ahead for a pick up because things were busy. You always had your pick of places to eat in the restaurant, even on the busy days. Every once in a while, I would change my mind and just eat in the corner or out on the patio, depending on the season.
It was still cold out. You could sit next to the window and watch the people walk by. You could sit in the pit, the nickname the waitresses came up with for the center of the restaurant. You could also sit at the bar.
Sitting at the bar was dangerous. It wasn’t as dangerous as Lakeside or The Yard. Lakeside and The Yard made the drinks strong all day, every day.
At BMC it was like the corporation heads had come to the bar and specifically asked them to water down the drinks until after hours. The days of the three martini lunch were dead … unless you knew the bartender. Thankfully, I didn’t.
That day the window seats were taken, the pit was packed, and the bar was barely visible.
“What’s going on,” I asked the overwhelmed bartender.
“It’s the Ala Tima Holla conference at the convention center. It’s been nonstop for the last two days.”
“Well damn! Looks like the bills are paid and the food will be on the table this week!”
“They’re tipping me like I’m one of their sisters,” She said leaning to shout whisper. “Rent’s paid, too. What do you need, Hun?”
“Business lunch. I’ll take a water for now. If it falls to shit I’ll take a Jack and coke, a real one.” I winked and she winked back. I could always shut the door to my office and nap for an hour.
The 50” tv above the bar was playing the local news. The sound was off but that was ok. The bar was a bit too noisy to listen. Even though the 10 day forecast looked cheery, the scroll below the screen team kept showing more and more hard numbers of infections.
A mask had already become part of my daily wear. I wasn’t paranoid but I did have an 81 year old Mom that I liked to visit on the weekends.
Chris Kilkirkland was right on time. We had a solid discussion about open opportunities.
“Your resume looks great,” he said digging into some tasty pulled pork nachos. “Sadly, the Hartford location is kind of saturated.” I felt my heart drop. The machines were just about to kick into gear.
“BUT route 8 could use a rep. You’d pick a home location and then visit the other banks once a week.” My heart jumped.
He had a little cough. I had barely noticed it earlier. It hadn’t gone away in the 20 - 30 minutes we had been talking.
“You’d work the whole corridor from Bridgeport to the Berkshires.” He could see my smile through the mask.
“Can’t say I’ll miss driving into Hartford every day.”
He coughed again.
“I’m not sick,” he said putting his hands up. “I promise.”
Luckily my hands were still a little greasy from the brisket sandwich. He offered a fist bump and I accepted.
“I’ll be in touch next week with the paperwork,” he said picking up the bill. “We’ll go from there.”
“Once again, thank you. I’ll keep my eyes open for it.”
From the bar I watched him walk back to his car. He had a spot right in front of the plate glass window.
“How’d it go?” asked the bartender.
I gave her a brisket covered thumbs up AND a wink.
“You know what? I will take that Jack and coke …. A real one.”
She winked back.
The process was simple. I had a plan. Walk back to work, shut the door to my little office, and nap for an hour. Things had worked out.
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