The Bartender
Jim Binnicker
They say character goes a long ways, on this one weekend ride through the Texas hill country, I found character. Meet Jim Binnicker, bartender, maintenance, janitor, musician…friend. With all the people I met that trip, Jim Binnicker stood out from the start. He shook your hand and he meant it. You know what I mean, sometimes the hand shake is part of a motion, part of the meet and greet. Then there’s the look you in the eye shake, firm, friendly and true. This was Jim. Without any reserve for three strangers riding into town hanging out in the empty street looking for a place to get an ice cold beer, Jim smiled and welcomed us like we knew him for years. Asking him about the bar and if it was open, he casually walked away from us towards the door and said “it will be once I unlock the door.” People, did y’all get that, that was some deep stuff, “unlock the door.” I didn’t even see that till I just read it! Ha! Yeah, I’m a bit of a dork. Okay, anyways, Jim, he opens the door, welcomes us in, turns on the lights, grabs the remote off the bar and turns on the flat screen hanging in the next room. Hondo, John Wayne was playing, for those of you wondering.
JIM
We order, he places our bottles before us and the moment begins. Come to find out, Jim, like most of the people we would soon meet was not officially from there, he just happened upon there and stayed. I asked him what brought him there in the first place, without hesitation he replied, “an old man in a pickup with a flat bed.” He laughed. That was 35 to 40 years ago as far as he can remember. Stories of traveling to California on a 350 cc Yamaha and it being one of the “dumbest” things he’d ever done. Ask him about the secret to his many years of marriage, he’ll tell you it’s the separation. Everyone that walked in came up to the bar and before they reached it he already had their drink on the bar and greeted each as they were still in conversation from the last time they’d seen each other. He seemed to set the stage, act I.
Not sure if it was because just everyone in the town was that genuine or if Jim’s interaction with us was a form of approval. Either way, each one that walked in, lifted their awaiting beverage off the bar, turned around and walked up to the three of us wherever we were placed at the bar, shook our hands and introduced themselves.
It was that kind of a moment. Jim was a musician, not just with his guitar, but with people, with life. He seemed happy where he was and knew what he was. His conversation with me was more than the short stories and jokes, it was the way he interacted with people. It was the look in his eyes that told of long roads. The tired hands of hard work. A casual cigarette burning between his fingers as he gave breath to where we were and who he was. Maybe it was a minute, an hour or two, but he made me feel like I was laughing with an old friend, well, I guess I was, someone’s.