The Bar

In an attempt to ramp up for the writingfest that will be November, I give you my last long post for awhile:

I know I don’t write about my life much. I didn’t really want this to be a campfire story time kind of place or a daily log of events in my life, but more a place to express my opinion about the world. There are far better story telling writer out than I, and I will leave the non-fiction to them. I can tell a mean story in person but I don’t think I translate it well to paper. I’m not a detailed enough observer of my surroundings for it. You have to be able to set the scene and make people feel like they are there to be a great story telling writer. It’s the expression of the subtleties of an environment that accomplish this task. I’m smart enough to recognize the need for these subtleties, but not smart enough to actually pay attention. So, when I digress into story, as I probably will, let me apologize in advance for the poor quality and don’t let it distract you from the point. Let’s pray that after I finish my work of literary fiction, I will be a better story teller and writer, overall.

I’ve been reading a couple blogs that center around working in a restaurant/bar (i.e. waiterrant and barmaidblog, two well written and interesting blogs if I do say so myself. I particularly enjoyed this post because it’s hot, and sad, but mostly hot) and they got me thinking about how much I missed working at the bar.

Turning sixteen in my hometown opened a bevy of new job opportunities to me. The minimum employment age everywhere in town was sixteen, so I had been stuck working at McDonalds up until that point because they hired anyone older than fourteen. At sixteen, I was now in the “adult” world of business, or so I thought. I had my choice between the movie theatre, a couple grocery stores, three bars, and various small local shops along the main thoroughfare. I could have switched to another fast food joint but I’d had enough of that line of work and needed to broaden my horizons and get a well-rounded taste of the world. My heart thanks me every day for leaving Mickey D’s. I applied to a garden center that was just outside of town but they never called me back. I guess I wasn’t plant watering material. I subsequently proceeded to perused through local phone book in search of the phone numbers and addresses of the bars in town. It seemed to me, a bar would offer me easy access to the three things I desired most. Beer, cigars and sluts (Just kidding about the sluts thing. I mean there were sluts at the bar every night but I was only 16 and I had a girlfriend in high school and still had morals. Damn morals! Look what you’ve done to me!). Not to mention, working at a bar commanded a certain level of respect from your peers because you could get them stuff, too.

The first position I applied for was bussing tables the local dive watering hole and restaurant, Hyatt’s. Located in the corner of a moderately sized strip mall, along the main road running through town, it looked like you everyday run of the mill restaurant. Certainly not like the place where bottle fights and glass throwing contests were held on a regular basis. In fact, the location it occupied in the strip mall had a history of failed businesses and eventually Hyatt’s was to follow suit. That’s another story and one I’m not familiar with as I had already quit a year before the doors closed for the final time. Currently, that space is occupied by a Panera and I hear it’s doing well, although I’m not sure corporate knows that little corner of leasing heaven is cursed for all eternity.

When I walked in the front door to apply for a job, the place was dark and smoky. It was mid-afternoon and there were maybe three people in the bar area. The bar tender was a tall guy named Denis who had shoulder length dark hair and looked like he had fallen off the pirate ship cruise to Buffett Island and hadn’t taken a shower since he swam ashore. At the Megatouch was an overweight elderly man smoking a cigar and next to him, sitting at a booth, was a little old lady with gray hair quietly reading the paper. All I could think was, I didn’t know the nursing home bus would drop you of at a bar? I walked up to the bartender and ask him if I ccould speak to the manager. He doesn’t say anything, just nods in acknowledgement and points towards the grey haired woman sitting at the booth. After returning from the 5 second trip to the twilight zone, I stiffen my resolve and walk to the booth to introduce myself. I tell the old women that I’m looking for a job as a bus boy and was wondering if she had any positions available. She tells me I’m in luck and that one of the previous bus boys just quit the day before and asks me whether I could be there the next Friday at 5pm. I tell her sure and wham! I have a job.

Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever filled out any real paper work for them. I know I gave them my social security number and name on a piece of paper but other than that, nothing. Not that it mattered, in 10 months of working there I think I had a total of 10 dollars total taken out in taxes, a fact that didn’t escape the watchful eye of big brother. This slight oversight on their part was what eventually became the demise of the institution. As proof of their exceptional book keeping skills, every check I got from that place bounced when I cashed. The bank tellers hated me for months. The words “poorly” and “run” come to mind. Run, especially, because that’s what I should have done the second I set foot in the bar if I were sane. Of we know that I am not and therefore loved it. Yeah, and also “Mismanagment”, but that seems to be related.

The bar was so mismanaged that I’m tempted to call it non-managed, as it pretty much ineffectively ran itself. All the time the old women would send me the grocery store at the other end of the strip mall with cash to pickup vegetables or barbeque sauce or chicken, depending on what they ran out of that day. The actual owner of the bar was the son of the aforementioned old women and the old man who played Megatouch. He was a wannabe hard ass biker dude who was addicted to coke and pretty much did nothing but come in every night at 9 pm, sit at his reserved booth in the bar area and get wasted. One time I was in the kitchen and a couple of chefs caught him taking a line in the little bathroom off the kitchen. I see a memory of his girlfriend, like a picture, every time I hear someone say the word “slut”. She fit the definition of the word to a tee and is the visual manifestation of that word in my head to this day. I worked Friday and Saturday nights and made my own hours. I had to be there around 5ish and would take off anywhere between 9 and close. Technically they couldn’t work me till close because I wasn’t 18, but these people didn’t care much for laws and regulations, so when things were going well and I was barbacking or, in some cases, bartending, I would stick around till close to make some extra money.

I think everyone else there made their own hours too, because I would come in most nights and have no idea who would be working or what job I would end up doing. The wait staff, save the sisters, had the intelligence and charm of Mike Tyson. During my tender the wait staff was made up of: 1) The gay guy who always tried to stick up for a ditsy blond waitress when the kitchen guys would give her shit and mess with her food, 2) The ditsy blond that only lasted two months because the kitchen guys were constantly ragging on her. (Not that this is very nice, but they would call her an idiot to her face and throw food at her when she’d walk into the kitchen. Kind of sad but I’d laugh my ass off every time they did it), 3) The bull dike. She may have lasted the longest by sheer force of will and domineering personality. She looked like a female linebacker. She was on top of her shit though and after the sisters left, she pretty much ran the show. I liked her cause she sold me beer and cigars and always tipped me out well. 4) Saving the best for last, the sister where a pair of girls who were actually sisters but looked nothing alike. One was tall, with an amazing body, dark hair and glasses. She gave off an aura of white trash sophistication if that makes any sense. She’d always make time to talk to me when I’d clock in and she was my favorite of anyone I worked with. Her sister was shorter with blonde hair and an equally amazing body, maybe even better than her sisters. She taught me the true meaning of lust and to this day she’s one of the best looking girls I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. She would wear these khaki shorts that were so tight and short that the crackhead owner actually asked her to tone it down. I catch myself drooling while looking at her more than once. Its unfortunate they only lasted three or four month, because those months were heaven for a sixteen year old boy. I think the older sister, dark hair, shot or beat up her boyfriend or something because one day they were there and next day they were gone and the only thing I ever heard about them was that they were on the run from someone, probably the cops. Of course, it could have just been hear say.

On a regular basis I would end up waiting on a table or two because the actual wait staff was too inept to keep up. Not that there was much to keep up with. We were a bar first and restaurant second. There was a fine dining section that was fine in name only. If you got stuck waiting or busing that section you were screwed and wouldn’t make more than couple bucks that night. One time the waitress who was handling the table I was bussing had done such a bad job that the people at the table wanted to give me the tip instead of her because I had gotten there food and drinks for them to cover the waitress. I gladly took the money and let the waitress get screwed. Trust me, she would have screwed me when it came time to tip me out, so I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse. The customer is always right, except when they’re wrong.

After the sisters left, there was really no reason to stick around and help the wait staff so I decide to bar back instead. The owners didn’t care what I was doing as long as they saw me working every once in a while so it all worked out. Sure, I wasn’t 18 and couldn’t legally carry beer or hold the title of bar back, but my arms and back could still lift a case of bud and like I said, my employers weren’t much for technicalities. Shit, by the time I quit, I serving drinks at the bar. Being bar back paid a lot better than busing because the bartenders made more in a night and were a hell of a lot cooler. Normally, they’d fish me a couple twenties out of the tip bucket and that would be my pay for the night. Compare that to the ten buck I would get from the wait staff and I was in heaven. The bar was always action packed and fun. From bar fights to broken bottles and drunken women to ringing tip bells, we had a good time.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the kitchen staff. The best story about then was when two of the chef’s helpers stole a couple of thousand dollars by clocking out and hiding in the bathroom till everyone had left, then taking money from the safe. Unfortunately, as a bus boy, I wasn’t privy to many of the details surrounding the heist. Therefore, I’ll tell maybe not the best, but my favorite story. I was washing dishes because the illegal immigrant they hired must have missed the boat that day and didn’t show. The head chef, John, yells at me, over the sizzling food and whir of fans, from the back of the kitchen to come help him out with something. This was nothing unusual. I liked John and would help him out in the kitchen when I could if he was short a guy. Did I mention I did everything at this place? I put the dish I’m washing down half cleaned and head to the back of the kitchen where John is standing in front of a small cutting table. He was cutting vegetables and is now holding a small, pear shaped, beige, almost nut like piece of an unknown food in his hand. He holds it out in front of him and tells me to try it. John would make for me all the time. He’d let me try the fried clams, ask my opinion on the bisque, or give me a whole plate of left-over London broil. I trusted him, although this time I shouldn’t have. I take the piece of food from John’s hand and look at it intently. I was smooth and moist and kind of squishy. I look at him and ask what it is and he responds be imploring me to eat it, telling me that I’ll like it. I raise my hand to my mouth and place the nugget on my tongue. Nothing. Well this isn’t too bad I thought, so I proceed to take my first bite. Juice squeezes out of the morsel as my jaw applies pressure breaking it open. My face dropped and I immediately start to gag. If you’ve never eaten a garlic heart, I wouldn’t suggest it. No wonder vampires don’t like garlic. That must have been the single worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. For the next two hours I was running around the kitchen eating anything I could get my hands on thinking something must be able to dampen the horrid taste, which had adhered itself to my taste buds. Ice, sugar, salt, mustard, pickles (which I don’t like), fries, cake, a lemon, you name it, I tried it. For reference, the lemon was the only thing that even put a dent in the flavor. I swore I would get him back for that little prank, but never did. If I ever see him on the street, I’ll be sure to tip him from behind or something, laugh and pint as he lies on the ground and then run off into the sunset.

Working at the bar was best job I ever had. After I make my first million selling picture of my naked body on the internet, I’m going to quit my current job and go tend bar to make spending money meet people while my money sits in an account somewhere earning interest. God, that would be so sweet. I don’t know why I like working at the bar so much apart from the freedom, the women, the beer, the free food. Ok, so I know why I liked working at the bar. It’s the only job in the world that combines my two most beloved hobbies, sports and alcohol. Since I’m not going to be playing international soccer any time soon, looks like bartending is the next best alternative.

In case you were wondering, word count for this post is: 2,734