Sometimes bartenders should be recognized for who they are, not just for what they do well. Sure, the Harbor Way Inn is sometimes remiss in maintaining the full complement of red-eye that we're looking for. And, yes, sometimes Spooky pales in comparison to others in this profession: those whose attentiveness to customers, deftness in mixing, speed in serving, and encyclopedic knowledge of all things drinkable are surpassed only by their betters. But who in this town will make us a Ramos fizz? Who carries white port, so we can order up a WPLJ, the white port and lemon juice concoction made famous by Frank Zappa? No one, so far as we know.
And neither does Spooky. And that's fine, because she takes the cake in another category that makes bartenders best: the gift of gab. Yes, your Miller Lite can is empty and you'd like another. But Spooky's in the middle of a story, and until she notices the tiny echoes of your air-filled can tapping on the linoleum, you're happily SOL. Happily, you say? Yes, because the story's so damn good, and you're the only one at the bar.
This one's about a guy who came into the Harbor Way, ordered an icy cocktail in a glass, sat down at a seat in the corner, and proceeded to rest his cold, wet drink on his balls, which had spilled out of his shorts for all to see, puddled on the chair like two poached eggs. And who was this singularly uninhibited, numb-nuts character? According to Spooky, he carried documentation proving that he was, in fact, the guy who crashed his single-engine plane into Memorial Stadium after the Colts lost to the Steelers in 1976.
Thank you, Spooky, may we have another one? Another story, that is. And, oh, yes, another drink, too, now that you mention it.