Another Tuesday

The bar I work at is very different from the bar I write about. Not that I've fabricated any of the stories I've shared-- I swear on a different God than the one that counseled George W. Bush that I haven't. Those tales are all as true as I can remember, though in some instances they have been truncated in consideration of the "busy" lives I know all my readers must lead. Given the bits and pieces that I have shared, however truncated they are, it would be reasonable to assume the bar is constantly packed with people interesting enough to write about, for better or worse. 

But very often, especially during the day, the bar is empty and there is no one there except you and the athletes on all the tvs and when people do finally make their way in to the bar, a lot of them are the kind that say please and thank you and tip well. They call you by your name instead of just hollering a "hey!" like you would call a dog or a "bartender!" as if you are nothing more than the title itself. Most people don't stand on tables, and even fewer throw up in the sink. Some nights the job is worth it and you make more money than you probably deserved and you almost feel guilty about it. Almost.

You don't always have a good comeback, either. Sometimes people are assholes and you think of what to say seconds after they've left, or you don't say anything at all and they just walk away and you tell yourself you'll get 'em next time and then next time comes and it happens again. Sometimes you see a beautiful girl and choke on your words, or the words come out but in the wrong order and she walks away and doesn't give you her number or even a good tip but instead just leaves you with a feeling of rejection that you've known since you first asked a girl to dance and she said no.

Many conversations on and off work involve a brief complaint about the bar and everything that comes with the job, but once that's done, very often we talk about the joy of not having succumbed yet --  the freedom  coupled with the income to pack up and go wherever you can stick a pin on a map, the relief in not being glued to a chair and a screen and business talk for the 9 to 5 and perpetually worried about things like job security and that glorious term advancement.

Without a doubt, drunk people suck -- especially when they push you and call you a fucking asshole because you won't give them their keys and let them drive. The weird hours, the shifts where you don't make enough to pay for a tank of gas, the demeaning feeling in your core when you clean glasses or pour drinks for some people -- they strip away the importance and glory most jobs live in and allow you to see the bar for what it truly is.

Too many of the people that come in and drink in the hope of making their life fun in a single night or a weekend, those people just get dressed up to talk about their work, as if it is all they know or care to know or scariest of all, it might be the only thing they have worth sharing.

I guess the point is that much of the bar isn't worth sharing either. Liquor orders aren't that exciting. Neither is turning up the volume on the music inside the bar, or changing a tv from ESPN to ESPN2. We hear the same songs every weekend. At least one person a week calls one of the girls "sweety" or "honey" or "baby" and they tell me about it. There aren't many moments you can look back on and say "I made a real difference in someone's life today," except maybe when they call you an asshole because you wouldn't let them drive home.

But then it'll be 3pm on a Monday afternoon and one of our regulars comes in, astonishingly drunk, and he asks me for the number for a towing company because his front right wheel is all sorts of fucked up from hitting a curb and I wonder how he got this way by three o'clock on a Monday. I hope that all he hit was a curb and then wonder why he decided  the best place to sort this all out was my bar. I wonder what his son that he occasionally talks about would think if he could see this. I wonder if that ugly part of him that you can't help but see is hidden within me and could come out one day. What do you have to do to kill something like that?

And as I'm looking at him and wondering all of these things he sits down and orders a beer and a shot and something in my stomach drops and I know that I must go home and write about it, about his unkempt hair and the lack of anything at all in his eyes.