Zen And The Art Of Service

A tribute to tedium

To be of some service is of great use to the soul. Particularly in service of another human, up close and personal. One need not perform any lifesaving maneuvers, no destiny-altering favors—the small things have a way of ballooning—of combining to form a whole whose sum is greater than its smaller, moving parts. To serve somebody does more than foster humility; it creates an inner constitution that is built piece by piece, human interaction by human interaction.

In downtown Portland, I begin work at 7 pm. At a neighborhood bar on the corner, I am in the basement, which smells distinctly of urine, and whose space is divided by small table tops and stools, a few tables, and a dusty area in the back for throwing darts. The floors are concrete and littered with tiny pieces of broken glass. Behind the bar, I am preparing for a busy Friday night. There must be an adequate number of limes and lemons sliced, the wells must be fully stocked with liquor, fridges with beer, coolers with ice, etc. Bar napkins, too, as well as mixing tins and pour spouts, must be accounted for and properly set aside in their respective containers.

This is all standard operation—for every bar, in every city. These motions are robotic, fundamental, and tedious. They require little skill or talent, but benefit from some experience, because timing, after all, is key, because you will want to be fully prepared—so that when the bar inevitably becomes crowded, everything is within reach, fully available at the ready. Each move you make as a bartender, therefore, becomes almost thoughtless, automatic, reduced to basic muscle memory. This level of execution may take years to master, but once mastered, you become slightly more singular with your thoughts—there is a zen to this type of craft, this tedium.

For most of my life, I have felt plagued by what felt tedious—homework and studying as a child, taxes, menial labor, and job applications as an adult, and a litany of required activities in between, the sneaking suspicion soon creeps up that I could be better off doing something else. Better, much better off I would be if I could be released from this monotony—perhaps, in some ways, the world would be better off, too. Release me, and you shall see! Dammit, you will all see!

At the bar, my feet are stuck in concrete. There are six more hours to go on my shift. The bar is getting crowded, a wall of drinkers are shouting out their orders, holding out their credit cards. However loud or even obnoxious they become, I remind myself how much I genuinely like people, how much I adore a jolly crowd.

Whatever is blue, whatever is disenchanted within me is pushed aside, and I can muster a true smile at the thirsty patrons before me. When down here in this Portland basement, with its pool tables and broken glass, I have stepped into a time machine. Where all my troubles, my plight, my perplexing marriage, my politic-ravaged country, my ever restless spirit, my worrisome mind can go to rest, without the harsh drumming of time so ever present.

At present, I am 39 years old. I thought I had said goodbye to this bartending business a long time ago. It is harder on my body now, the constant nature of it, the long nights til 4 am. My coworkers are a decade younger than I, the typical patron is almost two decades younger. Contradictorily, I am made to feel younger and also older at the same time. But there is no ill will towards the crowd, my coworkers, or the job itself. Just the strange and, yes, painful reminder that the things you think will last often do not, and the things you swear will never return very well may.

I have gone through this business once before, worried about whether the bar will be busy, whether I will earn a certain amount of money, or how long I will remain in this industry.

But at the very present, none of this concerns me. I am lost in a daydream, in a blurry crowd, who I am eager to serve, eager to please. Because it is good to be of some use, to somebody, to anybody. And while each movement is more or less intuitive, uninteresting, memorized, there is a zen, a type of meditation to the dance. Instead of counting the dollars and the hours, at this very moment in my life, on the brink of a chapter where everything is new and therefore nothing can be taken for granted, I count nothing—when I am done with my work, I can then take time for inventory, for personal accounting.

For now, I am grateful for this menial labor, this time-wasting job. Its architecture is one that keeps out the rushing, impulsive thoughts. Its architect is somewhat of a fool, thinking those thoughts do not await him. Whatever my fate is, it is unknown to me. What I wish to express is gratitude for this tedium—at the moment, it is service that seems to keep me alive and kicking.

JSV
2026

Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.