RIP
Last night, around 10pm, while I was working at the bar, a man walked in - very slowly, cautiously, almost. He was staring at me, creeping in. He didn’t walk toward the stools next to the bar or the tables in the back. He walked right toward me and stopped just short of actually coming behind the bar.
I went up to him and said hello. He looked scared. Slowly, words came out of his mouth: “Ummm, hi. I’m a friend of Papo?” It was a leading statement, almost like a question, as if he was trying to get me to say, “Yeah, I know Papo. What’s up?”
Instead, I looked at him quizzically. He continued, “Papo. We were in here a few weeks ago playing pool. I was really quiet, I know. But Papo came in here a lot.”
I said, “What’s his full name?”
“Valentin Veliziatiani (something Italian-sounding that I can’t quite recall).
“Oh! Valentin! Yeah, of course I know him. Why?”
“…I don’t know how to say this but… he passed away.”
I was shocked. Valentin was a regular of mine. He hadn’t gone into that bar before me and he never went unless I was there. We talked at length every time he came in. He was in his early thirties, a chef at the new casino/racetrack in Queens. He’d randomly come in one night after he saw the bright green neon signs along the highway on his way home.
I’m not being vain or over exaggerating when I say that I think he might have loved me. He always told me that I’m the type of woman he’s always looked for and the type he’d bring home to his parents and marry.
Now, as an experienced bartender, I’ve heard that before. And you’re all probably thinking, so what. Well, I can tell the difference between bullshit and pure honesty, trust me. And I know he meant it. He was single. For a long time, he’d been getting on his feet. He lived with his parents, who own a successful Italian restaurant in Manhattan that he always tried to persuade me to try, and he had just gotten out of culinary school a little earlier.
He’d always tell me how he loved my strong personality and blunt honesty. He thought I was funny.
I thought he was respectful and kind. He always drank Coors light and played good music on the juke box.
He brought in a few women on his visits. Always co-workers or friends. I think he was lonely but picky. He was nice to his lady friends but it never seemed romantic and he’d always inform me that it definitely wasn’t - he said they were “nothing compared to you.” I honestly think that, in his mind, if I was single I’d be the woman he’d pursue or someone just like me.
That’s why, when his friend came in to tell me about his passing, I wasn’t surprised when he said that he had fully intended on going somewhere else but the bar caught his eye for some reason and he felt drawn in, like he just needed to tell me.
He told me that they found him out in his car, with no obvious signs of why he’d died. They did an autopsy and the results weren’t back yet.
He said that maybe Valentin wanted me to know and so he sent him in to pass along the message.
If that’s the case - and I truly, deep down in my soul, believe the dead make these kinds of efforts - then I really do know that he felt something much greater for me. And I appreciate that. It’s nice to know I made such an impact on someone that I’d only known for a short time.
This whole situation made me realize that life can be so short and so fragile. I don’t want to waste my time living to work or working to live like he did. He loved his job but he hated his long hours. He wanted to spend more time with his family and find a woman to settle down with and have kids. While those aren’t entirely my own aspirations, I can see where it makes sense to go all out for the things you’re passionate about and not have to wake up every morning dreading your day. I want to make some changes in my life. I want to have more things to live for. I want to make an impact on more people. I want to spread more love.
Rest in peace, Valentin. I wish you could have found more things in life that brought you tremendous joy.
