I Hate To Complain, But...

The nice thing about this one night a week at the bar gig is that I'm only there once a week. The bad part is I'm getting out of the habit of being there at all. Last night I had the thought, "Yeah, but do they really need me to come in?"

I got my first customers after I was there for half an hour, a couple in the soft section who hovered in between a friendly vibe and a superior one. I complimented the gal on her necklace 'cause it was pretty and it never hurts to get a few extra points. I got them their first round and then was bored again. I wandered over to the end of the bar. A couple of our regulars were hanging out with John and Brandi was getting in a few bites of a dinner salad.

John: Well, now that Brandi's back, doesn't it just seem brighter in here?
Brandi: Just shut the F* up.
Me: I think you're about to get stabbed with a fork.
John: Nah, she's got short little arms. And you'd protect me.
Me: You think so, huh?

Dave fed the jukebox a few dollars, so I picked out a couple songs. As soon as I walked away one of the customers made a beeline and started picking song after song. Bastard. Bar payout means staff gets to pick music, unless we like you and specifically say, "have at it."

Meanwhile the couple in the soft section has a had a few rounds. I walk over to check on them and the guy gives me this dead serious look. The world has ended.
Guy: I hate to complain, but I'm going to. (No, seriously, I wouldn't want you to do something you so despise. Please don't trouble yourself.) The first whiskey and soda I had was just right and so were the couple after that, but this one is really weak. Blah, blah, blah.
Me: Let me take care of it.
So, I take the guy's drink back to the bar. John makes the guy a fresh one, I watch him pour the usual amount of booze in. I take it back to the guy.
Me: Here's a fresh one for you. You wanna try it while I'm here and let me know if it's alright?
Guy: No, no. I'm sure it's fine. Thank you for being so helpful.

I've got about three tables at this point, and they're all fine. I walk over to the jukebox to see if there are any credits left on the $5 Dave gave it. I see a couple left, so I start looking for a song to pick. Suddenly, I hear this inarticulate clucking kind of noise from one of the two women (regulars who nobody likes but Dave) at the end of the bar. I turn. She stares at me. I stare back. In my mind I think, "Speak woman. Use words, I know you can if you try really hard." Finally, after looking at me like I'm severely mentally challenged, she informs me that her friend has put money in and those are her credits. Then she adds, "Well, go ahead and pick a song." Oh, your magnamity knows no bounds. Screw that. I walk off.

A new table wanders in, mine this time. Three women who want separate checks for their two drinks each. One wants a tomato beer with a Bud Light draft, but she wants to mix it herself and she needs a glass of ice to mix it in, and limes. Instead of bringing the customary one glass for her, I bring three. For the love of Bob, it's just a damn beer. Otherwise, they're pretty low maintenance. Eventually they pay, each of them saying, "Thank you so much." What is profusive thanks worth? One buck each. I wonder what "Thank you" is worth? $.75?

Another table.
Gal: The Shandy, the one with beer and Sprite, is that sweet?
Me: No, it just has Sprite in it. That won't make it sweet at all.

For [expletive]'s sake. I look at the clock. The clock says 7:30.

Back to the couple in the soft. As soon as I close in, the guy reaches out his hand and puts a $10 in mine.
Guy: Thank you for making the effort. This is for you, but don't share this with the bartender. This one was even weaker.
They were ready to close their tab and leave, so I just took the money, said "Thank you," and walked over to the computer to chuckle. I like the way the guy has this whole me and him vs. the bartenders image in his head. While I don't mind the perception that he and I are on the same side since it landed me a 20%+ tip, if only he knew how wrong he was... I told John. I thought it was funnier than he did. Of course, I wasn't the one being insulted, either.

Meanwhile, I had one of those nights where I look like everybody else. One of my customers handed John their credit card slip. Granted, our coloring is similar, but I have longer hair and lack a goatee. Then I had three different people mistake me for Brandi, including the drunk blonde woman who came up behind me, put her arm around me, and said, "Hey, can we get some beers over here?" as if I'd been ignoring her. Well, I had been. She wasn't my customer. Whups, my bad. Look, I know Brandi and I are the same approximate height, but she's darker complected, has black hair to my brown, and was wearing a long sleeved black shirt to my short sleeved maroon one. It's not that hard to keep us straight. And yet...

Later, 'round about one, I step behind the bar to get something and the random middle-aged drunk guys think I want to talk to them.
Guy: So, what's your story?
Me: It's late, I'm tired, and you've just become the last person in this whole place that I'm going to talk to.
Well, except I didn't say that. I just walked away without responding because when it's that late and people I don't care about demand my attention my manners evaporate.

I may actually end up heading back to the bar tonight, though as a patron. Julia got mad at me last night for only working Friday.
Julia: Hey, what happened to you and me on Saturdays?
Me: Remember how you had last Saturday off and I was stuck here all night with John?
Julia: Oh yeah.
Me: So there.
She also said she could bring the rest of Angel that I lent her in tonight. I figure it wouldn't kill me to stop in for a bit. I do have a story to work on, after all, and it's been a while since I've done bar pages. So, I go in, have Julia make me something colorful and girly to drink, write a few pages, and get the rest of Angel back. It could work. We'll see what happens come later tonight.