how to observe the cracks without falling through

work in a restaurant is tedious and hectic until last call. the lights go from dim (the intent here was to set the mood) to full blast, contrasting the darkness just outside. the tipsy and the drunk funnel out.

the clamor of this procession is a signal: closing time: time to clean the bar. but on one particular saturday night, as the intoxicated stampede staggered to the parking lot, one customer remained. he was perched at the long rectangular counter; he was elderly (he had a cane and one of those hats that scream yes, I am old.)

later, out back, I locked the beer cooler for the night. the chiller itself rests on concrete, but as you head back to the restaurant's kitchen, the concrete gives way to wooden planks: the marina that currents below. the planks, then, act as a sort of pier, as the majority of the restaurant is held directly above water. it was here, on this walk back to the kitchen, that I stopped. with my head down, I focused on the space that exists beyond the cracks that cut straight through horizontal planks, the utter darkness of the water.

the elder at the bar did not appear mellow; there was no drink within an arm's length of him. technically, restaurant doctrine should have compelled the manager on duty to show this patron to the door.

in beginning my cleanup duties, I wet a bar-rag under the steaming faucet and wring it out over the sink. I wipe the bar, from one end to the other, and then dry. on this night, however, I hesitated. as I drew closer to the man in the corner, I could hear him repeating himself several times over: it's not a contact sport; it's not a contact sport; it's not a contact sport; cleaning the counter is not a contact sport.

I noticed the silence of the water below, how it was so inert and physically unmoving, ethereal. my gravitation to the water wasn't spooky or jarring; I was not like a character in a horror film who is rooted in place -- blinkless -- staring into the center of a stain on the wall that turns into a thick puddle of red. rather, I was amazed.

he did not smell like alcohol. he did not smell like anything. when I neared him, he snatched the rag from my hands, stroked the countertop in neat circles, and said once more: see, not a contact sport. I still don't know what the hell he meant.