The People We Keep

No one tells you how hard it is to love people for a living.

Not the romantic kind of love — the real kind. The kind that starts across a bar, one stool and one story at a time. The kind that slowly builds while you pour another drink, clear another plate, and just listen.

Then, one day, they don’t walk through the door again. And it leaves a hole you didn’t see coming.

In a lot of places, this job is just that — a job. A service. A transaction. But not here. Not at Studio 6. When someone walks in, they’re not just a guest. They’re a part of it. Of us.

We’ve served thousands of people over the years. And these are just a few of the ones who stayed tied to our heart.

John.

Gruff. Guarded. But warm in a way you had to earn.He was the kind of man who’d been through things — you could see it in his eyes. Life had roughed him up a little, but it hadn’t taken away his curiosity. Or his loyalty.

He asked questions not just to pass the time, but to know you. To understand. And when he brought people in — friends, family — he introduced us like we were someone worth knowing too. Not just bartenders. People.

There was something about the way John carried himself that made connecting with him feel easy. Especially for Brady.

They shared a kind of quiet depth — a mutual respect rooted in experience and imperfection. John wasn’t polished. Neither is Brady. That’s probably why they understood each other so well. There wasn’t any pretending in their conversations — just truth, sarcasm, and the kind of laughter that only comes from having lived through the hard stuff.

Brady says seeing John across the bar could reset his entire day. That’s not something he says lightly. But I watched it happen — more than once.

When we broke down in California — tired, stranded, feeling defeated — John was the first person we called. Not because he had the answer. But because we knew he’d listen without judgment. We knew he’d help if he could. We trusted him.

And he picked up. Of course he did. That was John.

He passed away this year.

Then, somehow, life looped back around. We met his nephew, CJ — first as a bartender serving us drinks, then as a friend, and now as part of our team. One night, after too many beers, the puzzle pieces snapped into place: That John. Our John.

Now CJ is here with us, and I swear there are moments when I look at him and catch a glimpse of John — not just in his face, but in his presence. In his steadiness. In his loyalty.

Somehow, someway, John’s still here. In our team. In our story.

Dr. Robert.

Polished. Well-read. A brilliant, quiet force of a man.Head of a hospital department.

The kind of person who moves through the world with purpose — and always seems to have a passport in his back pocket.

By all surface standards, Robert and Brady shouldn’t have clicked.

Brady was fresh off the road, trying to find footing after living in a van, reconnecting with the world through this brutal, beautiful industry. Robert was cultured, accomplished, a medical professional whose life seemed far more… stable.

But somehow, they connected.

Not through status. Not through career paths. But through the things that matter most — books, curiosity, conversation. Mutual respect.Robert never treated Brady like someone “less than.”

He asked thoughtful questions. He listened. He saw the kind of wisdom that doesn’t come from a degree or a title — the kind you earn from the road, from being knocked down and choosing to get back up.

That meant everything to Brady. And to me.

Prior to the break down.. on the same van trip, Robert offered up one of his homes in Utah. No hesitation. Just an address and a welcome.

We stayed there — grateful, exhausted, and honestly, kind of stunned. Not because we didn’t think we were worthy of kindness… but because kindness like that is rare.

When we opened Studio 6, Robert didn’t just send well wishes. He showed up. He drove hours out of his way to sit at ourbar. To support our dream. To see what we’d built.

When I saw him walk in, it hit me in the chest. Not because of social idea — but because he chose to show up for us as a friend. As someone who believed in us.

And Brady? I think a part of him finally let go of the idea that he didn’t belong in rooms like that. Because Robert never made him feel like he had to prove anything.

Somehow, someway, he’s part of this place too.

Michael and MT.

South African hay workers with big energy and bigger opinions. Loud. Honest. Bold. A little too much sometimes — but always real.

They walked in our first weekend open. They didn’t tip (they didn’t know). They didn’t hold back (ever). And they stayed. Not just physically, but emotionally.

Eventually, it wasn’t about the bar. It was Easter dinner and late-night porch talks. It was Michael calling my sister every day during a hard season, just to check in. It was that kind of unexpected tenderness — the kind that slips through loud laughter and thick accents and too-late nights.

A week ago, Michael prank-called to order 100 pizzas. We still don’t sell pizza. But the call wasn’t really about the joke — it was about staying connected. About saying, “I haven’t forgotten you.”

Somehow, someway, they’re part of this place too.

Then there’s Jimmy from Arkansas.

He came in, Crown Royal on his mind, nervously shifting in his seat as he said, “I bet you guys don’t have Crown here, huh?”

We did. And that was the beginning.

At one point he said, “You’d judge me if I told you what I like to do for fun,” and I shot back without thinking, “What, kill people and hide the bodies in your basement?” The laugh that followed — loud, real, eyes wide — that’s when I knew we were going to be friends.

Jimmy spent ten straight days with us. We picked his meals, kept the drinks coming, talked about life, loss, and nonsense. He punched punch cards during a packed event without being asked. He FaceTimed my sister because I knew they’d click. He talked to our host about his shampoo routine. He made us laugh until we couldn’t breathe.

He’s the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back — no questions asked — just because you needed it. Gruff on the outside, gentle underneath. Fiercely loyal. His elders, his nieces and nephews — they mean everything to him. His word means everything. And the man can shoot the shit about music like nobody else.

He watches everything. Soaks it in. Usually follows it up with, “I gotcha.”And the crazy part is — you believe him. Because he means it.

He said goodbye fast — maybe because we all felt too much to say it slow.

Somehow, someway, Jimmy’s part of this place too.

We’ve talked before about the hard parts of this life — the bills, the burns, the long days. But this part? This one might be the hardest:

You love people.

You let them in.

And then they leave.

Travelers go home. Locals move on. Seasons change.

And we’re still here — rolling pasta, painting the deck, brushing our teeth while the dish machine drains below us. Sitting in the quiet with the stories still echoing through the dining room.

Because humans aren’t meant to be solitary creatures. We seek connection. We need each other. And in this wild, chaotic industry, we’ve been lucky enough to meet some of the very best.

Somehow, someway, the best parts of them stay with us. In the barstools. In the air. In who we are now — because of them.

So if you’ve ever sat across from us, lingered longer than you planned, told us your story, or listened to ours — thank you.

You’re the reason we show up.

With a full heart and a few cuss words,

Brittany

(and Brady, who swears he’s not crying)