A concerned coaster

I was pouring a Stella when a man sitting opposite the taps coughed, then shoved the coaster across the bar towards me. I glanced up, and put the half-filled Stella down. I quickly looked to my right, but saw nothing out of the ordinary: a couple of my favorite regulars playing cards and the jukebox (they provide a lovely ambient soundtrack to Sunday afternoons at the bar), a little further down a couple of guys were drinking Guinness and watching a game. There was no one in the dining room, so I leaned over and scanned the floor to see if someone had taken a header, though that seemed unlikely. (Etta James singing “A Sunday Kind of Love” would not have covered that kind of ruckus.)

The guy tapped the coaster on the bar to get my attention, then jerked his head in the other direction. (Oh—HIS right!) I glanced over towards the door, wondering if the woman from yesterday had returned. She’d appeared lugging a suitcase just after opening on Saturday, loudly informing Mary that she had arrived from Hawaii where there is a terrible meth problem. (She spoke from experience because the drug cartel had murdered her billionaire husband.) Mary extended her condolences, and we managed to usher the bereaved widow out the door without too much trouble.

But no—I saw only Freddie and the gang from the martial arts school, who come in regularly on Sundays. Freddie was holding forth loudly as usual, but nothing was amiss. The friends he comes in with—another man and a woman—were listening intently to his story. That was it.

I addressed the coaster-writer. “Are you talking about them, that group by the window?” His eyes darted nervously over and he nodded quickly. “I’m hearing some really disturbing things.”

I laughed, “Oh, Freddie’s a gasbag, but his friend is in no danger, except for maybe being speech-blasted off her stool.”

“Oh thank God!” he said, grabbing the coaster, and folding it before shoving it into his pocket. “That’s a relief because if there was trouble—that guy could have easily kicked my ass!”

I thanked him for his concern, which, though misguided, was very sweet. I bought him a shot and asked for the coaster so I wouldn’t forget the story.

The next day, Monday, was the Met Gala, a fundraising event where people paid 100k to participate and the outrageous fashions always spark commentary. (Jeff Bezos was chairing it this year, which also sparked a lot of outrage.) But at McManus, fashion choices sparked conversation too.

John and I had not met before, but as he ordered a tuna fish sandwich and potato salad, we figured it was possible that I had waited on him back in the late 1980s. “I used to come in a lot back then, but I’m retired now and live in the Bronx; I don‘t get down here so often.”

“I love your pin,” I said, suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia.

My father was a fan of SPAM, probably from his days in the army. It was always in the cupboard, and I suddenly remembered a fight I had with my brother Michael when we were probably 12 and 13. We were doing the dishes and I was giving him the silent treatment. As I washed and he dried, Michael kept trying out jokes to make me laugh but I stonily ignored him until he reached for a can of SPAM, opened it and took a huge bite. It was gross, but it worked.

“I haven’t thought of SPAM in forever but when I was a kid we used to have it for supper sometimes, usually the night before payday. My father would fry it in butter and ladle it out with Campbell’s beans.”

“Oh I still love it,” John laughed, “and my son makes fun of me.” A young couple was sitting by the window having lunch; I turned to them. “And where are you on the SPAM spectrum? Or you’re probably too young.”

KC (Like the sunshine band) had never heard of it and asked what it was. I was forced to confess that I wasn’t actually sure, and looked to John, who shrugged. KC googled and read out:

A brand of canned, cooked meat product made from pork shoulder and ham, mixed with salt, sugar, potato starch, and sodium nitrite

Alex, her partner, said he was familiar with it because of the army; he served from 2010-2013. John mentioned that he was in the army from 1971-1973. We marveled at the staying power of SPAM, but I guess that’s the whole point of it.

KC, Alex and John

Richard, sitting a few stools down, called out: “I had SPAM and eggs for breakfast this morning!” I told him he needed to come down and have his photo taken for the SPAM gallery as well.

John and Richard

Later on that Monday, two regulars, Kenny and Mel, popped in; it was still slow so I got to hear a story:

When Mel was in high school, yearbooks cost six bucks. Mel asked his father for the money, but his dad said, “What do you want that for? There’s probably maybe two pictures of you in it.” Mel said that classmates signed and wrote messages in the yearbooks, and it was a good way to remember friends. His father relented, saying Mel could take change out of the big jar on the shelf’—”but you can’t take the quarters.”

So Mel counted out $6.00 in nickels, dimes, and pennies and stuffed them in his pockets and clanked all the way to school the next day. As Mel was telling the story, he got off his barstool and mimed trying to walk with pockets weighed down and bursting with change, and then heaving each pocket up and spilling all the coins onto his teacher’s desk. The teacher shook her head and said she would just have to trust him—there was no way she was counting all that.

Finishing the story, he downed a shot of tequila.

“And from then on, I was known as “Nickel Mel!”

Kenny (left) and Nickel Mel

And this is why I love a slow Monday. The money is not as good as a busy Saturday, but getting to connect with people and hear their stories (and the memories that are sometimes brought to mind) is pure gold.

And since I’ve dragged you down a SPAM-strewn memory lane, here are some old army photos of my Dad (with his best friend) and my brother Michael (with his hero).

Tim O'Connor and Mike Ryan (left) Michael O'Connor and Muhammad Ali