Regular status

“How are you affiliated with this… group?” asked the polite older gentleman from across the table, sipping his near beer.

I looked around for a second, glancing up and down the crowded table – some familiar faces, some new. “I guess I just go there a lot… I’m there every weekend, sometimes twice.”

The bald guy with the wicked long beard overheard my comment and nodded in agreement. “You are definitely a regular, and we really appreciate it.”

I shrugged. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

A few years ago, when I decided to become a regular in a bar, my mom freaked. She told me that she was disappointed in me and I’m pretty sure she started praying for my soul. Strike that. I’m sure she was already praying for my soul but that one might have put me on a prayer chain.

I didn’t care, though; I liked the idea of belonging. Of having a place where everybody knew my name. Yeah, I’m sure that growing up with Cheers played a role. I didn’t really want to turn into Carla, Diane or Rebecca; I definitely didn’t want to be Cliff or Norm. But I wanted to feel comfortable, to feel at home, to feel welcome at least one place other than work.

I tackled regular status with a plan to maximize exposure and minimize the actual drinking. Weekend brunch. Weeknights. I became a total Tuesday night girl and convinced friends, at least for a while, that Tuesday was the new Friday. That lasted until they realized that it made Wednesday the new Monday, plus hangovers. Order the same beer. Tip well. Don’t make trouble. I actually had a whole list of rules, many of which fell by the wayside but by that point, I was already a regular.

Saturday night, looking around the table at Tunnicliff’s Tavern, I realized that I’d become a regular someplace else without even trying. No, not the Tavern itself (which really should be my local bar given its proximity to my house), but rather the bookstore across the street. Capitol Hill Books. And I don’t know how that happened.

It all started innocently enough. I saw the sign for books at the corner of 7th and C streets southeast, across from Eastern Market. I walked in the direction the arrow pointed and saw the window with books piled high. I pushed open the door, narrowly missing a patron and heard a voice call from my left. “Fiction upstairs. Non-fiction this level.” There was more but I missed it in my confusion as to whether my purse counted as a bag I needed to leave at the front.

“Just don’t knock anything over,” the voice told me when I asked. Knocking things over seemed a very real possibility as I navigated the narrow stairwell lined with stacks of books looming well over my head.

Over the next weeks and months and even years, I found myself in the bookstore almost every weekend. Sometimes browsing. More often buying. I had to impose my own rules – no more than two or three books at a time and no more than two or three unread books at home before I could buy more.

After a year or so of devoted attendance – escaping the heat in the summer, cold in the winter and reality year-round – the stern owner started chastising me for missing second Saturday, a store tradition I’d heard about for years. Wine and cheese and a 10% discount. More socializing than anything else.

I got to know the guys who work there. We talk authors, stories, weekends and they quiz me on the books I buy. I don’t remember who worked that first day but I would know his name now. (Matt's the one with the wicked long beard.) I’ve invited them to my parties and they’ve invited me to theirs. I was at the store's holiday party. It was a second Saturday.

As was the Saturday last. With a glass of wine, a travel guide to Turkey and a Pulitzer Prize winner from a couple of years back, I found myself chatting with a former employee (and current Peace Corps volunteer), an activist, bookstore employees, a courier, friends young and old, and when they tramped across the street to Tunnicliff’s for dinner, I ended up in their midst.

Great conversation amongst readers and writers, drinkers and thinkers. If I’m going to be a regular anywhere, I think I fell into one of the best places possible. And I can quit, anytime I want… I just don’t want.


Tag: Capitol Hill Books Tunnicliff's Tavern Eastern Market