Seasonal transgressions
A late-night sermon at Casper's.
Two streets back from South Street, down an alleyway where teens vape and hiss at the world sits an old-timey pub called Casper’s. It’s nestled between a dry cleaner and an old bookshop with only a beaten, brown door to mark its existence.
Sometimes, when life gets a little busy and I need some respite, I’ll pop in for one of the three lagers on tap and maybe some nonsense if I’m lucky.
Such was the case earlier this week when I enjoyed a little of both.
The bartender, grizzly and jaded, often waxes poetic about his life, the world, and anything else on his mind. It’s half the reason why I like the place. On this particular day, he was lamenting the weather after five days and nights of relentless rain.
“I love the fall, I swear I do,” he said to a captive audience of me and the only other bloke in the bar. “And if I didn’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”
The bar was his stage. He ruled over it with a sovereign command.
I sat back on my barstool in anticipation of the sermon to come.
“Summer and winter have their champions, see,” he continued. “The people who relish the blazing heat, and others the blistering cold.”
I nodded in response.
“Fall, though, is a seasonal peace treaty. A common ground for both sides to break bread on,” he said.
I pictured all the things that make the fall season so beloved.
The crisp days.
Changing leaves.
Football.
Pumpkins.
Pumpkin spice lattes.
Halloween.
Thanksgiving.
Friendsgiving.
Freshly baked pies.
Apple picking.
Cozy nights.
“It’s truly the people’s season, disparage it at your own risk!”
“I’d never dream of it,” I replied.
“But if I didn’t like it—and I swear I do—I’d tell you it’s barely a full season. By Halloween, it’s over and it’s too cold to go outside, and then we don’t emerge again until April. I’d also say it arrives too soon. Just the other morning summer was in full bloom, then it rained and by the afternoon it was relegated to the past tense.”
I sipped my Resch’s Bitter in silence, careful not to disrupt his rhythm.
“I’d remind you about fall’s shrinking days. How darkness creeps into the afternoon, purging the streets of people, sounds, and activity. I’d tell you to ignore the insipid obsession with pumpkin spice lattes. Drink a damn coffee instead! I’d speak of the mess of leaves that besiege the parks and the streets and the crevices around your home and the back-breaking work to clean them up. I’d admit that the cozy nights are a welcome reprieve by the end of summer, but by December the body surely aches for sunlight and warmth of the natural kind. I’d point to the grey skies on a Sunday afternoon and ask you if this is really better than the brightness of summer. Is it??”
He looked at me for an answer, of which I had none. Then his voice tapered off and he breathed deeply.
“I’d say all these things. If I didn’t like the fall. But I won’t. Because I love the fall,” he said.
“I swear I do.”