I know better than to engage with the regulars. Especially on a Sunday night when I’m just-off-work sober and cumulatively they’re eleventy sheets to the wind. Bar regulars subsist on a social hierarchy extrapolated from amount of time, money and drama spent there. Usually, only the employees appreciate exactly how the math works out. Earning a job in the Streamline kitchen is one of my more proud moments. It’s the kind of job you only get if you are accepted as part of a family. Getting a paycheck moves me into VIP status so subtle it almost looks like work. Fortunately, I come equipped with elbow grease.

The only reason I have any credit with this business is my consistent maturity. I have nothing to hide and no reason to reveal anything. I don’t tend to agitate anyone and almost never share my opinion unless asked. So, for nearly two years I’ve quietly observed the soap opera that is Streamline Tavern and stayed relatively immune. Natural intuition makes me a fair witness in most cases and like every good guard dog, I stay alert to prevent danger. It helps that on Day One I made this my no-hook-up location in Lower Queen Anne. No matter what, when I’m here I’m celibate. It’s saved me from many a bad decision and kept my general reputation innocuous.

My biggest problem now is how comfortable I’ve gotten at the bar. I’m starting to open up without permission and people get rattled by my verve. No one here know the pains I’ve taken to subdue my emotions concerning certain topics. I guess kids these days call them triggers. Not to say I’m easily agitated. Things I take offense to don’t come up in casual conversations and I’m fairly good at deflecting personal attacks on my character. I have no ill will toward others but I won’t lie to assuage egos. I’m willing to walk away instead of fighting so getting through my armor just takes intentional attacks. Be Nice Or Leave, it’s just that simple.

The other night, I casually cut someone with my sarcasm. During a discussion about Survivor, ironically enough. Long story short, his buddy decides to get my goat by asking what I’m doing in this city. A 2-year transplant, I said I’ve worked really hard to be where I am now which is an upper middle class euphemism for other people’s money. Throwing a dart, he makes a derogatory remark about punk rock and then declared I don’t deserve to live in Seattle if I can’t keep up with the cost of living. With a small guffaw he cleverly suggests try looking into Boise.

Trying to recover, I ask what he does and the vague response is something like analysis of laissez-faire urban problems which basically sounds like he gets paid to speculate on Utopia. Discovering later he’s an academic that comes from money, I don’t feel too far off. Questioning why he does this in Seattle, his response is, “I’ve worked really hard to be here.” I’m not entirely sure what happened next but I probably expressed some very passionate sentiment in partially understandable language. After a weekend of 3 ten hour shifts and a couple beers the whole experience left me a shuddering, inconsolable heap at two AM on a Monday morning.

The intensity of my anger left me blinded by tears. Better that than the violence boiling inside of me. The bartender and other nice people tried to comfort me but I don’t know if anything I said during that spell made sense. No one here knows me and barely anyone has made an effort to. I don’t take that personally. It’s the way we get through our lives. What I do take offense to is someone making assumptions about me based on cliches and tropes. I am not my hair or the clothes I wear. I am not the gender stereotype you want to lump me into and while I may have a Southern accent, I am far from stupid. Now try to tell me who I am.

I know I’m not better than other people. That’s a rarity in my breed. Empathy and experience reveals equality. If you are paying attention, there’s no difference between the man on the street and the man in his car except circumstance. Can you always control that? Watching the injustice of society play out every day, my only way to judge a person is on their actions and behavior. Based on what I’ve seen, dignity is possible no matter your station. I employ myself with that belief and am grateful for the chance to make a living as a working class hero in a moderately large city. Sure, Boise might be easier but this is where I want to be. That’s what’s great about Seattle, everyone here wants to be here.

I childishly told myself I’d never hang out at Streamline again after that horrible experience. Since then three different people have approached me and asked about the entire thing. Apparently my stoic demeanor has paid off because me in tears hold weight with my peers. The owner of the bar even asked me how I’m doing. Here I am, a week later, hanging out in the same place. The same guy is here and it’s easy to ignore the incident because it’s not new to either of us. Still, I see him. I see everyone and will keep watching with the ease of innocence. I’m not pretending, just being myself.