"Hey Jeff, you talk to your boss yet?"
The bartender/psychologist trope is endlessly charming to me.
Sitting down to at your neighborhood bar provides a unique sense of escape. The escape of that first drink, dulling the grind of the work day. The escape of the space, the bar itself a safe limbo between work and home. Even the escape of the relationship between bartender and patron—collegial, pleasant, the simple joy of someone who’s always happy to see you. (And who cares if they’re sincere or not?)
There’s a magic to bars like this (Chicago's Huttenbar in Lincoln Square in this instance). They serve disparate purposes at parallel times. With a little luck, they serve a clean, tasty Lager, too.