A building engineer at Saint Francis Hospital is not an engineer in the literal sense of the word. By that I mean, he is not an individual who designs things. A building engineer is a person primarily responsible for the maintenance of the air conditioning systems in the hospital, a Building Services and Environmental Engineer.

A typical degreed BSEE specializes in all aspects of building services: heating, air conditioning, ventilation, plumbing, lighting, electrical services, building management systems and controls. In the hospital that would have included a large steam turbine located in the basement at the southeast corner of the building also a Honeywell computer system that controlled pneumatic valves and dampers, regulating the air cleanliness also the temperature and humidity inside the hospital.

Although I am not sure what year it was that one of the building engineers graduated from college, it would surely have been in the early seventies because I left to go to college myself in the fall of 1973. Regardless, sometime after learning that, I was invited to the man's graduation party, a bash to be held in a bar directly across the intersection from the hospital.

A couple of men I worked with in the Electronics Shop, Jim Burke and George Fletcher, showed up also a horde of others from the Maintenance Shop and a couple of the Building Engineers. I was driving a new blue 1973 Ford Van and parked it facing the bar, a little west of the door.

The bar, located in a small shopping mall at the northwest corner of 61st and Yale, was not that large. There was a juke box inside the door also a couple of pool tables then further back there were a few tables for four with a small bar on the right. If my memory serves me, the pool tables were at a lower level than the bar but if that assumption were true, obviously the owners would have opened themselves up to expensive lawsuits resulting from inebriated patrons tripping or falling over the two levels. Therefore I would have to say my memory is faulty in that one instance. But I have a clear recollection of other events as they unfolded throughout the evening.

Upon entering the door and regardless of the architecture, the two men from the Electronics Shop and I sat down at a table near the front: George sitting across from me with his back to the pool tables and Jim on my left with his back to the bar.

Glancing around the crowded room I doubt there were any of those present that knew George was a straight shooting pool shark. I know I didn't. And even when the shock wore off George was still running the tables before drinking so much he didn't know which end of the cue stick to strike the ball.

But that wasn't the only reason George relinquished his place at the table, there were others there with the ability to sink a tough shot and George finally lost and returned to the chair directly across from me. Jim and I we were not nearly so good at playing pool and spent most of our time sitting at the table sipping suds and observing the other player's skill or lack of it.

Some time passed, with the three of us continuing to have a great time, when all of a sudden the conversation shifted to work. I don't think I knew it at the time and Jim and George may not have been aware of their distrust of the other - if that was the problem. In simple terms they may not have liked the other or each of them harbored a deep-set resentment for the other.

At the time Jim was either the shop foreman or was bucking for the job and George was reporting to him or would have if Jim got the job. Whether any of what I have said was relevant or had anything to do with what happened next is open to debate and my lack of insider information, but for whatever reason, all hell broke loose when the two men started arguing about something that involved work.

As the argument heated up I just sat there dumbfounded, switching my gaze from one to the other, not believing what was happening less than three feet away. Here were a couple of guys, both of which were my friends and friends of each other, I thought, arguing over nothing or at least what I thought at the time was petty, certainly not important enough to quarrel with the intensity they were going at it. But there they were heatedly disagreeing about something that was obviously important to them.

One thing I've always said about myself is I don't get into fights while I'm drinking and for that reason I purposely maintained a neutral stance throughout their squabble. I had hoped it would soon run its course and one of them would either shut up and apologize or leave - but neither of them did.

Some more time passed before one of them stood up then the other and they started grappling for position. Those around the pool table nearest our table backed up out of the way and the two men, attempting to stretch the other's neck, began exchanging blows in the space between the pool table and the north wall.

It looked like David and Goliath - Jim was over six foot tall and George was about my height, five foot eight or so. Also Jim had previously run a bar over in Creek County near Sapulpa and had some experience dealing with drunks. With that being said, George may have had a few more drinks than he or any of us even realized or was more susceptible to the alcohol and he was starting to lose to the bigger man fast.

In the blink of an eye, Jim threw George up against the north wall like a super human robot or monster then pounced on him like Dracula would have with his cape flowing. And some of us developed a sickening feeling when the sound waves produced by George's head striking the brick wall exploded from the scene at 774 mph then sat frozen in place as George's body crumpled to the floor.

An instant later Jim grabbed George around the neck and started beating his head into the floor and the same squashy sound as a large grapefruit striking a hard concrete surface found our ears.

I don't know what would have happened if the bartender hadn't showed up with the butt end of a cue stick and stuck it up to Jim's head and demanded that he stop. Jim wasn't a fool and wasn't drunk to the point he thought taking on another man his size or larger was an option, so he relaxed his grip on the smaller man and stood up.

I don't remember much of anything that followed. But if I were to guess, George was rushed back across the intersection to the hospital to check for damaged parts and most everyone would have discussed the incident for a few minutes then started filtering out the door and the bar would have emptied out in a hurry. That is except for me.

I don't know why I would have stayed behind. I must have been drunk past the point of sensible thinking and wasn't ready to go home. Instead I got up from the table and stumbled over to the bar.

I don't know how long I sat there and don't have a firm memory of even going over there but I remember sitting at the bar for a period of time and the only persons I saw there with me were the two people behind the bar and both of them had their eyes fixed on me.

I probably glanced up at the clock a time or two, which was above the bar directly in front of me. And at some point would have seen the short hand on the one and the long hand on the six. But if I did, it didn't change my thinking or alter my pattern of behavior because I continued to sit there and ordered another beer.

Some more time passed with me switching my gaze around the empty room and back to the bar and from one of the two sets of anxious eyes to the other. But I still didn't get it. Those two people were ready to leave and my presence was the only thing that kept them from doing just that.

Finally I struggled to my feet and requested a bill and was told it had been taken care of. I offered to pay anyway but was shown the door instead and finally exited the bar to the parking lot outside.

I have always thought of myself as being different than most when I am drinking. That is - as I have already stated - I don't get into fights and I don't drive fast. But the two individuals standing at the entrance to the bar would not have known that and both of them appeared overly concerned that an individual was leaving their property drunk, after drinking their alcohol, also an individual that was in no shape to be driving home, regardless of the distance. And there were a good fifteen miles between the open door where the two individuals stood and the door to my house. That distance included a narrow bridge over the Arkansas River, the town of Bixby and a number of dark, shadowy and lonely back roads that connected my house to all the above.

I glanced back through the window in the open van door toward the bar before entering the cab of my van and heard one of them yell out to me, "Are you going to be alright?"

I had failed at my first attempt to get in the van and paused before making a second attempt and glanced again back toward the bar. "Yes," I yelled back, all the while gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the door rest with the other and struggled into the seat and closed the door, then continued but not loud enough that they could hear me, "yes, I am going to be all right."

As I slowly backed the van away from the bar and pulled out into the street, I kept the windows up because it was cold outside and I didn't know the condition of the roads. Also in my mind I thought it would be best to stay on the back roads until reaching the river then I would have to head over to Memorial to catch the bridge there.

Afterward, I don't know how much time had passed, but I remember driving south on Sheridan Road at five miles per hour - a mile east of the bar and a mile west of Memorial Drive - when I had this very intense urge to spit. But I also knew enough not to just roll the window down and hang my head out the opening. I was learned enough to know that if I did that at any speed, I would be in the ditch before I could get my head back around to the front and gather what bearings I had at the moment and refocus on the road.

Well, as I explained above, I am different than most so what I did next was to roll the window down real slow, all the while maintaining a steady eye contact on the road, then at the last moment turned my head to the side and spit out the window then jerked my head back to the front as quickly as I could.

Twenty years later I was telling the story to Jack Lewis, a friend and coworker at the cement plant in Pryor, when Jack butted in, "You weren't drunk!" He shouted.

I stopped and glared at him, "What do you mean, I wasn't drunk?"

"Well, you would have spit in your face!" Lewis declared.

Hearing his statement, I was even more puzzled, "What do you mean...spit in my face?"

"Well, you would have just thought the window was down!" Jack said, finally.

I learned just recently that Jack got up early one morning some years ago and drove a Ford Falcon pickup to a bar and parked it outside. Unknowing to him, his wife drove up there in a second automobile, a small Chevrolet coupe and exchanged vehicles with him, planning to take the pickup to the shop for some scheduled maintenance.

Later Jack left the bar and got into the car, so drunk he didn't realize the two automobiles had been changed and drove the Chevrolet home.

Later, when Jack didn't say anything about the automobiles being switched, his wife asked him if he had been to a bar that morning. Of course Jack denied it and his wife asked him again. "Jack, I am only going to ask this you one more time. Did you go to a bar this morning?"

The conversation went back and forth for a minute before Jack's wife finally told him she had switched automobiles on him and he was so drunk he hadn't noticed. Knowing that about Jack, I didn't doubt he knew where I was coming from and I had to restate my position.

Ok! So I wasn't that drunk. But even then I found myself out in the ditch and over corrected - even at five miles per hour - before finally getting the van straightened up and back in the right hand lane.

The next thing I remember was knocking on the front door of my house near 191st and Yale and grinning from ear to ear, expressing a term of endearment to my wife, saying, "Hi Sugar!"

I don't remember ever being in that situation again and was one lucky guy for not driving off into the river or something worse, such as crashing into another vehicle or being thrown into the drunk-tank for driving while intoxicated.

Hell, I don't even remember crossing the Arkansas River Bridge north of Bixby or Marie's response to my ill prepared early morning greeting. But somehow I made it home and I suppose without incident but even that is open to debate.

The following poem was written several years after the fact. But it takes into account my thoughts while sitting at the bar with just the three of us there: the barmaid, the guy that stayed around or showed up at the last minute to take her home - and me. And that is where I came up with the saying, There Are Always Three People At Closing.

Through the years I have grown up and been learning

About the facts of life going down

I have been married two times and divorced once

So in between and before I got around

It seems that the way to get girls was

To make a visit to the local watering hole

There belly up to the bar and get noticed

At least that was what I have always been told

So as soon as I was old enough to get started

I walked in and flashed my ID around

Then strolled up to the bar to place my order

And looked around for the girls to be found

All I saw were two men at the shuffleboard

And two more playing pool by the door

An old guy sipping suds in the corner

And a lone female waitress on the floor

No one else seemed interested in her so

I thought, what the hell? and told her my name

Ordered a draft from the well if it's cold and

Thought, "boy, this is easy and what a game."

So I drank four or five tall cool ones

And was really getting to know her by now

When the old man from over in the corner

Climbed the bar stool to my left and sit down

He slurred a few words to me about

His times on the road and all around

He told me his life was one big hustle

And the way I was doing it wasn't sound

He said, "son I have been doing this for years and

I haven't ever got a barmaid alone

There have always been three people at closing

Me, the barmaid and another guy that shows up to take her home."

"Ah!" I said, "You don't know what you're saying!"

So he got up and left me for his own

I looked around and the barmaid was smiling

That shored me up and I was glad the old man was gone

I looked up at the clock and it was winding

To the time and I thought again, boy this is fun

I glanced around to the old man in the corner

And he was gone - I guess his day was done

I turned round as the back door was opening

Being so late I thought it must be a bum

Drank the last from my glass and it's empty

Then saw a man and thought, where'd he come from?

Then I thought of the old man in the corner
And his stories about round closing time
So I looked around and counted all the patrons
Found there's me, him and her looking fine

So I got up to leave the game was over

And staggered out to my truck in the cold

Disappointed, I thought of the old man in the corner

And what he said, that there are always three people at closing