Reed’s Billiards Part 2

Mr. Chips

After two weeks of working Thursday and Friday nights with Bubba and Saturdays with Both Reed and Bubba, I was given my own shift and regular hours. I worked 4 to 7 Monday through Thursday and 4 til closing on Friday and  12 to 8 P.M. on Saturday.

The man I called Mr. Chips walked through the swinging doors at 12 o'clock noon on my first Saturday. I had just clocked in and it was very busy. At first I didn't pay any attention to him because I was busy at the far end of the bar setting a couple of guys up with a pool table. Bubba was rolling the dice for beer. Mr. Chips sat on the stool nearest the door. I didn't see him until I walked the bar to see if anyone was dry.

When I saw him the first thing I thought was that he did not belong there. He wasn't the same type of individual as the other patrons. Our normal clientele were farmers, constriction workers, steel workers from the mill and Indians. He was none of those. He was from a more gentle background. My first thought was that he was from the college and I had been caught serving beer and what was much worse smoking a cigarette. Smoking and drinking could get you expelled from Brigham Young University. Brigham Young is a Mormon school. A good Mormon does not drink alcohol and does not smoke.

At first glance he had a very distinguished look. A mane of dashing gray curly hair erupted from his head. It looked like it was groomed and it looked like it had never been combed. His nose had the pinch marks of glasses but I never saw him wear glasses. I assumed he wore glasses when he read. He looked like he had been a handsome man in his earlier life. but now as I got closer I noticed his face was a little puffy and a little red. He seemed to have a 2 or 3 day beard growth. He was dressed in a suit with a vest but he did not have a tie. The jacket was worn on the end of the sleeves. I realized that he may have been a college professor at one point in his life but I was sure he wasn't at that point. He ordered a draft beer and did not bother with any small talk.

I never gave him much thought. He ordered one draft after another until about 4 o'clock. When I went to his end of the bar he ordered another draft but his words were slurred and I decided he had enough. I told him he was done. I wouldn't serve him more beer. He had a hurt look on his face but he didn't get mad. I asked if he was driving and he said no. I asked if he had a ride and he said no that he was walking. He stood up and walked out the door. He didn't stumble or teeter like a drunk. He actually held his head high and seemed to walk with a strut. He made me feel like he wasn't drunk. He walked out like a man that was indignant because he had been insulted.

He still puzzled me. I meant to ask Bubba about him but we were busy and after Mr. Chips walked out door I never gave him a second thought until he walked in again one week later.

He was dressed exactly the same. His hair looked exactly the same. His nose had the same eyeglass marks. He wasn't wearing glassed when he came in. He sat on the same stool and the only thing he said as he laid a $10.00 bill on the counter was, "I'll have a draft and keep them coming until that's gone. He said the words clearly with a strong deep voice and I thought that he must have been a public speaker at one time. The voice almost had a song attached to it. I wondered if he had been an actor at one time.

I tried to get a conversation going by asking him how he was. He looked my way but I don't believe he really even saw me. He never responded. He looked at the beer without touching it for a long time. I wasn't very busy so I just watched him. Finally he picked up the beer and seemed to down it in one gulp. Dam, I thought, he could give my cousin Nell Ann a race. I'd seen Nell Ann swallow a whole pitcher without taking a breath. She was one broad you didn't want to try and out drink but I was wondering if this guy wouldn't give her a real good race. "Another", he said. He put that one away almost before I put it down in front of him. "Again", he said. He wanted another before I could get his money into the register for the last two he guzzled. He had five before he slowed down. Then he drank steady not sipping but not guzzling either. In two hours his ten bucks was gone. He ordered another. His voice was still strong. I asked him if he was driving and he said no. I gave him another beer. He never offered to pay and he sipped this beer. He took a long time to finish that beer and ordered another. I asked him to pay for the last one. He looked at me like he wanted to kill me and tears dropped from his eyes. He stood up and tried to back away from the bar but his foot caught on the bar stool and he fell flat on his butt. Two guys went over and helped him up. He gave me another dirty look and stumbled his way through the swinging doors. I went around the bar and followed him out the door. He was walking north with his hands making gestures in the air. I watched until he turned left onto the first street he came to.

I had really misjudged how drunk he was. I was worried about him so when I went back inside I made a point of asking Bubba what the deal was with my "Mr. Chips". Bubba simply said, "He's just an old drunk". "He comes around for a few days, sometimes a week, sometimes he will come almost every day for a couple of weeks and then he disappears for awhile." "Ask Reed, he knows about him." "Reed told me to treat him good but I can't stand the old drunk". "I was glad that you had to deal with him."

That was my first lesson on the care of bar drunks. I learned that when you have worked the bars for awhile, "drunks" do not create a hell of a lot of sympathy. They create a lot of trouble and no one wants to hear their tales of woe. I did not ask Bubba about his feelings. I had some interest in "Mr. Chip's" story but I couldn't create a lot of empathy for him. He reminded me of the drunks that hung around with my brother. I made a mental note to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips".

When I got to work on Monday, "Mr. Chips" was there. He was so drunk he couldn't sit on the stool. He was holding on to the bar so he wouldn't fall down. Reed was across the bar and there was a man in suite trying to help him stay on his feet. "Come on John", he said. "Let me help you home". Reed backed him up, "John you have had enough, go on home with the bishop."

John (my Mr. Chips") would have none of the bishop's help. "Get away from me" he slurred. "You get out and take your lousy God with you". Then his words became clear and his voice became strong as if he had never had a drink. "You take your god damned God and shove him up your ass. I want nothing to do with you people. You and your God can stay the hell out of my life. Stay the hell away for Lois to". "Now John", the bishop said. "God was not responsible for your son's death." Jerry's death was an accident."

"Mr. Chips" face grew red with anger. The veins in his neck looked like they could burst at any moment. He clenched his fist and shook it in the face of the bishop. Then he grabbed the bishop by his neck tie and pulled the bishop's face to within inches of his own and said in a very low but clear menacing voice, "I gave my life to that fucking God of yours. I lived as I was taught and what did that pompous bastard do for me? "He let my son die. He let my only son die. I have no one else. I have no grandchildren. Your lousy no good fucking God left me with nothing. I gave my life to him and he took my son. Well you get this straight; Mr. fucking Bishop, there is no God. There is no God now and there never has been a God." Then he fell to his knees and cried like a baby. "I want my son back. I want my son back. I want my son back", he wailed.

At that point his wife walked in and found him curled up the floor of the bar in a fetal position, sobbing like a baby. "Come on John" she said in a low loving voice. "Let me take you home". The bishop helped her get "Mr. Chips" to his feet and they got him into her car and she drove him home.

Reed had tears in his eyes as they went out the door. I never had to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips". I learned his story the hard way. I also learned that having compassion for drunks is not a bad thing.

The Tuesday Provo Herald announced on the first page of the second section the following:

"A once prominent Brigham Young University Professor committed suicide last night or early this morning. Professor Jonathon E. Williamson was found hanging from the rafters in his garage early this morning by his wife Lois Johnson Williamson…………"

Bubba said good riddance. I never liked Bubba much after that.