A construction engineer at Saint Francis Hospital is not an engineer in the literal sense of the word. By that I mean, he is not an individual who designs things. A construction engineer is a someone primarily responsible for the maintenance of the air conditioning systems in the hospital, a construction Services and Environmental Engineer.
A typical degreed Bsee specializes in all aspects of construction services: heating, air conditioning, ventilation, plumbing, lighting, electrical services, construction management systems and controls. In the hospital that would have included a large steam turbine settled in the basement at the southeast angle of the construction also a Honeywell computer principles that controlled pneumatic valves and dampers, regulating the air cleanliness also the temperature and humidity inside the hospital.
Although I am not sure what year it was that one of the construction engineers graduated from college, it would categorically have been in the early seventies because I left to go to college myself in the fall of 1973. Regardless, sometime after studying that, I was invited to the man's graduation party, a bash to be held in a bar directly over the intersection from the hospital.
A combine of men I worked with in the Electronics Shop, Jim Burke and George Fletcher, showed up also a horde of others from the Maintenance Shop and a combine of the construction Engineers. I was driving a new blue 1973 Ford Van and parked it facing the bar, a tiny west of the door.
The bar, settled in a small shopping mall at the northwest angle of 61st and Yale, was not that large. There was a juke box inside the door also a combine of pool tables then added back there were a few tables for four with a small bar on the right. If my memory serves me, the pool tables were at a lower level than the bar but if that assumption were true, obviously the owners would have opened themselves up to costly lawsuits resulting from inebriated patrons tripping or falling over the two levels. Therefore I would have to say my memory is faulty in that one instance. But I have a clear recollection of other events as they unfolded throughout the evening.
Upon entering the door and regardless of the architecture, the two men from the Electronics Shop and I sat down at a table near the front: George sitting over from me with his back to the pool tables and Jim on my left with his back to the bar.
Glancing nearby the crowded room I doubt there were any of those gift that knew George was a straight shooting pool shark. I know I didn't. And even when the shock wore off George was still running the tables before drinking so much he didn't know which end of the cue stick to charge the ball.
But that wasn't the only think George relinquished his place at the table, there were others there with the ability to sink a tough shot and George finally lost and returned to the chair directly over from me. Jim and I we were not nearly so good at playing pool and spent most of our time sitting at the table sipping suds and observing the other player's skill or lack of it.
Some time passed, with the three of us persisting to have a great time, when all of a sudden the conversation shifted to work. I don't think I knew it at the time and Jim and George may not have been aware of their distrust of the other - if that was the problem. In easy terms they may not have liked the other or each of them harbored a deep-set resentment for the other.
At the time Jim was whether the shop foreman or was bucking for the job and George was reporting to him or would have if Jim got the job. whether any of what I have said was relevant or had anything to do with what happened next is open to turn over and my lack of insider information, but for anything reason, all hell broke loose when the two men started arguing about something that complex work.
As the consulation heated up I just sat there dumbfounded, switching my gaze from one to the other, not believing what was happening less than three feet away. Here were a combine of guys, both of which were my friends and friends of each other, I thought, arguing over nothing or at least what I thought at the time was petty, categorically not important enough to quarrel with the intensity they were going at it. But there they were heatedly disagreeing about something that was obviously important to them.
One thing I've all the time said about myself is I don't get into fights while I'm drinking and for that think I purposely maintained a neutral stance throughout their squabble. I had hoped it would soon run its course and one of them would whether shut up and apologize or leave - but neither of them did.
Some more time passed before one of them stood up then the other and they started grappling for position. Those nearby the pool table nearest our table backed up out of the way and the two men, attempting to stretch the other's neck, began exchanging blows in the space between the pool table and the north wall.
It looked like David and Goliath - Jim was over six foot tall and George was about my height, five foot eight or so. Also Jim had previously run a bar over in Creek County near Sapulpa and had some caress dealing with drunks. With that being said, George may have had a few more drinks than he or any of us even realized or was more susceptible to the alcohol and he was starting to lose to the bigger man fast.
In the blink of an eye, Jim threw George up against the north wall like a super human robot or monster then pounced on him like Dracula would have with his cape flowing. And some of us advanced a sickening feeling when the sound waves produced by George's head striking the brick wall exploded from the scene at 774 mph then sat freezing in place as George's body crumpled to the floor.
An instant later Jim grabbed George nearby the neck and started beating his head into the floor and the same squashy sound as a large grapefruit striking a hard concrete face found our ears.
I don't know what would have happened if the bartender hadn't showed up with the butt end of a cue stick and stuck it up to Jim's head and demanded that he stop. Jim wasn't a fool and wasn't drunk to the point he thought taking on someone else man his size or larger was an option, so he relaxed his grip on the smaller man and stood up.
I don't remember much of anything that followed. But if I were to guess, George was rushed back over the intersection to the hospital to check for damaged parts and most everyone would have discussed the incident for a few minutes then started filtering out the door and the bar would have emptied out in a hurry. That is except for me.
I don't know why I would have stayed behind. I must have been drunk past the point of sensible thinking and wasn't ready to go home. Instead I got up from the table and stumbled over to the bar.
I don't know how long I sat there and don't have a firm memory of even going over there but I remember sitting at the bar for a duration of time and the only persons I saw there with me were the two habitancy behind the bar and both of them had their eyes fixed on me.
I probably glanced up at the clock a time or two, which was above the bar directly in front of me. And at some point would have seen the short hand on the one and the long hand on the six. But if I did, it didn't convert my thinking or alter my pattern of behavior because I continued to sit there and ordered someone else beer.
Some more time passed with me switching my gaze nearby the empty room and back to the bar and from one of the two sets of anxious eyes to the other. But I still didn't get it. Those two habitancy were ready to leave and my nearnessy was the only thing that kept them from doing just that.
Finally I struggled to my feet and requested a bill and was told it had been taken care of. I offered to pay anyway but was shown the door instead and finally exited the bar to the parking lot outside.
I have all the time thought of myself as being separate than most when I am drinking. That is - as I have already stated - I don't get into fights and I don't drive fast. But the two individuals standing at the entrance to the bar would not have known that and both of them appeared overly concerned that an individual was leaving their asset drunk, after drinking their alcohol, also an individual that was in no shape to be driving home, regardless of the distance. And there were a good fifteen miles between the open door where the two individuals stood and the door to my house. That length included a narrow bridge over the Arkansas River, the town of Bixby and a whole of dark, shadowy and lonely back roads that associated my house to all the above.
I glanced back straight through the window in the open van door toward the bar before entering the cab of my van and heard one of them yell out to me, "Are you going to be alright?"
I had failed at my first effort to get in the van and paused before production a second effort and glanced again back toward the bar. "Yes," I yelled back, all the while gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the door rest with the other and struggled into the seat and closed the door, then continued but not loud enough that they could hear me, "yes, I am going to be all right."
As I gently backed the van away from the bar and pulled out into the street, I kept the windows up because it was cold face and I didn't know the condition of the roads. Also in my mind I thought it would be best to stay on the back roads until reaching the river then I would have to head over to Memorial to catch the bridge there.
Afterward, I don't know how much time had passed, but I remember driving south on Sheridan Road at five miles per hour - a mile east of the bar and a mile west of Memorial Drive - when I had this very intense urge to spit. But I also knew enough not to just roll the window down and hang my head out the opening. I was learned enough to know that if I did that at any speed, I would be in the ditch before I could get my head back nearby to the front and fetch what bearings I had at the occasion and refocus on the road.
Well, as I explained above, I am separate than most so what I did next was to roll the window down real slow, all the while maintaining a steady eye caress on the road, then at the last occasion turned my head to the side and spit out the window then jerked my head back to the front as speedily as I could.
Twenty years later I was telling the story to Jack Lewis, a friend and coworker at the cement plant in Pryor, when Jack butted in, "You weren't drunk!" He shouted.
I stopped and glared at him, "What do you mean, I wasn't drunk?"
"Well, you would have spit in your face!" Lewis declared.
Hearing his statement, I was even more puzzled, "What do you mean...spit in my face?"
"Well, you would have just thought the window was down!" Jack said, finally.
I learned just recently that Jack got up early one morning some years ago and drove a Ford Falcon pickup to a bar and parked it outside. Unknowing to him, his wife drove up there in a second automobile, a small Chevrolet coupe and exchanged vehicles with him, planning to take the pickup to the shop for some scheduled maintenance.
Later Jack left the bar and got into the car, so drunk he didn't perceive the two automobiles had been changed and drove the Chevrolet home.
Later, when Jack didn't say anything about the automobiles being switched, his wife asked him if he had been to a bar that morning. Of course Jack denied it and his wife asked him again. "Jack, I am only going to ask this you one more time. Did you go to a bar this morning?"
The conversation went back and forth for a tiny before Jack's wife finally told him she had switched automobiles on him and he was so drunk he hadn't noticed. Knowing that about Jack, I didn't doubt he knew where I was arrival from and I had to restate my position.
Ok! So I wasn't that drunk. But even then I found myself out in the ditch and over corrected - even at five miles per hour - before finally getting the van straightened up and back in the right hand lane.
The next thing I remember was knocking on the front door of my house near 191st and Yale and grinning from ear to ear, expressing a term of endearment to my wife, saying, "Hi Sugar!"
I don't remember ever being in that situation again and was one lucky guy for not driving off into the river or something worse, such as crashing into someone else car or being thrown into the drunk-tank for driving while intoxicated.
Hell, I don't even remember crossing the Arkansas River Bridge north of Bixby or Marie's response to my ill prepared early morning greeting. But somehow I made it home and I suppose without incident but even that is open to debate.
The following poem was written any years after the fact. But it takes into catalogue my thoughts while sitting at the bar with just the three of us there: the barmaid, the guy that stayed nearby or showed up at the last tiny to take her home - and me. And that is where I came up with the saying, There Are all the time Three habitancy At Closing.
Through the years I have grown up and been learning
About the facts of life going down
I have been married two times and divorced once
So in between and before I got around
It seems that the way to get girls was
To make a visit to the local watering hole
There belly up to the bar and get noticed
At least that was what I have all the time been told
So as soon as I was old enough to get started
I walked in and flashed my Id around
Then strolled up to the bar to place my order
And looked nearby for the girls to be found
All I saw were two men at the shuffleboard
And two more playing pool by the door
An old guy sipping suds in the corner
And a lone female waitress on the floor
No one else seemed curious in her so
I thought, what the hell? and told her my name
Ordered a draft from the well if it's cold and
Thought, "boy, this is easy and what a game."
So I drank four or five tall cool ones
And was categorically getting to know her by now
When the old man from over in the corner
Climbed the bar stool to my left and sit down
He slurred a few words to me about
His times on the road and all around
He told me his life was one big hustle
And the way I was doing it wasn't sound
He said, "son I have been doing this for years and
I haven't ever got a barmaid alone
There have all the time been three habitancy at closing
Me, the barmaid and someone else guy that shows up to take her home."
"Ah!" I said, "You don't know what you're saying!"
So he got up and left me for his own
I looked nearby and the barmaid was smiling
That shored me up and I was glad the old man was gone
I looked up at the clock and it was winding
To the time and I thought again, boy this is fun
I glanced nearby to the old man in the corner
And he was gone - I guess his day was done
I turned round as the back door was opening
Being so late I thought it must be a bum
Drank the last from my glass and it's empty
Then saw a man and thought, where'd he come from?
Then I thought of the old man in the corner
And his stories about round windup time
So I looked nearby and counted all the patrons
Found there's me, him and her looking fine
So I got up to leave the game was over
And staggered out to my truck in the cold
Disappointed, I thought of the old man in the corner
And what he said, that there are all the time three habitancy at closing
There Are always Three citizen At conclusion