West Side Horror Story

In a summer in the 21st century of our lord, I worked as a bartender in the Berkshires, Massachusetts. The place was called Spice and at the time it was the most upscale establishment I had ever worked, and I had once worked bar called “The Boy ButterBarn.”

Spice was always a buzz with local crowds of upscale locals, artists, weekend New Yorkers, and theater goers. Right across the street from Spice was the Barrington Theater Company. Every summer season brought in droves of people to come see musicals, and plays.

This summer of our lady (year redacted) West Side Story was the big musical production. The cast would come in before and after rehearsals and shows. I worked at the bar 6 days a week so I got to know all of them pretty well. The gentleman pictured is named John. He was a dancer and performer in the cast. I had a school boy crush on him all summer. We hung out a couple times after the bar closed, going to cast after parties, and even went to a couple matinees of his show.

John had a boyfriend and nothing unscrupulous ever happened. It was not for lack of me trying very awkwardly. I suddenly went into “second puberty” every time he came up to the bar. My voice would go up three octaves and I would just start dropping things. I am sure seeing a (number unavailable) aged guy change immediately into a bumbling idiot was enough to lure the strongest willed man away from his loving relationship.

It was closing night of West Side Story and the bar was the most full I had seen it. The maybe 20 foot bar was ten people deep after the show had let out. People screaming drink orders at me while I tried desperately to wash glasses to serve drinks in. The the cast came in. People applauded and I looked up to catch him in the crowd. John and I locked eyes and everyone else just faded away, and their harsh cries for lemon drop martinis went silent.

I nodded to John indicated “I got you” and went to pour him a glass of his favorite wine, vouvray. You the reader may be thinking “Wow, after ** (number concealed by court order) year you remember the type of wine he drank?” Well that’s because when I went to open the bottle of wine it exploded in my hands. The bottle of wine exploded in my hands.

I looked down to see blood pouring down my arm, and the inside of my own hand. As I stood there in shock a woman screamed at me “CAN I GET A DAMN DRINK?” I turned my emotionless face toward her and then just held up my hand so she could see. Her eyes got huge and she mouthed the word “hospital.”

The owner of the restaurant who was the inventor of Life Alert who was made famous with the line “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” He wrapped my hand in a kitchen rag after rinsing it off in the eye wash sink, and drove me to the hospital. His partner, Joyce later came and sat with me in the emergency room with a togo steak and a pick flamingo she grabbed from her desk. The epitome of Jewish mothering, always bring a gift.

I got my hand stiched up and the next week off from work. My friend Patrick and I went to meet John for a drink before his boyfriend would pick him up from the city.

This picture is of us on that last night of the summer, hand bandaged, and unrequited love.