Tales of the Big Bamboo

"Welcome to the Big Bamboo. What can I get for you today?" I repeat for maybe the thousandth time. This is my standard non-committal greeting for all the new faces that wander into my bar. We’re situated on an overgrown piece of property south of Orlando, behind one of those indistinguishable tourist strip malls. This is not a place that attracts the faint of heart. Exterior décor is biker clubhouse meets M.A.S.H.. If you come inside it’s a conscious decision. The first time I pulled up to this place I shook my head in disbelief, muttered "no way" and headed elsewhere.

The majority of people who frequent the ‘Boo spend their days making magic for Disney. Fortunately, they brought along some of their pixie dust and created a whimsical tiki bar that they claim as their own grownup clubhouse. Next you have the obliviously lost tourist who meanders in looking for relief from the heat and a cold drink., Strangest of all and hardest to believe, there is the occasional time traveler who, I am told, are checking out vacationing habits in the early 21st century along with looking for the real America and a brewski. My name’s Hemingway Jones, but my friends call me Hem, and I’m the head bartender at the Big Bamboo Lounge.

"I’ll take a nice, cold draft.," says the man as he settles in on a barstool. Sizing him up as just another vacationer who accidentally wandered in here, he’s attired in standard tourist issue floral shirt, Bermuda shorts, white socks, sandals. Nothing special, I think, as I give him a pint-canning jar of Bud on a toilet paper coaster. There are no pretensions here. I can almost predict the next words out of his mouth after he takes that first big gulp. "Hot as hell out there," (That’s the line) the sunburned visitor exclaims, punctuated by a beer burp.

"Yes, sir," I agree. "Welcome to summer in Orlando. Walk outside on a summer afternoon and within twenty minutes finding any place air-conditioned becomes your primary goal." The new guy and I trade quips about the heat and humanity, nothing I haven’t heard before, but I smile, because I labor for tips, and things have been slow lately.

The Big Bamboo is where I’ve been employed since escaped from a noxious job in a Dilbertesque cube farm six years ago. I was having one of those years where nothing goes right. A rocky marriage had just ended in a black hole, no fights or accusations, just bitterness and silence as we had slowly grown apart. After hitting a big 4-0 birthday and reflecting on my life’s non-accomplishments, I slowly drifted toward the edge. The final nudge came late one afternoon, induced by yet another unimaginably long and ineffectual meeting. Like the pent up energy of an earthquake, something snapped. I tossed a few personal belongings in a box and leaped up on the desk for a loud, impromptu exit interview. There was the usual something about taking this job and shove it and I could hear my co-workers on the phone pleading with security to hurry over before the mass murdering began. When the boss’s head bobbed above his cubicle, I gave him the universal one-fingered sign of respect for authority and explained graphically that "I’d had all I can stands and I can’t stands no more" and quit. I’ve never done something like that before, but boy did that feel great.