Drinks On You
By Bill Kohlhaase
It didn’t take long for me to realize those free shots which I took as a sign of friendship were an excuse for my cocktail jockey to have snorts of his own. Maybe that’s why the bartender in Patrick deWitt’s first novel, Ablutions, seemed familiar. DeWitt’s bartender facilitates his own drinking by setting up his regulars. His on-the-job imbibing helps him deal with the fact that, well, he’s a bartender. As the book’s title suggests, drinking can be a sort of cleansing.
A full day of throwing down booze can be tiring, especially when you have a shift to finish. Like deWitt’s character, my favorite bartender disappeared occasionally—sometimes with me—to do stamina-enhancing powders. These excursions were followed by more booze. Trouble usually followed and he eventually walked out. The repercussions of my on-the-house drinking: lost work, alienation, divorce and a general decline in character. Ablutions’ bartender follows both paths.
The book is written in the second person, as in, “You have bad teeth and your breath is poor. Your tips consequently are also poor . . .” The technique makes identifying with “You” unavoidable. You can’t help but feel guilty about You’s behavior because, after all, it’s you. You has problems with money, with cleanliness, with his wife, with drugs and with the women that he escorts back to the storeroom. He follows predictable drinking-life scenarios of regret, cures and relapses. His disdain for the regulars mirrors his self-loathing. In turn, they love him and can’t keep their hands off him.
But it’s the regulars that give the book character. You works in a low-brow Hollywood bar that resembles Boardner’s and any number of other Hollywood dives—most now gone or gentrified—that were loaded with drunken souls. In sections that begin with the command “Discuss,” You introduces us to a clientele that could only be found east of Vine Street. There’s Curtis, a “disconsolate black man and regular with a law enforcement fetish,” who suffers from a skin condition and plays the Rolling Stones’ “Memory Hotel” over and over. There’s doorman Antony, who accidentally cuts a man’s thumb off his third night on the job. Danielle, at 56, has “brittle, overdyed burgundy hair and orange lipstick and many sad tattoos.” Sam is the bar’s “principle cocaine dealer.” Each is a story to themselves.
As in most booze-driven tales, denial plays a role but not as large of one as you might think. You’s self-loathing is disguised by his disgust for others. He attempts escape but, as every recovering drunk knows (and I don’t claim to be one), no matter where you go, there’s a drink waiting. He pays the obligatory visit to Las Vegas where he gets a vision of his own future succinctly outlined in a note scribbled on a napkin left for an offensive bartender: “You are forty years old, a bartender . . . You hate the customers and the work but are trapped . . . You have wasted your life drinking and doing drugs and sleeping beside women with hay for brains . . . You are alone and of no use to the world, save for of getting people drunk.” The second-person irony here is as strong as Wild Turkey.
You’s recurring difficulties are both comic and disturbing. deWitt’s resolution of this dead end leaves you liking his hero less. What’s most intoxicating about the book is its depiction of bar culture and its strange and varied group of regulars. Because of them, Ablutions goes down as easily as your third drink and is just as heady. Here’s to them, and You.
Ablutions by Patrick deWitt, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, hardback, 164 pages, $23