Posts Tagged by When I was a Bartender

On Richmond Ave. between Montrose and Shepherd, there is this place called The C Store. It’s a little convenience store in a strip center that I drive past when I’m taking Gus to the dog park. Without fail, everything I pass it, I snicker like a 12-year-old.

I think the ‘c’ word is probably the dirtiest, most derogatory word in the English language. Still, when I drive past The C Store I think of the ‘c’ word and I giggle, wondering if the people who own the store have any idea of what everyone else in the rest of the world is thinking when they pass by.

The ‘c’ word is the worst thing I can think of to call someone, anyone — man woman child or creature. And I can be pretty acidic with my insults, especially when surrounded by four other exhausted bartenders who are sick of putting up with the attitude that emanates from drunken 22-year-old boys and their drunken girlfriends who think they’re better than you.

Working in the service industry taught me many things, the biggest of which is that being a bartender is a damn hard job that not everybody is cut out for. In addition to having to deal with horrible customers, bartending is also serious manual labor that involves a lot of standing, rushing around, heavy lifting, yelling and sweating.

C used to have this neighbor, Jan, who was a flight attendant for Continental. Jan’s route took her to South America on a weekly basis, and C absolutely loved her because, in addition to the fact that she had a swimming pool, she would also bring him back bottles of rum from whatever country she happened to be laid over in.

Perhaps the only job harder in the world than being a female bartender is being a flight attendant. I’m not sure how she does it.

One time, right before Jan got married and moved, we were sitting on her back porch, sipping a pitcher of punch, and she was telling us this story about one of her coworkers, and instead of saying the ‘c’ word, she said this instead:

“She’s a real See You Next Tuesday.”

It took a full 30 seconds before Christopher and I figured out exactly what she was saying, and another full five minutes before we could stop laughing.

When I first started working at Under The Volcano, I was so happy to have a continual revenue flow that I smiled at every customer and always said thank you, even if the tip was just a quarter, and went out of my way to make even the most ridiculous of drink requests.

“You want a Duck Fart? Sure, I know how to make that. It’s, umm, Jager and… something else. Right?”

But after a year of unruly and rude customers, I found it was much easier to just act normal, which sometimes meant I wasn’t grinning maniacally and rushing to pour that pint of Guinness already.

Apparently, acting anything less that overwhelmingly enthused about serving someone can really piss them off, because I have pissed off more than my share of customers.

I happen to have an underdeveloped dense of smell, which C loves. It means he can fart in bed and rub all up against me sweaty-like after we go running and try to kiss me after drinking coffee, and I don’t mind, or even notice for that matter. But it also means that I can’t tell when the dog needs a bath or when I’m burning my grilled cheese on the stove or when the house catches on fire.

Mother Nature, obviously feeling guilty for robbing me of the sense most frequently associated with memory, made up for it by rewarding me with supersonic hearing. This is handy in my chosen career, where I essentially get paid to eavesdrop, and has also served me well in other aspects of my life.

Right before I quit my job at the bar, I had particularly annoying customer. He tried to order from me a Michelob Ultra while simultaneously standing next to a sign that said “We do not sell Michelob Ultra, Smirnoff Ice or Red Bull.”

I was feeling extremely charitable that day, since I had recently made up my mind that I was going to stop coming to work, so I resisted the urge to answer his question by silently pointing to the sign, and instead told him simply, “Sorry, we do not sell Michelob Ultra.”

I also handed him a menu, which detailed the roughly 30 other beers that we did sell, most of which taste marginally better than diet beer anyway.

Then he ordered a Curse Laht. Instead of telling him that we had neither Curse Laht nor Coors Light, I again answered him with a “We don’t have that either. Why don’t you take a look at the menu.” I took a few steps away to try to help the customer standing next to him.

Then he ordered a Bud Laht in a bottle. “Sorry,” I replied. “Draft only.” I return to helping other people so as to allow this guy ample time to make yet another decision.

Now, I know that it was not my fault that my employer only chose to carry certain products, but it is typically no use trying to use such logic on someone who has already consumed a large amount of alcohol. At this point, the guy was getting really huffy.

“Come ONNNN,” he started to yell. “Can’t you just give me a Bud Laht in a bottle!”

Other customers around him were starting to get impatient, as was I. They wanted to be served too, and I wanted this guy to get lost already.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him. “We. Don’t. Have. It.”

“GAWWWDDD!” he yelled, slapping his money on the bar. “Just give me a draft Bud Laht.”

I served him his beer and change, which he promptly snatched away from me in a matter that was really, really intended to hurt my feelings. Ouch. But then, as he turned around and started to walk off, he muttered, “See you next Tuesday!”

The look on his face was less fright and more pure astonishment when I replied, “WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” He looked confused, like he really couldn’t believe that I had actually heard him.

“NO YOU WON’T SEE ME NEXT TUESDAY!” I yelled as I threw a drink in his face.

And that’s exactly how it happened.