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.