Ezra took his spot behind the bar at Vivian’s Restaurant, unaware that in an hour he’d be drenched and out on the street.
His first customers were the usual for a Friday night: jittery new couples, putting on their best selves as they waited for a dinner table. But when a forlorn woman slumped into a seat away from everyone else, Ezra knew immediately that he could make a difference. The woman ordered a drink, introduced herself, and spilled her problem — just like in the movies. Ezra responded with a few pointed questions, then began dispensing pithy wisdom.
It was at that point when a botched flambé at Table Eight set off the fire sprinkler. Suddenly it was pandemonium. What had been a group of polite diners and staff was now a soaked crowd gushing out into the Portland night.
Vivian charged the bar. “Ezra! We need to cut off the water!”
Pretending not to hear, Ezra led his customer out the back.
Vivian followed them. “Ezra! What are you doing?”
“I’m really sorry. She’s having a problem. It’s urgent.”
The word “urgent” set off Vivian. Her restaurant getting flooded wasn’t urgent?
Things escalated quickly from there.
Why couldn’t Vivian respect the good work Ezra had been doing for so long — all the people he had helped?
Why couldn’t Ezra see how much money he had cost Vivian by constantly chattering away instead of serving drinks?
Who cares about her drinks?
Who cares about his amateur therapy?
After ten minutes of angry back-and-forth truth-telling, they had crossed the point of no return. Vivian told Ezra to leave, and not come back.
Defeated, Ezra made his way home. He climbed into bed, overwhelmed by the reality of what had happened. Six years at the restaurant, undone.
The next morning, Ezra biked to his favorite thinking spot: the arboretum. As he deposited himself on a bench, he pondered what to do next.
Maybe he should be a therapist. He’d need a degree. What about Portland State? That would be nice — learning how to talk with people about their troubles.
But the hassle: the classes, the assignments, the license . . .
Ezra gazed up at the trees. They were so inspiring, growing ever skyward and presenting a familiar answer.
The Resolution Shop.
He had played it out in his head, meticulously, for years. It would be a one-stop shop for anyone who wanted to change their life. There’d be self-help books, of course, for financial dreams and relationship dreams and all the rest. But he'd also carry planners and poster boards, multicolored markers, countdown timers, and plenty of other supplies.
Ezra savored an imaginary scenario: a frazzled new dad showing up at the shop, asking if some people just might not have the stamina to be parents. After a few minutes of Q&A, Ezra would direct him to the sleep section. “How about a lavender eye pillow?” he’d suggest. “Or maybe a specialty alarm clock?”
Ezra couldn’t contain his excitement. As a bartender, he had been limited to giving advice; at The Resolution Shop, he could help people take their first practical steps.
And the name said it all. This wouldn’t just be a place for indulging fantasies about a better life, something that had long plagued Ezra. No, this would empower people to decide things, declare things. Put their foot in the earth already.
But what about money, to get this going?
It would have to be his brother. John was always up for an interesting investment, and this was a whole lot more promising than that napkin folding machine.
The more Ezra thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. John would say yes. The store would open. Maybe even among the boutiques on Northwest 23rd Avenue.
Ezra had made his decision. He would do it. He would do it right now. He would head over to John’s office in Beaverton.
As he climbed on his bike, his phone rang. It was Vivian.
“Ezra. Listen. I’m sorry.”
His heart sank.
“I shouldn’t have acted that way,” she said. “You matter to the restaurant.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sorry, too?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“So come back.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Ezra hung up without saying goodbye.
He stared back at the bench and relished the moment. From then on, this would be his lucky spot: the place where he had made the resolution to change his life.
He biked to the intersection at West Burnside. A left would take him to John’s office in Beaverton, a right to Vivian’s in downtown Portland.
Ezra looked left, toward his future, and breathed in the air.
He looked right, toward his past. It was good of Vivian to apologize, but this was his chance.
And yet the job was a steady paycheck.
He looked left again. What if John said no?
What if he said yes?
There was only one way to find out.
And yet . . .
Ezra stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, he knew his answer.
He always did.
He headed right, and began pedaling downtown.
His first customers were the usual for a Friday night: jittery new couples, putting on their best selves as they waited for a dinner table. But when a forlorn woman slumped into a seat away from everyone else, Ezra knew immediately that he could make a difference. The woman ordered a drink, introduced herself, and spilled her problem — just like in the movies. Ezra responded with a few pointed questions, then began dispensing pithy wisdom.
It was at that point when a botched flambé at Table Eight set off the fire sprinkler. Suddenly it was pandemonium. What had been a group of polite diners and staff was now a soaked crowd gushing out into the Portland night.
Vivian charged the bar. “Ezra! We need to cut off the water!”
Pretending not to hear, Ezra led his customer out the back.
Vivian followed them. “Ezra! What are you doing?”
“I’m really sorry. She’s having a problem. It’s urgent.”
The word “urgent” set off Vivian. Her restaurant getting flooded wasn’t urgent?
Things escalated quickly from there.
Why couldn’t Vivian respect the good work Ezra had been doing for so long — all the people he had helped?
Why couldn’t Ezra see how much money he had cost Vivian by constantly chattering away instead of serving drinks?
Who cares about her drinks?
Who cares about his amateur therapy?
After ten minutes of angry back-and-forth truth-telling, they had crossed the point of no return. Vivian told Ezra to leave, and not come back.
Defeated, Ezra made his way home. He climbed into bed, overwhelmed by the reality of what had happened. Six years at the restaurant, undone.
The next morning, Ezra biked to his favorite thinking spot: the arboretum. As he deposited himself on a bench, he pondered what to do next.
Maybe he should be a therapist. He’d need a degree. What about Portland State? That would be nice — learning how to talk with people about their troubles.
But the hassle: the classes, the assignments, the license . . .
Ezra gazed up at the trees. They were so inspiring, growing ever skyward and presenting a familiar answer.
The Resolution Shop.
He had played it out in his head, meticulously, for years. It would be a one-stop shop for anyone who wanted to change their life. There’d be self-help books, of course, for financial dreams and relationship dreams and all the rest. But he'd also carry planners and poster boards, multicolored markers, countdown timers, and plenty of other supplies.
Ezra savored an imaginary scenario: a frazzled new dad showing up at the shop, asking if some people just might not have the stamina to be parents. After a few minutes of Q&A, Ezra would direct him to the sleep section. “How about a lavender eye pillow?” he’d suggest. “Or maybe a specialty alarm clock?”
Ezra couldn’t contain his excitement. As a bartender, he had been limited to giving advice; at The Resolution Shop, he could help people take their first practical steps.
And the name said it all. This wouldn’t just be a place for indulging fantasies about a better life, something that had long plagued Ezra. No, this would empower people to decide things, declare things. Put their foot in the earth already.
But what about money, to get this going?
It would have to be his brother. John was always up for an interesting investment, and this was a whole lot more promising than that napkin folding machine.
The more Ezra thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. John would say yes. The store would open. Maybe even among the boutiques on Northwest 23rd Avenue.
Ezra had made his decision. He would do it. He would do it right now. He would head over to John’s office in Beaverton.
As he climbed on his bike, his phone rang. It was Vivian.
“Ezra. Listen. I’m sorry.”
His heart sank.
“I shouldn’t have acted that way,” she said. “You matter to the restaurant.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sorry, too?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“So come back.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Ezra hung up without saying goodbye.
He stared back at the bench and relished the moment. From then on, this would be his lucky spot: the place where he had made the resolution to change his life.
He biked to the intersection at West Burnside. A left would take him to John’s office in Beaverton, a right to Vivian’s in downtown Portland.
Ezra looked left, toward his future, and breathed in the air.
He looked right, toward his past. It was good of Vivian to apologize, but this was his chance.
And yet the job was a steady paycheck.
He looked left again. What if John said no?
What if he said yes?
There was only one way to find out.
And yet . . .
Ezra stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, he knew his answer.
He always did.
He headed right, and began pedaling downtown.