An Unspoken Code

The Shakers Bar always had a certain vibe to it that allowed its regulars to simply enjoy themselves without much effort. Maybe this was the reason that made Chelsea Loren return to this singular place after a long day of planning for the future. She’d been visiting the bar now with some regularity over the last two weeks and, surprisingly, none of the regulars or the people that came into the bar ever approached her nor tried to get a picture of her from their place. The place she always chose was well known as “Privacy Corner” amongst the regulars, and they knew that the people who sat in that area were not to be disturbed unless permission was given.

This particular evening, Chelsea had chosen to arrive a bit earlier, wanting to avoid the evening rush when things got a little louder and crowded. She enjoyed the soothing silence that the place had during these moments, which allowed her to do some introspection into her own thoughts and goals. However, she did also enjoy observing some of the regulars, from time to time. This was how she learned all about the unspoken “golden rules” in the bar.

She had noticed, ever since that night when she first walked in and had a conversation with Chas Elegant, that everyone in the bar was minding their own business. Chelsea had seen the eyes of people glancing in her general direction and could tell that they recognized her. But they never bothered her nor interrupted her while she drank alone. In this bar they respect each other’s privacy without fail.

Given the variety of people that came into the bar, it was initially a shock to Chelsea to see people from all walks of life just stepped in like they’d walked into their living rooms and were greeted warmly by the grand majority of people. It didn’t matter if they were blue collared workers, sports fans or music lovers. Nobody judged each other based on the color of their skin or their style of dress or their inclinations. By all accounts, everyone knew to respect everyone regardless of race, gender, beliefs and orientations. This was something that she found quite enjoyable.

There were a few times in the bar when the mood got a little rowdy and some people were looking to start some trouble. But what amazed Chelsea was the quick actions of Jimmy, Chas’ coworker, in asking the troublemakers to either stop it, or they would have to leave, and never be allowed inside again. The troublemakers were defiant at first until they felt the gaze of every person inside the bar falling upon them. Nothing gets people more humbled like public scrutiny… Chelsea knew this quite well. The troublemakers quickly apologized and separated from one another, and never said another word afterwards. When she asked Chas about it, he said it quite simply: “Everyone is welcome here, until they decide to act in an unwelcome manner.”

What struck Chelsea as peculiar was the fact that everyone in the bar was willing to enforce these rules no matter who it was or what they were doing. Sitting in her usual stool, Chelsea caught the conversation of a young man with a pretty girl. He'd barely gotten three words out about his displeasure with a young politician when the girl, a regular, immediately shushed him. “No politics in this bar,” she whispered. “We’re here to unwind, not start a debate.” Chas, with a knowing smirk, confirmed for Chelsea that this, too, was an unspoken rule.

There was another curious moment that Chelsea caught when she watched as a small group of people approached the young guitar player who regularly came to the bar to play some folksy songs and earned a few dollars from tips, as well as food and drinks from the bar itself. Despite the occasional disheveled look he had, he was very polite and spoke with a humble tone of voice. But when one of them asked him where he was from and where he'd learned to play the guitar, he fell silent and awkwardly looked to the side. One of the people who had been listening to the musician, politely told them: “Hey, meaning no offense, but we don’t ask those things here. We all have a past. Unless you’re ready to talk about your past too, don’t ask.”

Chelsea had asked Chas, after he had freshened up her drink again, why were people in this bar so defensive about these matters. Not that she’d judge it as a bad thing, on the contrary, she enjoyed the freedom these rules gave everyone. But the way some people immediately jumped in to help or were polite in their attempts to dissuade people to push the issue was something that puzzled her. It was as if this bar was a microcosmos in itself where everyone found acceptance and protection from the outside universe.

“It’s only natural, Miss Loren.” Chas had explained to her as he looked around the bar and its dozens of regulars. “In this place everyone has a reason to be here. They all come for something other than just a drink or a place to unwind. In here, everyone is looking for a place where they won’t be judged or be ridiculed for who they are or what they do. Everyone has problems. And we don’t judge people for their woes.”

Chelsea couldn’t help but smile inwards to herself. Ironically, before she came into this bar, she would’ve thought that these idealistic rules were nothing but rubbish. These are the kinds of false promises she would’ve expected from a movie producer or a second-rate politician. Building a utopia inside of a bar sounded ridiculous! Or, at least, she believed that to be true, once.

Now, as she had spent time in this singular establishment, and came to understand this simple yet important unspoken code, she understood why this place, despite its surprisingly varied clientele, had such a powerful effect on its patrons… and at the center of it all, were the interesting characters who came in, had a drink, shared a story or a laugh, and part ways with a smile on their faces, or a lesser burden on their shoulders.

While enjoying her drink, she took the time to study some of the bar’s most interesting characters - those that had caught her attention after she’d listened in and observed them with patience…

On the opposite side from “Privacy Corner”, where she held court, Chelsea had noticed an interesting gentleman who struck her as a true dichotomy on the nature of a man. This gentleman was a veteran construction worker, a man in his fifties with a rough look, dirty clothes, rugged features and the classic metal lunchbox most people in his profession carried to work.

When she first laid eyes on him, Chelsea believed he must be an uneducated, rough speaking “macho” type who cared nothing other than to get through the day so he could enjoy a drink in this place. True to his nature, he would order a beer or some other common drink, boast about some small glory he had in his youth and laugh at some inappropriate jokes.

She was genuinely humbled when this man was greeted with such warmth and kindness by Chas’ coworker, Jimmy, as if the construction worker were a member of the family. Even the more measured head bartender would greet this man called Frank Ortiz with a firm handshake and a kind word or two.

This rough-looking man challenged Chelsea’s perception. He was actually a dedicated family man, devoted to making sure that his children had the best education he could afford. Judging by the sports-related banter between Jimmy and Frank, she correctly guessed that these two would often discuss, or argue, about their favorite teams or their favorite boxer. Chelsea had never been much of a fan of sports in general. But watching the two of them talk—accepting their different lives and their age difference - she came to appreciate that their friendship was certainly far more honest than the fake "friendships" she knew existed. She felt pleased that such honest and friendly people actually did exist outside the fantasy world of movies and TV shows.

As her eyes continued to look around the bar, right at the center of the front bar, sitting on a stool, Chelsea had noticed that a woman, in a perfectly tailored black business suit, sat completely focused on a laptop computer that rested on the bar top. Her hands were moving at an impressive speed, eyes darting across lines of data behind a pair of glasses and perfectly silent despite the occasional noise or distraction. This wouldn’t have drawn Chelsea’s attention as much as the other “signs” she caught that this woman may not be here just for a drink…

This woman’s shoulders were tense and rigid, dark circles were forming around her eyes and the fact that nobody bothered her were signs that she was, unfortunately, a workaholic. Too busy for idle chit-chat, too focused to notice a kind word, or too engrossed in meeting a deadline to bother with ordering a drink.

There was one time when Chelsea saw this woman suddenly take out a cellphone from her pocket to answer it and answered in a monotone voice: “Ava Peters, speaking…” In that same robotic tone, she was giving clear instructions and explanations to the person who was on line. Ava had delivered her orders and given all explanations and without even saying goodbye she hung up the phone and resumed her work without missing a beat.

For a moment, the Lady believed that someone should try to stop her from running herself ragged. She even saw Chas simply slide a simple cocktail towards Ava, which she acknowledged with a nod of gratitude, but didn’t even direct a word to the bartender. Chas didn’t seem to mind the lack of courtesy from the working woman. He simply smiled kindly and resumed his silent vigil of the bar.

It was concerning, but there was also a calm sense of acceptance… Ava Peters just wanted to finish her work in a place where nobody would bother her. Chelsea couldn’t help but feel sympathy for this young woman.

One of the interesting people that made the bar so interesting to Chelsea’s eyes was the young folk singer, Rhys Walker.

The young folk singer had a presence that was a deep contrast to the bar’s general public. He had the look and musical energy of a legendary folk singer she hadn’t thought about in years.

It had been one night of drinks when she caught this young man plucking at the strings of his guitar and singing with such longing in his voice that she couldn’t help but be reminded of… “This sounds like Dylan…”

The folk songs he played were clearly an homage to the great singers of an era Chelsea remembered from her childhood. Every one of them brought her back to her hometown… the days when she saw her first movie with her mother… She remembered seeing Ingrid Bergman beside Bogart and felt mesmerized that such people existed in the world that could move hearts in that way.

It was strange that Chelsea was feeling nostalgic of a place she had once claimed she had “escaped” from. Rhys’ music and the way he poured his whole heart into the songs seemed to move that in the others who were listening and wanted to take a trip down “memory lane”. For the Hollywood star, this was a very long lane to travel through, but she enjoyed it. And this young folk singer, devoid of the flash and arrogance of the artists she’d met in her life, had far more power to move a cold heart like hers than any band on tour today.

Whenever Chas approached Rhys to offer a drink or something to eat, the singer would hug Chas with the most profound gratitude and a big smile. Chelsea could tell that the bartender and the musician had a history together, and understood why this young talent might feel indebted to the owner. Mr. Elegant would smile kindly at the grateful young man and remind him: “Make yourself at home, Rhys…”

While Chelsea was watching the conversation Chas was having with the musician, she felt eyes on her. It was a familiar, unnerving feeling—one she had experienced millions of times when she walked out in public or was being hounded by the paparazzi. The feeling of being scrutinized and watched from a distance. She slowly turned her head and scanned the bar with her usual commanding gaze.

Her eyes landed on a lively group of young people gathered near the entrance. They were college students, or at least old enough to be, and Chas had explained to her that they were comic book artists who worked with Japanese animation. “Manga and Anime, they call it,” he’d said.

While she had her own opinions about the type of “art” she considered worthy of being called “True Art,” she couldn’t help but notice that one of the young artists was constantly throwing side glances at her. But the instant Chelsea’s eyes caught hers, the young woman would look away, a nervous and troubled expression on her face.

“Oh dear… here we go again”. Chelsea thought wryly. “A fan who can’t seem to find the nerve to approach.” She couldn't help but be reminded of a curious cat, unsure whether to jump into an open box.

Chelsea could sense it was only a matter of time; a small storm was coming…