The First Time

The first time I met Chief of Police Jim Hopper, he intrigued me. Granted, I didn't know that he was the Chief of Police at the time. Or even a cop. All I knew is he walked into the bar in the middle of the day and ordered a shot of Bushmill's Black Bush. And then, once I had finally found the bottle, proceeded to order two more shots within two minutes.

That sort of heavy day drinking itself was not what I found so intriguing. Rather, it was his patience. This was only my third day at barkeeping, and, contrary to my protests, the managers arrange the alcohol by price rather than alphabetical. For someone whose only real experience with alcohol previous to this job was drinking from kegs of beer at bonfires and serving glasses of wine, the arrangement was completely nonsensical.

But, unlike the typical alcoholic, Hopper waited calmly while I struggled: no derisive remarks about my age or gender, no threats of complaining to my manager, just silent meditation. This behavior was so unusual that by the time I had found the bottle and was able to serve him, my hands were visibly shaking since I had spent every second of my search waiting for him to explode with anger.

For the entire thirty minutes he spent on that stool, he said nothing to me other than his order even though the bar was empty than himself. After downing his fourth shot, he simply tossed down a ten and headed for the door.

"This is too much - I need to give you your change," I called after him. With just a hint of drunken swagger, he turned in the doorway, fixing me with a stare that was only slightly less pained than it was when he walked in, and he told me to keep it as a tip. A tip? After my incompetent service? There was enough leftover to cover another shot!

"Take care," he muttered and left while I was still staring at the bill, dumbfounded. And incredibly curious. I always wonder about the lives of everyone who I served, but there was something especially intriguing about this man who downed four shots without an outward sign of intoxication, waited patiently for his order despite clearly needing a fix for his habit, and yet still tipped excessively well. And I couldn't deny that the depth of those blue eyes and that strong jaw helped to imprint the man on my memory.

The Second Time

The second time I saw him, he impressed me. Not only did his patience continue, but when he spoke, I agreed with every word.

I remembered his face when he walked in again about a week later, but finding his bottle of choice was still an embarrassingly time-intensive task. This time he took care of eight shots before he left, but after his first three, he turned his attention to the news program I had playing in the background since the place was empty again.

"I can change it to a game," I offered. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to drink to Reagan's fraudulent speech.

"No, this is fine. I try to keep myself informed of what's going on. Might as well do it now." He downed his glass. "I'm half-tempted to have you pour me a shot every time the President lies, but I'll be broke before the hour is up." I laughed at the unexpected wit. And was pleasantly surprised that this handsome frequent customer shared my political leaning - this is a pretty red area.

"Or dead," I added, perhaps more darkly than a bartender should, but he laughed heartily while I refilled his glass without him needing to ask.

"I trust you would cut me off before that point," he replied with a wink that I had to pretend didn't make my heart flutter. "I'm surprised someone of your age has been following this recession bull. It's pretty complex, and you barely look old enough to vote."

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment, but I'm more than old enough to vote," I leaned in and whispered as if sharing a secret. I felt triumphant when he laughed. The day had been slow, and at that point he had enough booze in him that I trusted my ham-handed attempts at flirtation wouldn't be remembered.

That second day was one of my favorite shifts I'd worked in my years as a server and definitely my favorite as a barkeep so far. No one else had come in for hours, and he and I talked until the dinner rush. We shared our distaste for the President's foreign and domestic policy, mocked the hysteria surrounding communism, and toasted to increasing global human rights (he bought me a shot of what he was drinking, insisting that I ought to know what I was serving him). Besides politics, we rocked out to Blondie and AC/DC and toasted to the Hoosier's latest win.

At that point, I was used to the day-time customers being very conversational - always talking about themselves, their lives, their families, their troubles (especially their troubles) - but everytime I so much as hinted at asking Hopper about himself, he would deflect the conversation.

"Have you lived here long?" I asked, dying to get more of a handle on this mysterious man.

"I've been here a few years. What about yourself? In a town this small, I would have expected to have run into you before now if you'd been here long."

"I moved here two months ago. My mom and dad got divorced, and she moved here since the cost of living is much lower than nearer the city. I came with her to help cover the bills, and she was sort of a mess after. My dad had been unfaithful, and it really shook her up…" I remember I trailed off, unsure where this talkativeness had come from. But there was something in his eyes that made me want to tell him anything he wanted to hear, whatever that may be.

"Cost of living might be lower here, but so are wages. Not many young women would choose this sleepy town and a smaller paycheck over independence."

"Perhaps, but that wouldn't have made me any more happy. I think family is more important." I still remember the look of pain that crossed his face, and I noted that he polished off his drink.

I checked for a wedding band, thinking that his reaction and tight lips were because he had a wife who wouldn't approve of him being here and didn't want word to get back to her, but his hand was bare. The whole day, the only concrete information about him that I was able to weasel out of him was his surname - Hopper.

Things picked up once five o'clock rolled around, and I got too busy throwing together cocktails for the servers to spend much more time with him, and he ducked out an hour later, once again leaving behind a far too-generous tip. Now I had a name to go with his face and favored drink, and I found it echoing through my mind the rest of the night anytime I had a spare moment.