And So It Ends, As All Things Do

Tomorrow marks the first week of my retirement from the bar. It's throwing my weekly rhythm off knowing that the bar won't mark my Fridays any more. I've got plans for tomorrow night, but then what? What am I supposed to do with my weekends?

A humorous question, sure, but asked with a touch of anxiety too. Per a recommendation from Dave, I just finished reading The Tender Bar, a booze-filled memoir which also points out the "safety in numbers" vibe in a bar, that feeling that we're all in this together. That's the bit I'm going to miss.

In any event, best wishes to all of you who've tracked this blog and to all of you who're still out in the field. May your customers be polite and your tips be generous.

If you still want to keep track of me, check out my other blogs:
My Writing Blog
My Talking With/About People Blog

Cheers.

One Last Last-Call

Tonight was my last night at the bar. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have mixed emotions about that. After 3+ years of working there, it was strange to think of leaving. But, as far as last night's go, I couldn't hardly have asked for a better one.

Happy hour was busy enough for me to make some money, then things settled down enough for me to take it easy and goof off a bit. One of our regulars, who sometimes brings food back for the staff, promised me a hamburger if I was still there when he returned around midnight. So, instead of bailing early, I stuck around. After all, what did I care? It was my last night, so staying an extra hour or two didn't bother me.

Mostly average customers, along with a couple who were pests, but I mostly ignored them once they proved themselves to be so, because life is too short to deal with lousy tippers. Especially on one's last night. Around ten thirty I told Laura all the new tables were hers, and I'd just wait for what I already had to clear out. Then in walks a couple I know, and who I know tend to hang out with another couple I know even better, so I snag 'em. They end up being the last table to leave, so instead of cutting out early, I stay until after close (though only part of that is due to the table). I goof off, I chat, and...

I do a few shots. In honor of my last night, Julia and Laura want me to do shots. Since it's my last night, I'm down with that. A few shots, then a "martini" (i.e. a starry night shot doubled and poured into a martini glass), and I've had more alcohol in one night than I've had in the past two months put together (though, that mostly goes to illustrate how much of a non-drinker I am, rather than that I consumed particularly vast quantities). Now, not wanting to have to get a ride, or a cab, home, I cut off the booze early and start on the water. Around this time, the regular returns with food, so I add in a hamburger with fries to keep me from getting drunk, plus a couple pints of water. Still, Julia and Laura are much entertained at the amount of booze I drink.

Laura: For someone who never drinks, you do shots like a champ!

Then I tell her about my first-ever shot. My very first shot was an Andes Mint made by one of my all-time favorite, and since moved-on, bartenders, Paulie. He set it in front of me one night when I was done in the kitchen and listening to live music in the basement with a couple of friends from the university. I sipped that shot for a good ten minutes. Paulie and my friends thought it was hilarious. It's been a while since that first shot.

I do manage to commandeer the jukebox, but I'm not really in the mood for Elton John's Screw You, so I opt instead for softer fare like Billy Joel's It's All About Soul. Though, I do hold true on my goal of playing Telegraph Road. Since a number of other people are playing music as well, so it's not until about 1:45 a.m. that the jukebox actually starts in on my selection.

In the meantime, I've been scarfing down my hamburger and fries, doing a couple of shots, and chatting with my only table. The table congratulates me on my retirement, and then by the time my songs end, Laura and I have cleaned up and closed out and are ready to head for home. First though, I have to open an envelope that suddenly appeared at the server station with my name on it. Inside, a gift certificate to the bar from Julia, Laura, and Brandi, with the note "Come back and see us soon."

There are hugs and handshakes, and well-wishing, and it made me a little sad to think of leaving, even though I know I'll still stop in from time to time to say hello and have a drink or some fries. Still, it's strange to think that the next time I walk through the doors it will be as a civilian only.

It's time for last call, folks, can I get anybody anything else?

Two-fer

I walked into the bar innocently enough, only to be immediately hollered at by Brandi.
Brandi: Hey, Ali. I gotta talk to you about the party last week.
Her tone of voice was one I recognized. This was her pissed-off voice. I braced myself for Brandi to be unhappy with me.
Brandi: I just want you to know I didn't rat you out.
A who-to-the-what now?
Brandi: Yeah, your mom wasn't very happy that you left early. I told her...
Then she launched into a tirade about the foolishness of the owners, who were unhappy that I went home instead of standing uselessly about, and who apparently gave Brandi an earful about it while Brandi told them to get over it. Well, that's the jist, anyhow.

A couple things impressed me:
1. Brandi's enthusiasm in defending me.
2. Her concern that I thought she might have tattled on me (which would never have crossed my mind, she's not that type)
3. The fact that the owners who were unhappy with me decided to discuss it with Brandi, not me.

Let's face it, I'm leaving. I think the owners realize what that means. Doesn't mean they like it, but, really, what'd be the point about talking to me about it?

Which brings me to the next coworker highlight. After a conference with Laura about why the hell was I working Wednesday? we changed the schedule so I wasn't. Thus, I'm home tonight instead of waiting on people. This is good.

This is very good. On Friday night I didn't like people. Unfortunately, I served a great many of them. Without going into details, we'll just say that I was not at the top of my game.

The highlight of the whole night? Knowing I'd only have one more shift to work, not two.

The Official Count Down

The schedule's up for the next two weeks and I have my official number: 3. I'm at the bar tomorrow, for a party no less (bah), then next week I'm there on Wednesday (since when am I working weeknights again?), and one last Friday.

When Julia called me to tell me that I'd be doing the party - last minute booking - she also said that tomorrow Laura will be training my replacement. I'm glad, for my coworkers' sakes, that the owners got on the ball with replacing me. In the past it has often not been until one of the staff has been gone for a week or two that they get around to finding a replacement, which is just not good.

Three nights. Seems like such a small number.

Shortest Friday Ever

A twenty year high school reunion happened tonight. Brandi and I were scheduled to do it and I showed up at 6:30, half an hour before the shindig was supposed to go down. A few people trickle in about 7:20, all of them go to the bar. Within fifteen minutes, the basement is pretty crowded and everybody's standing, which means everybody's in the way, thus it's pretty impossible for me to actually be useful.

I mostly end up bar-backing for Brandi, and by nine o'clock I'm out the door because there's no point at all in me sticking around. Granted, I made no moolah to speak of, but I was okay with that - after all, I did pick up an extra day this week anyhow.

One down, two (?) to go.

Everybody AND Their Dog

You know mass hysteria, right? Everybody goes crazy at the same time. Tonight was like that, except instead of the "hysteria" part it was more like PMS. Dave's theory is that it's the heat combined with being so close to a new moon, but of course he shrugged when he offered the theory, too, 'cause no one really knows the why of nights like this.

A fairly quiet Wednesday night, which I worked only because it's Laura's birthday and she asked me nicely, so I had maybe a dozen tables all together. With one exception, every single table I had tipped poorly and/or complained about something. One exception.

There was the table where the matriarch had Dave break a $100 bill for her, then had me break a $50 (don't ask me why she didn't just get smaller bills from the bank when she cashed her pay check, because I have no logical answer.) Then, she paid for everyone and left me a 12% tip.

There was the couple where the guy told me that we make our Shepherd's Pie wrong.
Dude: I have some advice for your kitchen. See, this is how my Scottish grandmother makes it...
Seriously dude, then go have your grandma make your dinner. His girlfriend/wife ordered the smoked salmon, "oh, it's salty" - duh, it's smoked salmon. Mid-way through eating it, when I check on them, the dude says, "Do you usually serve the salmon with bread or something?"
Me: Uh huh. We serve it with crackers.
I move the crackers from where I set them on the table when I was prepping it to bring out their food and set them directly in front of the woman. Look! I'm magic!

Of course, there was the entitled trivia people, even though there was no trivia tonight.
Gal Annoying: I want the bread pudding, but only if it was made fresh today, 'cause the other day I had it and I had to send it back 'cause it wasn't fresh and it was stale so I couldn't eat it, so is it fresh today?
Me: Let me check.
(moments later)
Me: No, I'm afraid it wasn't made today.
GA: Oh, well, when was it made?
Me: Yesterday.
GA: Well, I really want the bread pudding, but I don't want to have to send it back again, do you think it's good?
Me: Your call.
GA: I guess I'll have it.

For the love of Joseph, I was *this* close to strangling her. Everything tonight seemed, like this, to involve entirely too much conversation. The way it should work is I say, "What can I get you?" and you say, "A vodka tonic." See? Easy. Instead, I kept getting as a response, "Well, golly, I just don't know what I'm in the mood for tonight... do you have any (random thing we don't have)? Or, how about..." for half an hour.

The best table (and I mean that non-sarcastically) was a foursome who came in, ordered their drinks, drank them, smiled, and even bought some official logoed bar shirts. They didn't complain about anything, and left a perfectly acceptable tip. Now, is that so hard?

At about the same time, I also had my two other favorites (and I mean that with much sarcasm).

There was "This is the worst fish and chips I've ever had even though I ate all the food, but that was only 'cause I was starving" guy. 10% there, even when I comped the food.
Me: I'll let the cook know.
Him: No, I'll let the owner know.
Dude, the owner put the fish and chips on the menu and the owner eats it all the time. Shut up.

And, the last table of the night ordered one round, drank one round, and when they were done and I checked on them, also offered some advice.
Margarita Woman: We have a suggestion for your bartender.
Me: Yes?
MW: Tell him to actually put alcohol in the drinks. My margarita just tasted like sweet and sour.
Gin and Tonic Woman: And my drink just tasted like tonic.
Me: If you'd like your drink stronger, you can ask for a double shot.
MW: Did he even put any alcohol in them at all?
Me: Yes.
GTW: Did you see him do it?
Me: Yes. He makes all the drinks the same and uses a jigger to measure the alcohol.
MW: Did you see him do it?
Me: Yes.

I pass this on to Dave who shakes his head.
Dave: It was those people? (points)
Me: Yup.
Dave: I even made those strong.

When I go back to the table to pick up empty glasses, they immediately ask if I gave the bartender their "advice."
Me: I told him. He said he actually made the drinks a little strong.
They don't believe me. I pick up all the empties, and the coasters as well as the couple dollars on the table, trying to drop a gentle "get the f* out" hint.
Dude: I guess it's not your fault, huh? You just work here.

Not much longer, though. Not much longer at all.

The Last Hurrah

With my last day growing ever-closer, I find my mind turning time and again to what I'll do by way of a send off. While I'm going to skip any crass stuff, like bitching out a lame customer or bitch-slapping the next aggressively friendly forty-something guy trying to hit on me, I do feel the need to commemorate my last night somehow.

Primarily, my mind is turning to the jukebox. From time to time, there have been songs which I've wanted to play, but I've restrained myself, wanting to keep things appropriate, etc. But, once it's my last night, what've I got to lose? Thus, I'm planning to set aside $10 or so for late in my last shift to monopolize the jukebox. I'm still fleshing out what'll be on my playlist, but a few that I think I need to play are the following:
Telegraph Road by Dire Straits (a solid 14 min. long, which is awesome and obnoxiously epic)
Screw You by Elton John
Katmandu by Bob Seger
Something incredibly steel-guitar, hard core country sounding
That one song by the Pogues about the worms eating the decomposing body
Free and Easy by Dierks Bentley
A Lot of Leaving Left to Do by Dierks Bentley
One of the lyrically strange ones by The Church
Bubba Shot the Jukebox by Mark Chestnutt
(maybe) You're so Vain by Carly Simon

In general, an overall "adios" theme with overtones of "so long, suckers!" A silly gesture, perhaps, but I'll find satisfaction in it and I think it'll be worth a few bucks.

First Tables, Exact Change, and People Running With Knives

This weekend was weird, especially Saturday (which I only worked 'cause Laura asked me to nicely). All the cheap, annoying idiots were out in force. Since a full accounting for the weekend would be a small novel in and of itself, I'm just going to give you highlights.

Friday was slow as soon as I got there, so I sat down at the bar and had an early dinner of fries. A middle aged blond woman walks in and tries to sit one stool over from me at the bar, has a great amount of difficulty with the close spacing of the stools, then picks one up and moves it right in front of the trash at the server station. I move it to the other side, which she sees me do.

She orders a beer from Brandi, looks around, fidgets, goes to a table before the beer's ready. Brandi puts the beer on the bar with a shrug, she's not going out there. Laura and I look at each other and shrug, neither are we. The woman continues to sit at the table, clearly expecting us to bring her beer to her.

After a good five minutes, she comes back to the bar. I continue to eat my fries. Blondie has a cell phone conversation with someone coming to meet her, "I might be eating," I hear. Huh? Oh, blind date. When she hangs up, she leans over to me.
Blondie: Hey.
I look up from my fries.
Blondie: There's a guy coming here to meet me. When he gets here, I want you to turn around and say, 'Hi Gary,' so he thinks you're me.
And I want to never have to deal with annoying girlies like you, but we can't all get what we want. Seriously, what is it with people who think I'm at the bar purely for their entertainment?
Me: Don't think it'd work, since I clearly work here.
Blondie: No, it will. Do it.
*Sigh* I move my fries to the other side of the server station and find an excuse to be in the kitchen for the next ten minutes. When I come back, Gary has found her. Gary has also had a problem with the stools and moved another one to right in front of the trash. Gary and Blondie are now on my black list.

For the rest of the time the love birds remain at the bar, I spy on them. I'm bored, they've attracted my attention, and it gives me a way to make fun of 'em. I gotta take what I can get. Over the course of the date, I get everyone in on it. When they go out to the patio for a smoke, Debbie watches 'em through the kitchen window. Unbeknownst to the daters, they have become the center of attention.

Me: I wish they'd just hurry up and leave. Then they'd stop annoying me and they could go do the nasty. Everybody wins.
Laura: That's what I like about you, always thinking of other people.

Dave: I think it's going very well, they seem comfortable with each other. She's more eager than he is. (pause) A lot more.
Me: Bodes well for him, then.

Debbie: He's got his arm around her.

Brandi: She's gonna get laid.

They eventually leave (but not before Blondie spends half an hour in the bathroom - I don't even want to know what she was freshening up). As they walk out the door, maybe an hour after first arriving, I turn to Laura.
Me: You know, sometimes after we have conversations like this, I get paranoid about ever going out someplace myself, for fear of the conversations being had about me.

Then I finally got my first table, a trio. I walk up, plop down the coasters, give the usual "hi, how're ya doin?"
Guy: What's cheap here?
He then proceeds to quiz me on what's the "most economical" pitcher of beer, appetizer, and what we'll give him for free. He gives me a dollar tip for the pitcher, and I do my best to ignore him thereafter. Life's too short for that nonsense.

Skip to Saturday.
My first table is the two ladies who dropped in and gave me 10% on my last weekend where I hated everybody. I do the bare minimum service-wise, 'cause I'm already not in the best of moods and I'm holding a grudge. Then their friend, gal indecisive, joins them. Shoot me now. I go over. Does she know what she wants? No, of course she doesn't. I hand her the drink menu and give her a few minutes.
Me: Have you decided?
She points to the peach fizz on the menu: How is the sparkling wine you use in that?
Me: It's fine. (Who cares? It's mixed with orange juice and peach schnapps, it's not like you're even tasting the sparkling wine at that point, dumbass)
GI: Um... Well, maybe I'll have some wine instead...
I was expecting this. She never orders the first thing she's thinking about ordering. Never. She goes for the Riesling, like she usually does. Why, when she usually orders the same thing, does it remain so difficult? Then she asks for a food menu, and I run crying to Julia.

Julia: Yeah, well, did you see that couple that just left? (she holds up a five dollar bill) This is a terrible tip. They had dinner and everything. The best part, the woman kept telling me how the Dalai Lama sent her. That's a first for me.

Then, at about eight thirty, I go from having two tables to twelve in the space of about ten minutes. I shift into efficiency mode. I'm in a rush for the next hour straight as I try to catch up and keep up with so many people all at once. In this rush, my two least-favorite tables of the entire night arrive, for this is when I get the exact-change bastards. One table starts out on my bad side as the dude pulls out his wad of cash and counts out six dollars exactly, hands it to me, and puts the wad of cash back in his pocket. The other table doesn't seem so bad right off. On their first round, I get a couple dollars. This was the best tip from them for the next four hours.

As it begins to slow down a bit, the "good" table's ready for another round. When I bring it, everybody except one chick is out for a smoke. I set down the drinks, and then am forced to stand there while she digs through her purse for an eternity.
Her: I'm sure I have fifty cents in here somewhere.
That's right, more exact change.
Next round, different person pays, I get stiffed again. Fifty-cents girl asks me for water, which I somehow forget to bring for her. Next round, different person pays, gives me 10%. I say, screw that, and do my best to ignore them and the other table (a couple more exact change rounds there, as well as a couple "and a dollar for you!" from the other dude).

I decide now's a good time to take out the trash because a little distance between me and the cheap bastards can only make me less likely to kill them. As I'm grabbing a fresh trash bag from behind the bar, one of the regulars is sitting there having a beer.
Him: I hear you're leaving.
Me: Yup. Just a couple more weeks.
Him: Why?
Me: I'm just going to be too busy once the new semester starts.
He nods.
Me: Seems the right time anyhow. People are getting on my nerves.

And then, to finish off an altogether classy weekend, near closing time as I'm taking drinks away from the lingerers, who though different from my two "favorite" tables, also liked to stiff me. They give me sad looks, and I say, "Sorry, gotta pick 'em up," without being sorry at all. So, as I'm starting this, Brandi and K.C. have to step outside to have a conversation with some police officers.

Why? You ask. Because, during a smoke break a short time earlier, they got to see some inebriated dude chasing another drunk down the street brandishing a knife. Ah, good times. So, the police borrowed Brandi and K.C. to try and identify the knife-wielding-psycho. "Was it him?" I ask, when Brandi returns.
Brandi: Nah, it was some other fool.
Which means, the crazy man with sharp implements is still on the loose. Aint that awesome?

By the end of the night, thanks to one surprisingly generous table, my take-home doesn't suck as much as I feared it might, but my overall percentage is still disappointing. Usually, with that much in sales I would have taken home a solid $20 more, if not $30. Cheap bastards. A pox on them. I wish nothing pleasant for their futures, nothing pleasant at all.

Yes indeed, people are getting on my nerves.

Senioritis

I'm very much in that place where I'm just coasting through my shifts at the bar. I'm not especially motivated. Not especially invested, and big on getting out ASAP. Tonight, for instance, I was the first one in, thus the first one out. By ten thirty I was gone. It was awesome.

Slow night. Nothing too much that was interesting. I did have one funny exchange.

Two guys walk in and find a table.
Me: Hi how're you doing?
Guy: Terrible, and you?
He said it totally deadpan and without any kind of emphasis. I was entertained.
Me: Alright, what'll you have?
Guy: A Smithwicks.
Me: Will that get you in better shape?
Guy: That'll fix me right up.

On the broader scope - got news today that the deal to sell the bar fell through. Apparently the dude who wanted to buy it forgot to get his wife in on the scheme and she put the kibosh on it. As Dave put it, "He forgot to clear it with the boss."

And thus, life at the bar continues.

Misanthrope Weekend

Dunno what it was, 'cause there was no full moon, but there was a disproportionately high number of obnoxious bastards this weekend.

Early-ish in the evening on Friday, a couple random guys plop down at the bar right by the waitress station. The dude nearest, and thus most in the way, turns around in his stool to peruse the place. I walk over to the computer to put in an order.
Guy: Hey!
I look at him for a moment. He says nothing, expecting me to be friendly and respond to the greeting/command for attention. I turn away.
Guy: You don't talk much, do you?
Me: Nope.
I finish putting in the order and make my exit. I walk away, and Laura catches my eye. She's trying not to laugh.
Laura: I love the expression on your face when that happens.

Then I got the annoying table. We start out kinda normal. Half a dozen people, though the number fluctuates constantly during the night as people wander around, which also makes it near impossible for me to actually check on them because at most I can only ever check on three or so people at a time. Of course, none of them thinks of this, instead assuming I can't do my job because when they eventually return to the table and want a drink, I'm somewhere else because I just checked on everybody two minutes ago when said person was hanging out downstairs/on the patio/on Mars.
First round, public enemy number one pulls out her credit card and hands it to me.
Me: Would you like me to run it, or should I keep it open?
Mojito Girl: Well, if you're going to keep it, I'd rather give you my drivers license.
Me: Well, I need an actual card in order to keep a tab open.
Mojito Girl: You're not gonna lose it are you? ('cause I always lose credit cards)
Me: Why don't I just run it and bring it right back to you?
Mojito Girl: Okay.

Second round.
Mojito Girl: I want another mojito, but not like the first one. The first one was sweet, make it without sugar this time.
Oh, so sorry. Just because mojitos are made with simple syrup, I should have known you don't like them the way they're made. Gosh, I'm an idiot.
Me: (to blue-shirt-wearing guy who just joined) And can I get something for you?
Blue shirt: Oh, I think I'm gonna go up to the bar to get something.
Riiiiight.
Second round, ball cap guy gives me his card. He has me run a tab.

At about nine thirty, the single-most loathsome regular we have comes in with a friend and the friend's ten year old son. Awesome. He sits at a table. Technically, it's Laura's turn, but she's swamped closing out a million separate tabs for the table of lawyers. C. and his pals are all mine. Super awesome. I get their drink order without drama. While I'm waiting on the drinks, Laura tells me that C. asked her about food and she reminded him the kitchen closes at nine. Now, the truth is, Debbie made a few extra sandwiches for after-hours. When Laura says this to me, I think of the sandwiches. I bring the drinks over. C. asks me about food (because he thinks I like him more than Laura does and am more willing to "help him out," maybe)
C.: Hey, is there anything to eat around here?
Me: No. The kitchen closes at nine. Also, I gotta let you know that we can't have any minors in the bar after ten o'clock.
C.: What about downstairs? (Which is not part of the bar?)
Me: Uh, no.
C.: On the patio?
Me: Not the patio either.
And thank goodness for small graces, they were done and out within half an hour because they had to be.

Last call. Mojito girl is on the patio. She wants a rum and coke. I pick up glasses and am forced to walk very slowly behind her as she saunters inside, blocking the back hall so I can't get past. I bring the last drinks the rest of the table ordered over. On my way back to the bar she hollers out, "I'm over here now!" assuming that I failed to notice.

I run ball cap guy's card 'cause he said he was ready for me to do so.

I also run mojito girl's card for that last drink, and when I bring the slip and the drink over, ball cap guy gets my attention.
Ball cap: Uh, can I get a print out of everything that was on my tab?
Me: Sure.

A short time later, ball cap guy comes over to the bar.
Him: Uh, can you tell me what this is? I was talking to everybody about what they had, and nobody had this.
He points to the tab. He and his friends have been here for a few hours. They've been drinking alcohol. I have not. Yet, he expects his friends' memory to be better than mine.
Me: Yeah, that was a rum and coke.
Him: But I ordered a Malibu and coke.
Me: Your second was a Malibu and coke, the first one you just said rum and coke and so I did the house rum.
Him: But how is it $9.00?
Me: It's not, the $9.00 is the two drinks on the next line.
Him: And there's one too many mojitos.
Me: Let's see, that's two for the gal (mojito girl) and two for your other friend.
Him: But, the gal only had two mojitos.
Me: Right, and your friend wearing the blue shirt had two as well.
Him: Oh.
For the love of Nicholas! Why, after trusting your friends alcohol lubricated memories over mind, are you now expecting me to remember exactly who had every single drink and when?

Okay, so I could, but that's not the point. $66 tab. $6 tip. Thanks buddy. Thanks a lot. Look, if you don't trust the server to run a tab, fine. Then don't run a tab. Rocket science it is not.

Mojito Girl kindly filled in a zero on her slip.

Saturday, I thought, had to be better. Right?

Saturday is dead. I have seven whole tables over the course of the night.
The ladies on the patio are regulars and I think we have a pretty good rapport. They usually have two beers each and tip two dollars each. Tonight they have dinner as well, and an appetizer. They still tip two dollars each. Thanks for the 10%, why do you suddenly hate me?

The seemingly out-of-towner foursome has two ego-trip guys who fight over who's gonna pay me. They can't figure it out for themselves, and force me to choose. I grab the card from the guy on the left. It's a room key. He thinks he's hilarious. I go to take the card from the other guy, but the first guy shoves it away and then (no joke) throws his own card at me.

Two likeable regulars come in with a friend. I think to myself, "Hallelujah, somebody I can stand!"
Me: Hi there, guys, how's it going tonight?
Regular 1: It's going good. Do you know our friend?
Me: A little. (I recognize him, but we've never "met")
Their friend orders himself a girly martini. He finishes it quickly.
Me: Would you like another?
Him: No, I'll do a beer. There's not hardly anything in the martini.
That's 'cause it's a martini.

He starts throwing popcorn at the good regulars (who later apologize for the mess).

While the dude is in the bathroom, the other regular leans over to me.
Regular 2: We're taking our friend out tonight, 'cause he wants to meet girls. Do you know where we can find girls?
Me: Not so much.
Regular 2: (shakes her head) He's our age (early forties) but he only wants to meet girls who're 22.
Aw dang, I'm too old for him then. Shucks, I'm so disappointed.

And then there's the other group who does the musical tables thing that's so annoying. They also do the fighting over who's gonna pay thing, compromising with taking turns on the rounds. At one point, most of the group is off to the bathrooms or the patio, and guy who was arguing about who was gonna pay catches my eye.
Guy: I'd like another round for everybody.
Me: Sure thing.
I pick up a bottle and look at the label (they got round 1 at the bar) so I know what to bring one of the gals.
Guy: Don't bring 'em all yet, wait until they're ready.
Me: Alright.
I bring the guy his drink.
Guy: Hey, where are the rest of 'em?

I think ever-so-fondly of Manuel's stabbing fork, and feel the little vein in my forehead go a-twitching.

At least it was a slow enough night that I got to sit at the bar a lot and talk to Alex and K.C. and a couple others who I didn't want to murder. At least it was slow a slow enough night that we actually close early for the first time ever on a weekend I've been working. Granted, the money was pitiful, but at least there was no homicide. Barely.

Highs and Lows

This weekend was a strange mix of good and bad. On one hand, it made me infinitely glad that I'm nearing the end of my beer wenching career, and on the other, it had some good points. I think this weekend was emphasized a bit, too, because when Marianne did the schedule she somehow managed to confuse July with August and made the schedule as if Friday were my last night. (I quickly remedied said confusion as soon as I arrived Friday.)

Bad: Lots of egomanical/jerk/stupid customers.

Good: Saw one of our semi-regulars who I wanted the chance to see at least once more before I'm gone.

Bad: Lots of lousy tips.

Good: I still somehow managed to make slightly above my average tip percentage Friday night.

Bad: Since Laura asked nice, I worked Saturday night for her instead of having it off.

Good: Julia let me come in late tonight.

Absolute best: I finally got to work a weekend night where we actually closed early! So. Freakin'. Awesome.

So, now I feel like I've gotten all the key cocktailing milestones under my belt. Any loose ends I felt like I had have been tied up, and now I just have to work one more month before I'm done. Though, I gotta say, the thought did cross my mind to just embrace Marianne's mistake and go for the early retirement.

On a much more disturbing note: I wasn't the only one who had a rough Friday night. One of our young regulars got jumped last night (as best we can figure, it was about one block over as he was leaving a nearby bar after closing). They beat him a bit, stole everything, stripped him, and went for a joyride in his car (though they brought it back, strangely enough). Fortunately, the injuries are relatively minor. Some stitches for a gash above his eye and some rest should be all he needs. The part that I find scary, aside from the nearness of the attack, is the fact that it would seem he got a good crack on the head because he doesn't remember what happened.

Any good thoughts you could spare on his behalf would be much appreciated.

iGlee

Today I got an iPod. I am filled with much happiness. Technology is cool.

Even cooler - the free iTunes that came with it. This meant that today I got the Big Kenny album I've been trying so hard to find anywhere in town. It's wonderful and so I'm going to plug it. Check out Live a Little, go on, just try it.