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Sad Sam   

“Do you want Pint of Blue?” asked Ali. “I had him last time,” I said. “All right, I’ll take him.” When it was slow like this we did every other table except for the doozies, then each one was up for debate.  I know what you’re thinking, Pint of Blue was a shitty tipper, but that wasn’t it.  He tipped okay; he was just so high maintenance.  Believe it or not, it wasn’t not just about the money for us.  We were not just a bunch of money sluts that would do anything for a buck.  Pint of Blue was Mr. Lonely and expected you to chit chat, and for this reason he went into a special category.  I knew everything about Pint of Blue’s life -- not by choice, but more like a captured prisoner forced to listen against my will.  He was a workaholic whose wife left him about a year ago.  Since then, he’d spent almost every evening here bugging us.  Because Karen left him, we here at the Slug and Lettuce were stuck listening to his drivel night after night.  The funny thing about Pint of Blue is he actually thought we were all friends.  He didn’t seem to get that we were being paid to be here and none of us would be here otherwise.  Well maybe John would, but he was a lifer.   A lifer was someone who was never going to get out of the bar business.   A lifer was a professional server or bartender and usually had an affection for alcohol—I’m not going to say always, but I will say I’d never met a lifer who didn’t like to drink.  Anyway, I’d like to call Karen and beg her to take Pint of Blue back.  He really did love her and his working all the time was not a direct reflection of his feelings for her.  Besides even if she couldn’t stand him, he’d hardly be home.  Why did we have to be stuck with him?  After all she was the one who took the vow. The next one in the door was mine whether I liked it or not.  I was lucky ‘cause it was Sad Sam; I actually kind of liked Sad.  He was, as you might’ve guessed, a little depressed, but in a funny way I appreciated his not trying to fake it and pretend he was all perky-like. Sad Sam was real. And in a world of phonies, he felt like a person amongst actors.  “Hey Sam, how ya doin’?” “Hey Sarah, same ole same ole.  How ‘bout you?  Looks kinda slow.” “Yeah, it was busy earlier, but I don’t mind the quiet.  You want scotch or beer tonight?” “Scotch.  This is definitely a scotch night.” “You want a menu?” “Nah, food will just keep the scotch from working its magic.” I brought the scotch and Sam was buried in his book.  He gave me a quick nod (which is customer for thank you), and went back to his reading.  I headed back to the waitress station and couldn’t help but imagine what made Sam so sad.  Maybe his wife left him like Pint of Blue’s, or maybe he was in a war like Crazy Harold, or maybe he had a child that died like Gravy on the Side’s.  He didn’t divulge his life story like so many of them, but you just knew his heart was broken.  He had the sweetest brown eyes that looked like they could start to cry at any moment, but somehow you knew they never would.  Sometimes when it was really slow Ali and I played silly games to pass the time.  One of them was called, “Which Customer.”  Which Customer was a game where we had to name the customer we’d most like to sleep with, or be trapped with on a desert island, or hate to see naked, or have an intellectual conversation with.  Anyway, you get the idea.  Funny thing is I’d never picked Sam.  But, as the night went by I realized I’d spent over two hours thinking of nothing but Sam.  Where did he go when he left here?  Where did he work?  Why was he so melancholy? “Sam, you want another. It’s last call?” “Nah, I’m alright.  I should probably get going.  I’ve got to work in the morning.” “Oh, where do you work?”  This was my in.  I could finally learn something about Sam. “I’m self-employed.” “Self-employed at what?”  Jeez, this was like pulling teeth.  He should’ve taken some lessons from Pint of Blue.   “I’m a writer.” “Really?  What kind of things do you write?”  So, Sad Sam had the tormented soul of a writer.   “Um, novels mostly.  Most of my work fits into the category of literary fiction.” “What does that mean?”   “That’s what I say.  It means I write about everyday people doing everyday things and how they think and feel.” “Oh, that’s my favorite kind of book.  I’d love to read some of your stuff.  Have you ever been published?” “Yeah, you can probably find one of my books at the local bookstore, or you could just go to the library.  Look up Samuel Godwin.” Did I look calm?  I’d been serving Samuel Godwin all this time and never knew it.  “You’re Samuel Godwin?” “Have you read any of my books?” “I think all of them.  I especially liked The Details.”  “Thanks.  That was one of my favorite ones to write.”   “Excuse me,” I heard from the corner.  It was Dave with the Hat; he wanted another Smithwick’s for last call.  Didn’t he know I was busy talking to Samuel Godwin? “I guess that’s me.  See you later.”  As I walked away I felt suddenly self-conscious around Sad Sam.  Did my butt look big in those jeans?At the end of the night when Ali and I were counting our tips, I let the cat out of the bag.  “Did you know that Sad Sam is Samuel Godwin?” “ Samuel Godwin.  Get out.” “I’m not kidding.  For some reason I asked him what he does and it all came out.” “Wow.  I guess it’s more obvious why he’s so sad now.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “I mean think of his books—The Priest, No More Tears, Bye Bye Daddy, The Details.  All of them have abuse, molestation, rape or some kind of nasty head game going on.  He probably writes from experience. That’s what all those writers do.” “You think?” “Absolutely.” When I got home, I took The Priest off the bookshelf.  I opened the book and read the parts about the priest molesting the altar boy.  “He told me it was okay because when his hands touched me, they were the hands of God.  That it was through God’s love, a pure love, that he did these things.  Then why did I hang my head in shame, burdened with this big secret too immense for a young man?”  Either Samuel had the ability to capture the exact emotions of a sexually abused teenage boy, or Ali was right.  I lay awake in my bed and thought of nothing but Sad Sam when I should have been thinking of my Psych test.  Oh well, it was just multiple choice.  How bad could I do?   In the morning, I went to class and bombed the test.  All the questions seemed like trick questions.  I was usually good at multiple guess.  I usually studied.  Jen caught up to me after class. “How’d you do,” she asked. “Not so good.  You?” “I’ve done better.  Are you going to pub night tonight?” “No, I’ve got to work,” I said.  I didn’t mention that the last thing I’d like to do on my night off is go to a pub. “Well, we’ll see ya around.” The night at work was insane.  It seemed everywhere I looked there was another customer who wanted a beer, a napkin, some ketchup, a menu, some more cream, a glass of water, and then it started again-- another drink, more coffee, extra sour cream.  When table four asked me for directions downtown I just about lost it.  But I didn’t.  I stayed calm and cool and told them to ask the manager at the front.  I smiled and did not say, “Are you kidding me?  Do I look like a GPS?”  People think waitressing is all about being good at bringing people drinks and food, but it’s not.  It’s really about keeping on your game face and never losing your cool.  Basically I was an actress with beverages. At ten o’clock the place died down and Sam strolled in looking his usual gloomy self. “I’ll take Sam,” I said. “You don’t have to, it’s my turn,” said Ali. “It’s okay.  I don’t mind.”      “Hey Sam!  What can I get you tonight?”  I smiled my first real smile of the night. “I’ll have a pint of Toby please.  How’s your night been?”  “Busy.  We’ve finally just slowed down now.”  As I walked away to get Sam’s beer I couldn’t believe how sweet he was.  Why had I never noticed this before?  I brought Sam his beer and as usual his beautiful brown eyes were buried in a book. “Thanks, Sarah,” he managed. He hardly even looked at me.  Everywhere I went men wanted me.  They wanted to make me laugh.  They wanted to know about my personal life.  They wanted to buy me a drink.  And yes of course, they wanted to sleep with me.  But not Sam--he could barely lift his head to say thank you.  Sam just spoke to me to be polite. “What do you think of Sam?” I asked Ali. “He’s all right.  A little depressing I guess, but nice enough.  Hard to believe he’s Samuel Godwin.” “I think he thinks he’s something special.  Maybe we think he’s sad, but he’s really just pompous.” “Could be,” she said. “But I don’t think so.” I found reasons to walk by Sam, but he didn’t look up from his book.  Maybe he was gay.  I asked Perry -- he was gay.  He said gay people have gay-dar.   “Do you think Sam’s gay?” I asked. “Sad Sam?” “Yeah.  You think he’s gay?” “Nope.  He’s not gay.  He may be weird, but that don’t make him gay.  Did you ask everyone if they want last call?  I need to start putting stuff away.” “Everyone’s good,” I said. Again, I headed to the bookshelf when I got home, this time I grabbed The Details and I read.  “She would make us stand naked over the laundry room sink and she would don rubber gloves and disimpact our bowels.   If I was too vocal I would get hit with her yard stick.  I can’t tell you how many times I got hit with that yardstick, but it was this disimpaction that still has the ability to haunt me.  I shake and tremble and bury my chin in the collar of my shirt when I think about it.  I still cannot tell the story without shaking and crying.  There is something about it that makes me feel unlovable and fills me with such shame.”  I shut the book and wiped a tear from my cheek.  Oh my God, poor Sam.  No wonder he was so sad.  For a good hour, I lay awake in my bed and wished to be the one to finally bring happiness to Sam.  I tossed and turned all night long, falling in and out of sleep, dreaming and thinking of Sam.  When my alarm went off in the morning I could hardly open my eyes.  How on earth was I going to get through the day?    When I got to work in the evening the first thing I said when I saw Ali was that I wanted to get off early if it died out. “Sure, no problem.  I need the cash anyway, my car payment’s due.” “Great.  I’m just exhausted.”   And just like it was in this business, it was the busiest when you least wanted it to be.  Maybe it was good because I was running around so much I forgot how tired I was.  Of course, this was also the night that Perry decided he was sick and needed to go home early, so now I was stuck working behind the bar.  The good part about working the bar is you could relax—not so much running.  The bad part is that you were stuck talking to the customers, there was no escape. But tonight was different.  Tonight I wanted to talk and make these barflies laugh because Sam was sitting nearby.  I was charming and so thrilled to be their bartender, or so it would seem.  And it worked because when a barstool became available Sam moseyed on up and decided to take a seat.  I pretended it was no big deal and that I only casually noticed, but my palms were sweaty and I heard a slight tremble to my voice.  Sam stayed right until last call and at the end of the night he offered to help me clean up. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind.  Throw me the rag.” Now, that I knew Sam was Samuel Godwin, the famous writer, it seemed like the sweetest thing in the world that he was helping me wipe down the bar.  He stayed and helped me close up and offered me a ride home.  I accepted and when we got to my apartment I invited him in for a drink.   And by now you know I didn’t play coy with Sam for a moment.  I poured us each a glass of wine and after about fifteen minutes, we were making out like two studying teenagers in the basement. “Let’s go to your room,” he whispered. I said nothing; just sat up and slowly walked down the hall to my bedroom.  He followed closely behind.   He slowly unbuttoned my blouse and revealed my black push up bra.   I unzipped my skirt and he took a step closer and pulled my face near and kissed me hard on the lips.  His tongue was wet and thick, and with this one kiss I was dripping wet.   He pulled down my skirt and I felt his hands massage me; he could’ve left then and I would’ve been happy.  The way he cared about pleasing me first and himself second was unlike any other man I’d ever been with. "I want you inside me."  But he kept going, as though he didn't hear me.  "Please, please..." "Okay.  Lay down on the bed." I dutifully obeyed.  I might have done about anything he asked of me at this moment.  He quickly undressed and revealed his hardness.  He watched me looking at him and he slowly masturbated.             “Is this what you want?" he asked. "Yes.  Yes." He kissed my neck and ears and whispered, "I want you." "I want you.  Please!"  I pleaded.  "Well all right, but just for a second." When he came in, it felt like I'd finally found the long lost, last piece to my jigsaw puzzle, but then he took himself right back out again. "No, no.  I want you.  Please come back!" "Be patient." And then his hands and tongue were doing wonderful things.  This man was too sensual for words.  I couldn't stand it anymore.  I grabbed his hair and pulled his face up to mine and I kissed him so hard and he knew not to let me beg any longer.  Each time he pulled out I grabbed his bottom and pulled him back in.  I could hear the bed squeaking and the headboard hitting the wall and his heavy breathing.  When I came I bit down on my tongue to keep myself from screaming.  And in my ear he whispered, "Can I come now?" And I whispered back, "Yes, yes." He buried his head between my neck and shoulder and made love to me so fast and furious it felt like a warm blur.   When he came his body trembled, and he lifted his head up and took my face in his hands and told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.  In the morning, Sam was gone.  No note, no explanation, and no traces of him could be found.  The whole night could have been in my imagination were it not for the the rawness between my legs. I showered and readied myself for my day of classes and another night of waitressing.  I told myself Sam would be by the bar later and we would pick up where we left off.  The night was long and each customer that came through the door was potentially Sam, yet never was.  I went home and cried in my bed.  I tried to think about what I had done wrong.  Maybe I was just too easy and that put him off, or maybe what I thought was great love-making was like sleeping with an inexperienced kid.  How could I know?  He was rich and famous and probably had his pick of women--women of substance and character, not struggling student/waitresses. For the next few weeks I lived in a cloud of regret and hope.  I hardly ate and when I was supposed to be sleeping I cried or read passages of Sam’s books.  All I’d ever wanted to do was make Sad Sam happy, and here I was so wholly miserable.  I didn’t have Sam’s phone number and I had no idea where he lived, thank God or I may have become a stalker, so all I could do was hope he would come back into the bar again.             And then I saw the ad in the paper stating that Samuel Godwin would be reading from his new book the next night at Pages Bookstore.  He was going to be available immediately following the reading for questions and book signings.  I decided to go.  The plan was that I would hide out in the back and be unobtrusive – he wouldn’t even know I was there.  Between stomach aches, I decided to go and not go about a hundred times.  But deep down, I knew I was going.  When I arrived I skulked around in the back of the shop, pretending to look at the clearance books and intermittently tried to spot Sam.  People were starting to sit down and gather in a semi-circle, but still no sign of Sam.  The owner of Pages came and introduced Sam and I felt instantly sick.  What if he saw me?  And then some strange guy got up and everybody started applauding. 

            “Thank you all for coming.  As most of you know, I’m Samuel Godwin and I’m going to read an excerpt from my latest book ‘Good Night Bad Mommy’.  Many people ask me if my books are based on real-life.  The answer is no, and my own good mother is here tonight to set the record straight.  Stand up and take a bow, Mom.”