“Alfie!” shouted the group of thirty-somethings at the table in unison.
Beer mugs, wine glasses, and shot glasses were raised high as the man entered the bar. The oversized, bushy eyebrows stuck to his round glasses and the matching fake mustache above his mouth drew roaring laughter from everyone present.
“Come on, Alfie, we’ve been waiting for you!” several voices called out at once.
“One moment, gentlemen,” he said, taking one last puff from his cigar, a signature trait of the fifty-four-year-old master of ceremonies, much like his worn-out, light-blue denim jacket.
He exhaled the smoke slowly and with pleasure, extinguished the cigar, and tossed the stub into the ashtray of the bin outside the door.
“Our mood manager is finally here!” one of the younger men rushed to greet him. “Tell me, what can I get you?”
“The usual red, if I may.”
“Take a seat; I’ll bring it right over!”
The younger colleagues drank in the words of the man in the Groucho glasses, their eyes gleaming as they listened to his stories, clutching their sides with laughter at his jokes. Alfie had an endless supply of humor up his sleeve. Dad jokes, boomer humor, bawdy jests, absurd puns, dark comedy—whatever suited the crowd at hand. The master of ceremonies had been to so many corporate parties as an entertainer that he had built friendly relationships with most of the attendees and was often invited to private gatherings as well. But at those, Alfie the buddy showed up—not Alfie the party host.
His quick wit, rich vocabulary, and ability to take center stage effortlessly were nothing short of enviable. Many young people admired Alfie’s readiness to respond to any joke or comment, some even trying to mimic his intonation and posture. Avoiding vulgar language all his life, Alfie managed to craft humor that nearly everyone could relate to. Perhaps this was what he was most proud of—he could make people laugh without resorting to cursing. His jokes hit hard even without that crutch.
After a few rounds, Alfie would unconsciously start clearing the table, carrying empty glasses to the bar on a tray without even realizing what he was doing. Serving others was instinctively tied to entertaining in his mind. He was simultaneously the heart of the group and its most devoted servant. Neither he nor anyone else noticed the duality. Both clients and friends felt only that their sides ached from laughing, and their glasses were always full. Alfie basked in the atmosphere of joy and satisfaction that surrounded him.
Drinking was a natural part of private parties. No matter how much alcohol his body absorbed, Alfie never lost control—if anything, it only made him more boisterous and lively. Something had to drown out the nagging knowledge that he was just the lovable clown who also fetched the drinks. Though well-versed in the world of fine spirits, Alfie was entirely indifferent about what he drank himself. House wine, cheap whiskey, or anything from the bottom shelf of the supermarket would do. The hangover was excruciating either way.
When Alfie wasn’t playing the role of happiness manager, he wrapped himself in silence. He locked the Groucho glasses in his costume closet, ensuring they couldn’t spring to life and crawl out under the cover of night. At those times, no music or television played. He avoided the bathroom mirror entirely, refusing to glance at it even in the morning. He didn’t want to confront the wrinkles, the tired eyes, or the yellowing teeth. Aging and burnout were far less noticeable when he didn’t see his own face—without a little makeup and a wide grin.