Telling a Bartender in Birmingham, I Dropped My Daughter in the Water

The unspoken risks of traveling to the South early in the pandemic

Our drinks were side by side, and we had ordered the same thing: Glenfiddich 18 on the rocks. But while he had a proper single, my glass seemed three times fuller than his.

I know why I got more than my coworker, Trent; my charm has no parallel!

It was early in the pandemic, but people had started traveling, so our company, which was also headquartered in the South. And as you know, the pandemic did not happen in the South.

So, our company moved forward with the convention we planned to attend.

The day I arrived, my coworkers had spontaneously decided to host a happy hour at the hotel bar in Birmingham the night before the official event start date.

At some point in the night, three triple shots in, I told Trent it was time to ditch and find new grounds. We talked to the bartender, and she told us Marty's was the bar where all bartenders hung out. It stays open until seven in the morning and serves hot food.

So, with a place to go and alcohol-induced extroversion, I started inviting everyone in the hotel lobby to bar-hop with us. Almost no one took us up on our offer - not even our coworkers. They decided to go back to their rooms, which was probably the sensible thing to do. But who wants sensible?

We had one stranger, another vendor at the convention, take us up on our offer. And with one new acquaintance, we moved on.

We took an Uber, and Trent told me that when we arrived at Marty's, I ordered three shots of Buffalo Trace, followed by local IPAs. I don't remember any of it, but I have no reason to doubt Trent, as we have been friends for a while, and I know he never lies.

We sat at our table, and our new friend from the convention started talking about how brown he was inside, even though he was very white on the outside. I wasn't sure what to make of the conversation.

So, not knowing what to make of this man's plea to convince me he was just like a reverse Almond Joy, I left to introduce myself to everyone else in the bar.

I met an off-duty bartender, and I don't know why, but I told him how my wife had a waterbirth at home and how I received my daughter into the world. But because I was also comforting my wife through it, I had only one free hand to grab the baby, so I sort of dropped my daughter in the water, which is a terrible cover of London Wainright's song. "I dropped my daughter in the water."

I went on to explain how it became a beautiful analogy for my efforts as a dad, "Baby girl, I will most likely fuck up, but I will always be here for you."

I rejoined my group, and at three in the morning, after eating cheeseburgers, we decided it was time to head back. But there were no taxis, Ubers, or Lyfts available. It was 2021, and we were still in the pandemic. So, despite the South's efforts to act like the pandemic did not happen there, it did.

Half an hour later, tired of waiting, we had no option but to walk back to our hotel.

We asked the hostess for directions, and she told us, "Take this street all the way down to your hotel and don't turn left or you'll be in trouble."

As the three of us started walking, my off-duty bartender friend came out and asked, "What are you guys doing?"

"We are walking back to the hotel."

"Oh, no. I'll drive you guys! You are lucky I caught you. That's not a walk you want to do."

He drove us back to our hotel. We promised we would come to visit him at his bar--which was one of those promises you make when you are drunk and you meet people in a city you are just passing by.

The next day, I had the worst hangover I ever had in my life. When I met with the rest of my colleagues, I found out one of them had slipped a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender so she would serve me triple shots all night.

It turns out I'm not as charming as I think I am. Or at least Andrew Jackson is more charming than I am.

I explained to them that I didn't know what happened because I had only three drinks. The friend who went out with me dutifully informed me that three drinks were probably all I remember, but he assured me more drinks were involved.

Then he told me something else.

He told me he never wanted to see our new acquaintance again in his life. As I befriended everyone at Marty's the night before, our "Reverse Almond Joy" told him he was a Klan member. Like I told you before, I have no reason to doubt my friend as he never lies.

So, the only one who could've lied was the man. But who lies about being part of the KKK? When someone tells you that they are part of the KKK, you have no other option than to believe them. Who would jokingly pretend to be part of such a group?

Then, the absurdity of the night hit me.

While accepting my drinks, he tried to convince me he was like me on the inside when he was part of a group that hated everyone who looked like me.

People cringe when I tell this story.

They tell me I must have felt horrible. They tell me the night must have been a punch in the gut.

Why should I be the one that feels bad about that night?

If he had told me he was part of the KKK and then offered me a burger, and I would've eaten it regardless, then I should have felt bad about that night. But that's not what happened.

I was friendly to that man regardless of his race.

I paid for the cab.

I ordered the drinks.

I picked up the tab.

I never lied about who I was.

I was just a friendly guy acting like a big shot because of the liquid courage running through my veins.

He should be the one who feels bad.

Because when his Grand Pappy, I'm sorry, Grand Dragon asks him how his weekend was, he will have to lie about my physical appearance. He will tell the story of my generosity, but in the story, I would be six inches taller with blue eyes and blonde hair - the perfect Aryan prototype.

He should be the one who feels shame, not only because his values are grounded in hate and ignorance, but because his values are worth less than a cheeseburger, two IPAs, and a big shot of Bourbon.