friday before last, i stopped to get a slice of pizza and a beer before meeting friends to see a show. the bartender, Ronnie, was a macho italian guy from staten island—gravelly voice and heart of gold to boot. he told me he works in electric (con edison), bar tends because he loves to shoot the shit and he’s good at it, which his friend Francis, the owner, knows.
he told me, over and over again, how grateful he was for Francis. he had looked out for him over the years. they’ve known each other since they were teenagers. Ronnie’s in his forties, and has been on his own since he was 15. he kept saying, “all you gotta do is be there.” and Francis was always there. always without judgment.
Ronnie was wearing a knee brace because he had hurt his leg trying to help a drunk man into his car home. what could he do, he really hit it off with the guy and his girl that night. a few more weeks with the brace.
another customer came in with a tiny, fluffy, white dog tucked into his coat. Ronnie immediately approached them, admiring the dog, saying “hey killer” in baby talk, loudly delighting in the dog’s arrival. he asked the owner, she’s a girl, right?
a few times throughout our exchange he had also called me big guy.
ronnie was being there; available for being endeared to all the life that came through.