2004-08-30 - 9:21 a.m.

This story needs to be told.

Friday night I was tending bar at Cody's, trying to make the almighty dollar, when things went a little south.

One minute my friend Doug was leaning against the bar, the next he was creating a small puddle of blood on the concrete in front of him.

Flashback...

The first time I met Doug was a little over a year and a half ago. Cody's was a hoppin joint, and I was still a wide-eyed college kid tryin real hard to make some money without breaking any bottles. I'd finally gotten a promotion from sharing the long bar to working my own bar up front, and I'd come in extra early to set up. It was about 5:30pm, so I had about half an hour before the bar opened for the night.

As I went through the motions of prepping the bar, I noticed a lone cowboy leaning against the stairs on the front porch. Under his arms he had two long metal crutches.

I signaled our head bouncer Zak over. "Hey, who's this guy waiting outside? Doesn't he know we don't open until 6?

"Oh, that's Doug. I swear he gets here earlier and earlier every day. I'll go let him in."

"But...we're not open yet..."

My words trailed off as Zak disappeared to unlock the front doors.

A few minutes later, a weathered cowboy dressed in wranglers, a neatly pressed flannel shirt, dark sunglasses, black cowboy hat and dark brown boots rounded the corner. Maneuvering his crutches one at a time, the man took about 2 minutes to cover a distance that would have taken you and me ten seconds. With an unwavering determination, one crutch was placed in front of the other, almost mechanically. No signs of distress, no signs of frustration at an act that would have had me cussing and swearing up a storm in utter frustration.

As he approached the bar, I went through that moment of indecison and general unease.

(Internally I'm thinking, "Ok, he's disabled. How disabled? Do I need to speak loudly and slowly? Should I be serving him alcohol? What if I can't understand him. Maybe he's just physically disabled...")

"Jaaggerrr."

As I'd been pondering my moral obligations to serving this cowboy, I'd completely missed the fact that he'd already propped himself up against the bar and was subsequently ordering.

"Jaaggeerrrr."

It was said with a hardness, a shortness, that from anyone else would have warranted a disgusted look and shitty service from me. But, recognizing the man as disabled, I felt the need to be extra kind and patient.

"Jaaaageeerrr."

The word was slurred and barely understandable, but after leaning in close and concentrating, I finally determined that the man wanted a shot of Jagermeister.

Grudingly, and still a little unsure of myself, I poured him a shot of Jager.

"Inn a cufpp."

"Excuse me?" I leaned in closer.

"In a cufp!"

I was a little taken aback by his gruffness, but I determined that he must want his shot in a cup rather than a shot glass. I transferred the brown liquid into the cup and he nodded.

He then took the cup, tilted his head back, using one hand to hold his cowboy hat on his head, the other grasping the cup, and downed the shot. Instead of swallowing the shot, he gurgled it for a few seconds and then finished it.

"Jaaageerr."

For the next few weeks, every Thurs-Sat, this was the only interaction I had with Doug. Every night he'd come in right before open, Zak would unlock the doors, and he would lean against my bar and drink a few shots of Jager. Then sometime before close, he would disappear into a taxi.

I began asking some of the regulars about Doug, who he was, why he was diabled, etc...

I was a little surprised by the answers I got.

Doug was in his late 40's and had been, up until an accident, a pro bull rider and rodeo superstar in the midwest. He was riding a bull one time when it bucked him to the ground. He landed awkardly, had the wind knocked out of him and was unable to roll out of the way when the bull spun around and stepped on his spine. The accident left him virtualy paralyzed from the waist down and damaged his speech ability.

However, rather than confine himself to a wheel chair, Doug acquired two metal crutches and began moving around by basically using his upper body strength to lift his body, dragging one foot in front of the other, slowly but surely.

Whenever I asked a regular about Doug, they were always reverent and respectful. They would say things like, "That's the finest sonuvabitch I've ever known," or "That man could still arm wrestle anyone in here and beat their ass!"

So one evening I changed the subject.

"Jaaaaggerr."

"Hey man, I'm David. I just realized I've been your bartender for a little over a month now, and we haven't met yet."

A little perplexed, and perhaps a little wary of the city slicker with the earrings and (at the time) messy blond hair, Doug finally extended his hand.

"Naaamme's Doug."

The simple gesture opened up what would become a strong friendship over the next year and a half. I introduced Doug to the joys of mixing Redbull with Jager, always made sure the TV was set to TNN or some channel showing a rodeo, and always kept the Jager coming until he was ready for me to call his cab.

In turn, Doug always had a joke of the day to tell me, used any nearby napkins and bar towels to keep his section of the bar clean, and occaisonaly swung his crutch at any guys starting trouble in front of my bar.

From time to time Doug would get a little too drunk and would occasionally tip over as he made his way to the exit. Me and the bouncers would run over, grab his arms and set him up right. He'd laugh, mutter some curse about his legs and head out the door.

Months passed and Doug became as much a part of Cody's as me or any other employee. He always attended company picnics and even celebrated birthdays with us.

Our friendship grew and he came to all my bands shows and even came to visit me at Athena when I started bartending there.

But this Friday, as it often does, things got a little complicated.

Doug was leaning against my bar, like any other night, when I saw him start to lose his balance. Before I could hop the bar, Doug went face first into the concrete. Immediately, a small puddle of blood began to form under his head.

Abandoning the people in line at my bar, I hopped over and started yelling for help. I grabbed a chair, and hauled Doug up over my shoulder until I could situate him on the chair. His head remained slumped forward and now I could see their were two big gashes oozing blood. One was over his left eye, and the other on his cheek. He was out cold.

I started patching the wounds up and kept trying to bring him to...when suddenly his eyes snapped open.

"Whahaaattt happeenngggedd."

"You fell Doug, but you're alright. We just need to patch up these cuts real quick.

"Fucccgkk youuuu!"

The alcohol, the fall, and the embarassment associated with both finally let loose the floodgates that had been erected to stem the tide of depression and frustration.

For the next 15 minutes Doug let loose with every curse word he knew. When the owners decided we had to call his cab early and have him leave, Doug refused to be led out. He swung his crutches at a few bouncers and even at me once or twice.

Regulars and employees tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Finally, the owners decided that they had no choice and ordered the bouncers to take his crutches and essentially lift him and carry him out to the waiting cab. As the 4 bouncers picked him up, Doug's face was set in a grim and taught expression. The man was angry. Angry at his condition, angry at being so unceremonously picked up and dumped into a cab.

I followed the group outside, and helped them load Doug into the cab.

Once they placed Doug in the backseat, the bouncers returned inside. I stood next to the door for a minute making sure that Doug was alright and wasn't going to pass out or anything. Instead, he turned at me and a slow grin spread across his face.

"I'mmm ann asshshhole aren't I?"

It was too much, almost crying, I broke out in laughter.

"Yes you old fucker. You're an asshole."

He extended a shaking hand, and I shook it.

"Thhannnkksss Dave."

"No problem Doug. I'll see you next week."

The cab slowly pulled away, like it had everynight for almost the past two years.

And I tried my best to keep a stiff lip the rest of the night. It took me a couple shots of Jager.

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