The Bartender

A friend of mine used to work in a bar. They would open at six sharp, and all the wierdos of the evening would pour in. People from far would come, travelers with woeful tales of their travels. They told him their sorrows with the gentle sound of soft music in the background doing the soul what good the body was done from drink. There were the locals who, having felt the tedium of the entire day heaped upon their shoulders, would come in for a bit of r and r before returning home to their wives. The bar keeper would talk to them and advise them and hear them out. There were people in worlds unto themselves; they too came to the bar, though not in scores. Always unique in their suffering, our bartender was all ears. As a barkeeper my friend was swell. He had flair for serving it up and eye for knowing when trouble was mixed in the brew. He had of course, above all, and uncanny knack for listening, and that was what truly won them over.
Sometimes life deals even the sweetest of souls a bitter blow and one such blow befell my friend. It was mid july and his mother passed away, poor thing, had died of a sudden and fatal illness. His father was quick to follow. The next day he got drunk and called me over. We drank the joint dry; there was not a drop left as we finished, lying there, a couple of drunken sots on the counter. He had the funeral to attend next morning and I noticed him put up a sign: The bar is closed. I wonder what the old drunkards would think when they saw this. Where would they get their ale? Who would be there to listen? And just like that we were gone. I need a sign like that.