2005-07-19 - 3:08 p.m.

I wake up a little bit older everyday, and perhaps a little more jaded about the ways of the world. I'm setting into a "That's Just the Way It Is" mentality. Unwilling and perhaps unable to rise to challenges and better the world about me (goodbye high school ambition) I've become content with keeping myself sane and at the same time trying to touch lives around me without shattering them. The jury is still out on that one.

So yeah, I don't vote, I think religion is rediculous, I try to recycle but for the most part I don't give a shit, I drive an SUV (GASP!), etc...

So instead I use my energy to remember people's names, try to remember their birthdays, send random gifts in the mail, take friends out to eat, pick up the bill when I can, lend an ear or shoulder when necessary and even when it's not...

All these things in the hopes that some giant karma pinata will burst open in the near future and shower me with random karma trinkets?

Am I a dick if I say yes? Nah, there's a better reason I'm sure. I'll let you know what it is when I find it.

So I got a nice swift kick in the karma kidneys this weekend. In fact i kinda wanted to die just a lil bit. Here's why:

Friday night I arrived at Cody's a little earlier than usual to get my bar set-up and do a little extra stocking. I tread the familiar path from front door to time clock, going through the same routine I've done for years now.

1) Exit car with music blasting, turn off car, cross parking lot, wave at regulars arriving at same time as me.

2) Bound up steps, hold door for regulars, slap high-five with Robinette the Door Guy, say "What's Up!" to any bouncers hovering in the area, round the corner towards Tony's bar.

3) Shake Tony's hand, have short conversation about week, look for Mike and ask for bank for the night.

4) Enter hallway, make note of schedule, punch time clock, exit back out into bar with bank.

5) Wave at regulars on the way to my bar, exchange hugs, dodge Whitey the Polaroid Guy as he gruffs out his usual "What's Goin on Big Daddy."

Except this time there was no Whitey.

Whitey (as we affectionately call him...I'm not sure anybody knows his real name) is roughly 60ish, perhaps pushing 70 and about 5'3". He's a little old man who showed up about a year ago and asked us if he could be our official photgrapher. I was actually working the night he showed up. It was a Thursday during the summer, around 7pm and the bar was virtually dead. I asked him what he meant by photographer and he explained that he was in the buisness of taking pictures of people at bars having fun and selling them in customized photo frames as keepsakes.

He then took out his equipment. A beat up polaroid camera and some prom-style photo cards where you slip the photograph in the opening and display it on your mantle at home next to the Hallmark figurines. I would have laughed if it was anyone else, but here was this tiny old man, most likely retired but struggling to get buy on social security, asking me if he could walk aorund the bar and take polaroids of people having fun.

I gave him the go-ahead for the night, sure that my boss would approve, which she eventually did. In the beginning, Whitey was supposed to pay us a dollar for every $5 picture he sold. But at the end of the night, when he was turning in $10 from the $50 in pictures he'd sold, leaving him a scant $40, we started casually forgetting to demand the money from him.

For the first month or so it was cute. Occasionally Whitey would pester customers who obviously didn't want their pictures taken and he would be shooed away, only to return 15 minutes later asking again. The complaints were minimal, and for the most part Whitey didn't bother any of the workers.

From time to time he would ask me for Diet Coke's or change so that he could break bigger bills for his customers. Unfortunately for Whitey, he always did this at the most inopportune of times. I would have a stack of people climbing over the counter top trying to get my attention for a drink, and Whitey would waltz right into the middle of them and stand directly in front of my register repeating over and over "Hey Big Daddy, could you get me a soda?"

There were a handful, alright, there were many times where my patience gave way and I grabbed the cup from his hand angrily and refilled it, slamming it down on the counter. Most times I'd just get his change or refill and not even acknowledge his "Thank You."

And so it went until this particular day. I came out of the back hallway, already anticipating Whitey's generic greeting and ready to offer up a quick "ok" so I could skedaddle by without further conversation.

Instead, I came back out into the bar only to find Whitey with his head down on his usual table, taking a nap instead of alertly scanning the room like he usually is. I thought nothing of it, thinking that being old, Whitey was probably just tired from a long day of Farmer's Markets and Bob Evans. As I passed one of the regulars he pointed at Whitey and said, "Old man's been sleeping like that for the last hour. He ain't even movin!"

I joked back, "Ha. Ole Whitey decided to up and die right here in Cody's."

So yeah, even typing that makes me want to curl up in a ball and die.

Ten minutes later I walked back around the corner to find one of our regulars holding Whitey's head in her arms while another was checking his pulse. I actually dropped the rag and pen in my hand, in shock and dibelief. As I approached the table I saw that Whitey was not moving, and if there was even any breathing, it was shallow at best.

The next half hour was a blur of EMT's arriving, then ambulances, then a fire truck. I pushed tables and chairs out of the way as Whitey was laid unceremoniously onto the dirty floor while professionals hovered over him trying to assess the situation.

Turns out Whitey had slipped into a diabetic coma. With everyone thinking he was just sleeping, and no one caring enough to walk up and ask, Whitey had slipped into the coma and his blood-sugar level had droppped to 10. Not 100. 10. An EMT I spoke with said in his 11 years, the lowest he'd ever seen was 7. And Whitey was the closest that had ever come to that.

In the end, a shot of glucose brought ole Whitey back to the land of the living. Within a few minutes of receiving the shot, Whitey went from coma, to up and responding. And the craziest part? An hour later, just as the crowd was starting to come in heavy, here comes ole Whitey with his goddamn polaroid camera.

"Diet Coke when you get the time Big Daddy."

Everyone else just had to wait.

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