Confessions of a Bartender
What can I get ya? Man, if I had a donut every time I said that, I’d be a human pastry. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a bad job. I get to be king of everyone from 5 to 2. I can be the meanest Son of a bitch on the planet, but for those seven hours every Thursday through Saturday everyone wants to be my best friend. I have all the power because I have all the booze. I suppose it’s a pretty great life, I make mad money…. Sure, I work hard– Real hard. Some nights I’m not home until 3 or 4am. It’s okay, though.
You meet some crazy people on this job. There are the regulars, the ones who think they know you. They bring in their friends and expect special service and sometimes, free drinks. Sure, I lead them on, pretend I’m their buddy– maybe even throw them a freebie. The truth is, it’s my job. It all means more cash in my pocket at the end of the night. I couldn’t care less about them or their friends. I have my own problems, ya know? There’s the kid I never see and the uncle who won’t leave my apartment. He was supposed to stay for weekend. That was 2002. I feel bad, but the man has something loose in the ol’ noggin. I came home last night, 4:30 am, right? Old Uncle Fisher’s on the couch naked. He’s just sitting there, naked as the day is long, huggin’ that Goddamned Bear of his, every once and while mumbling something about how everyone will be sorry when Monday comes. Well, guess what, Fish? Monday came and went about a thousand times. Get offa my couch, ya lazy bastard! Christ!
Right, where was I? Oh yeah, people I’ve met in the bar.
A lot of famous people come in here. Just last week, Bruce Springsteen came in and sat right in the same stool you’re sitting in. He had two jack and cokes, made a phone call and left. Tipped me a twenty. Nice guy. Most Celebes are pretty nice. Of course, you have the occasion belligerent and demanding model or sports hero. Like last night: It’s like, 11:30 and it’s dead. I think there were maybe two people in the bar, Dirty Ernie DeFazio and a mailman. Suddenly, in walked Dr.Phil and a chick that was not his wife. She was definitely a hooker, possibly a man. They sat, ordered two pink ladies… no shit… and proceeded to dry hump at the end of the bar for a half an hour. I had to finally ask them to tone it down. I told them they were disturbing the other customers, when in fact I was the one disturbed. Ol’ Dirty Ernie probably got a week’s worth of bathroom material out of it. The kicker? No tip. The guy makes millions pretending to help people on TV and he can’t spare a fiver for a no-name bartender? What a fucko. I got him back though. I took a picture of his little indiscretion on my camera phone. Maybe I’ll post it online, or email it to his wife. Heh.
I’ve been in a few fights here. Usually it’s the run of the mill drunken brawl. Every once and a while some jock will get a hair up his ass and take a swing at me and I’ll have to throw him out. I’ve only ever picked a fight once myself. I was 17 and my girlfriend just broke up with me, so I picked the biggest biker guy I could find and hit him in the face. He and bunch of his friends pummeled me until the cops showed up. I was the only one not arrested.
I went to school, ya know. Yup, six years of my Dad’s hard earned money to become a booze pusher. He’s not bitter. He actually comes in every Thursday to do the crossword. He’s cool. Has one eye. Lost it in Viet Nam. The kicker is he was a desk clerk. I guess some G.I. got all upset about my Dad losing his transfer papers. They both threw down and Pop ended up with a #2 pencil in the eyeball. So yeah, I feel bad sometimes that I wasted all his cash on a useless college education. There’s really just not a huge call for Sports Sociologists. I dunno, maybe I’ll go back to school. Maybe I’ll write a book about all the crap I’ve seen here. It could piss a lot of people off. Yeah... That’d be sweet.
You want another? This one’s on me.
You meet some crazy people on this job. There are the regulars, the ones who think they know you. They bring in their friends and expect special service and sometimes, free drinks. Sure, I lead them on, pretend I’m their buddy– maybe even throw them a freebie. The truth is, it’s my job. It all means more cash in my pocket at the end of the night. I couldn’t care less about them or their friends. I have my own problems, ya know? There’s the kid I never see and the uncle who won’t leave my apartment. He was supposed to stay for weekend. That was 2002. I feel bad, but the man has something loose in the ol’ noggin. I came home last night, 4:30 am, right? Old Uncle Fisher’s on the couch naked. He’s just sitting there, naked as the day is long, huggin’ that Goddamned Bear of his, every once and while mumbling something about how everyone will be sorry when Monday comes. Well, guess what, Fish? Monday came and went about a thousand times. Get offa my couch, ya lazy bastard! Christ!
Right, where was I? Oh yeah, people I’ve met in the bar.
A lot of famous people come in here. Just last week, Bruce Springsteen came in and sat right in the same stool you’re sitting in. He had two jack and cokes, made a phone call and left. Tipped me a twenty. Nice guy. Most Celebes are pretty nice. Of course, you have the occasion belligerent and demanding model or sports hero. Like last night: It’s like, 11:30 and it’s dead. I think there were maybe two people in the bar, Dirty Ernie DeFazio and a mailman. Suddenly, in walked Dr.Phil and a chick that was not his wife. She was definitely a hooker, possibly a man. They sat, ordered two pink ladies… no shit… and proceeded to dry hump at the end of the bar for a half an hour. I had to finally ask them to tone it down. I told them they were disturbing the other customers, when in fact I was the one disturbed. Ol’ Dirty Ernie probably got a week’s worth of bathroom material out of it. The kicker? No tip. The guy makes millions pretending to help people on TV and he can’t spare a fiver for a no-name bartender? What a fucko. I got him back though. I took a picture of his little indiscretion on my camera phone. Maybe I’ll post it online, or email it to his wife. Heh.
I’ve been in a few fights here. Usually it’s the run of the mill drunken brawl. Every once and a while some jock will get a hair up his ass and take a swing at me and I’ll have to throw him out. I’ve only ever picked a fight once myself. I was 17 and my girlfriend just broke up with me, so I picked the biggest biker guy I could find and hit him in the face. He and bunch of his friends pummeled me until the cops showed up. I was the only one not arrested.
I went to school, ya know. Yup, six years of my Dad’s hard earned money to become a booze pusher. He’s not bitter. He actually comes in every Thursday to do the crossword. He’s cool. Has one eye. Lost it in Viet Nam. The kicker is he was a desk clerk. I guess some G.I. got all upset about my Dad losing his transfer papers. They both threw down and Pop ended up with a #2 pencil in the eyeball. So yeah, I feel bad sometimes that I wasted all his cash on a useless college education. There’s really just not a huge call for Sports Sociologists. I dunno, maybe I’ll go back to school. Maybe I’ll write a book about all the crap I’ve seen here. It could piss a lot of people off. Yeah... That’d be sweet.
You want another? This one’s on me.