Life Behind Bars Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The Cast

Hipster Henry

Well, if dealing with millennials isn’t bad enough, meet Hipster Henry.  A simple minded sheep whose beard hasn’t molted yet; he takes his daily vitamins via the best rootin’ tootin’ local IPA you got on tap!  When asked what he wants, he calmly runs his fingers through his two foot beard and spouts out as many big time words as he can muster.  When describing the latest beer with the chocolate raspberry notes and medium strength APV with a subtle lemon thyme undertone that’s bound to excite the pallet he shivers in excitement.  Oh, yes, it pairs really well with loin lamb chops served with a mint curry jelly and mashed turnips on the side with Moroccan spices to delight the senses.  Fuck you asshole, I hate your stupid face!

But let me tell you what I really think of these dipshits…Now I hate to seem like the old man on the porch yelling at kids to stay off my well maintained lawn, but these hipsters make me want to pull my teeth out and stick jagged icicles in my eyes repeatedly.  Listen, in my day I was considered a modern day hippie.  I listened to Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and the Doors to name a few.  I went to rock concerts, smoked pot and wore tie dyed tee shirts and drank a shitload of beer.  I’m sure the older folk thought I was half retarded too, and maybe I was.  But damn it, when I went into a bar I didn’t ask for the craft beer menu, complain when there weren’t 580 things to choose from on the lunch menu, and cringe when my bartender used sour mix that wasn’t freshly squeezed that morning and mixed with agave nectar.  

Only Henry the Hipster is willing to pay 11 dollars for a 12oz draft served in some hand blown glass snifter so that it can breathe properly and tickle the taste buds just right.  Only Henry will do an about face and walk out of a bar if they have less than thirty tap handles of rotating local slop.  No, a simple brown ale won’t do for this aficionado who can’t even tell you what the initials IPA stands for, or what an initial is for that matter.  

Cheers to you, Henry, you crusader of taste; you gastro pub guru!  You are the exact reason it is literally impossible to get a normal beer any more…you know, a beer that actually tastes like a beer and not a passion fruit double oak aged catastrophe.  It is because of you I can’t get a fucking simple plate of mozzarella sticks, I have to get fried cheese curds now.  It’s because of you that my tab for a simple lunch is over a 100 bucks now and not 20 like it should be.

You are the epitome of what society has become, a bunch of lazy self-righteous know it all morons who were all taught that they would become superstars because they were all so special.  They were never taught how to lose, they never had to earn a damned thing in their lives; and most likely, the credit card they used to buy lunch is being paid for by mommy and daddy.  Yes, Hipster Henry, I hate you.  I hate that every week I have to learn which fancy new IPA has the highest bitterness units, or which imperial stout has the best coffee undertones.  One day real life is going to come up behind you and kick your ass; that is, if I don’t do it first!

One More for the Road Rhonda

Ah, my dearest Rhonda, if only you left three drinks ago the world would be a much safer place for all of us. An aging hipster or a bitter divorce, Rhonda can often be a bartender's worst nightmare. She enters the bar sweet as pie after a long day's work (which she also hates) and begins her descent into the misery that her life has become. After each iced cold libation passes through her gullet, she becomes more and more depressed and begins to bring down the patrons who were unfortunate enough to sit next to her.

If Rhonda could just keep herself to three drinks or less, she probably wouldn't be all that miserable of a person. Unfortunately, when she begins her fourth cocktail the bitterness begins to seep out of every pore of her body. She hates her job and the ex-husband who now caravans around town with a new wife half of her age.  People attempt to escape her clutches, but are soon sucked into her misery as she takes a sunny spring day in the meadow and turns it into cold damp fog sitting above a stagnant swamp.

As a seasoned barkeep, I try to brighten the atmosphere by showing pictures of my kids or telling a story of yesteryear to steer the mood in a different direction. Unfortunately, duties on the other side of the restaurant pull me away and Rhonda dives right back into the debacle that her life has become. When she asks for drink number five I try to ignore her for as long as humanly possible and fill her up with as much water, snack mix and coffee as I can, but eventually she begs for more.

With a little bit of luck I can get rid of her at this point of the night, but when she begs and pleads for drink number six the shit hits the fan. She begins to slur her words, gets nasty and I eventually have to cut her off. This action, albeit a responsible one on my part, ends with me not getting a tip. In the end a bar stool at happy hour is wasted, and the tips from the patrons around her suffer as well. So not only am I out the money, but I have to worry about this woman killing a family of five on her way home to the 600 square foot apartment that is her life.

Nobody said the job was easy, or an exact science, but we are working on tips and often we have to send people back out onto the roadways who should not be behind the wheel of a car. It's a very fine line to walk, and there are times when we do serve that one drink too many. That's when we put a prayer into the bartending gods and pray for her safe and uneventful arrival home. 

The next day she apologizes for her behavior and admits she had one too many.  She gives you the tip she stiffed you on the night before.  Then, manages to repeat the same act, stumbling out and letting you know that there are a dozen other places in town that would love to serve her a drink.  Oh, if only you would follow through on your threat to never come back!

Club Soda Charlie

Charlie is a banker, real estate agent or stockbroker who had his moment in the sun back in the roaring 1980's.  A product of the three martini lunch and three lines of cocaine in the bathroom, Charlie lived life to the fullest and kept doing so well into the 1990’s and even into the early part of the new century. Those Charlies who survived such a beating to their bodies often have a life changing event that finally gets them off the sauce.

Sometimes it's a heart attack, or cancer...but mostly it's a near brush with death on the roadways that normally gets them to straighten up and fly right. Getting off the sauce is one thing though, letting go of the routine of stopping at the pub on the way home always seems to be the one vice they just cannot shake.  Kind of seems counterproductive to me to spend your spare time in a bar while trying to stay on the wagon, but who am I to judge?!

The community that is the bar is the hardest social web to escape once you are held in its grasp, and that includes bartenders and waitresses alike. It becomes your second home, and if the establishment is run properly with the right staff, a regular feels more comfortable sitting at the bar than he or she does in their own living room.  My other theory is that these people have been telling their wives for years that they get off at five o'clock, and if they start showing up at three, they're going to have even more explaining to do.

Sadly, these guys will still come to your bar every day to avoid spending time with their families.  As a young man, this has always boggled my mind, as I spend most of my day fantasizing about being home with my family.  But then again, I suppose life does change when you get older, and everybody has their reasons for this or that.  

One always has to remember these are paying customers who are putting food on your table at home, so if they want to avoid their families and drink nothing but club soda, so be it.  As long as you explain to them that you need to make five-to-ten dollars per bar stool at happy hour and they oblige when it comes time to tip, then a Club Soda Charlie is not a bad customer to have at all. You certainly don't have to worry about them killing innocent people on the way home and putting your neck on the line for serving them to excess.

Professor Know-it-All

Here we have the most beloved and most irritating man that crosses your door every day. Beloved because he can pound lady liquor and his large tab forces him to leave a good tip each and every time he graces your establishment. Hated, because he never shuts the hell up, no matter how many times you yell at him. He can always one-up you no matter what you are talking about, and the worst part is, you know half the time he is completely full of shit. His inability to accept defeat causes him to spin yarns about whoever whatever whenever.

The professor is also known to use irritating catch phrases such as, “at the end of the day”, “when it comes down to brass tacks”, “in the grand scheme of things” etc. He will rarely ever answer a question in a debate, he will just repeat these phrases over and over and over again until you get tired of arguing with him. He has also been known to incite political debates at the bar as well as religious ones. He will constantly start fires like that and smile and giggle while he watches you, the bartender, put them out. Once properly trained though, he actually in a strange way, becomes a good friend and ally.

He is valuable as a customer because he will put at least one car in the parking lot every day, and since everybody knows him they will stop in knowing they will not be the only person at the bar. This is a very important aspect owners often look over; and again, he should be bought a drink every time he crosses your door and sits down on a stool. People who want a drink on the way home tend to stop at a bar that has cars parked out front. If the bartender's car is the only one out there, they will most likely mosey on down to the next watering hole.

You are probably thinking this doesn't bode well for the bartender on duty, but one must remember that no matter how good or personable you may be, not everybody likes you. Either you rub them the wrong way or the person has absolutely nothing in common with you and it's uncomfortable for both sides. At least with the professor on duty, you can bullshit with somebody...and bullshit you will! Cheers to the professor!

Right Wing Rick

This, of all the characters I will talk about, is the one man who every bartender in the world just absolutely dreads. Rick can take a boisterous lively Friday happy hour and turn it into a political royal rumble. It is of the utmost importance that you give this man absolutely no audience and be sure to give him the worst service you can muster up...and by no circumstance should this man ever be bought a drink.

Rick, if left alone to do his bidding, can destroy the tight knit community that is your bar.

Do not attempt to argue politics with him, for it will go in one ear and out the other. Even if you agree with him on a point, he will spin it around and argue with you anyway. He is a man who simply does not listen, he is just waiting for his turn to talk. 

You can be talking about how you ate a nice rib eye steak last night and somehow he will blame the lefties for the meat not tasting as good anymore. You can talk about how you quit smoking, and he will spin yarns about how smoking doesn't cause lung cancer, it's something the liberal media made up to push their own agenda. And don't even get him going on global warming or climate change! You'll be digging your own grave or looking for a rope to hang yourself with rather than listen to him drone on and on and on about what Fox news told him to think last night.

For Rick, there are four men in the history of mankind who have all but destroyed the world. Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter and FDR are constantly given credit for all of the world's problems. No matter what you are talking about, he will somehow spin it to blame these four past presidents. Rick won't stop there though; if he can’t blame the liberal four, he will certainly blame congress (only if the Dems have control), the “liberal media”, the Surgeon General or any organization that affiliates itself with the Democratic Party.

Now as a bartender, I am not here to argue which party is better or which party is right. I have learned over the years that I'll support whatever party is going to get me a 20 percent tip! You hate the Democrats? Well me too! You hate the Republicans? Well me too! Just pay your bill and leave me a nice fat tip! What I'm telling you is that Right Wing Rick must be silenced and slowly pushed out of your bar because he will split your little family in two. Politics should never be discussed at the dinner table, and your bar is exactly that.

I had a handful of Right Wing Rick's when I inherited the helm at my bar, and it took me almost four years to push them all out. Once I had accomplished that, the overall community was restored and everybody really got along well. I had Republicans holding hands with Democrats, because I pitted them all against these Ricks. And after all was said and done everybody realized how much nicer an atmosphere it was when we all kept our politics to ourselves. It was one of the best moves I ever made in my career. By no means was it easy because I always prided myself on fast friendly service, but after putting up with their nonsense for four years I had had enough.

Please don't let your guard down though, for Right Wing Ricks will continue to roll in off the streets from time to time. You may even notice them becoming regular or semi-regular, and once again you have to walk the fine line of living on tips. A customer is a customer is a customer, as they say. The trick is to train them early and let it be known that this is not a bar that discusses such things. If you find that your little talks aren't working and he becomes a problem, simply begin the push-out process and get him out the door permanently.

Send It Back Sandy

We certainly have all been there before; paying top dollar for restaurant food and being sorely disappointed when it's plopped down on the plate in front of you.  We have also surely complained that the place is too hot or too cold.  And even the hippest and coolest of us all have even complained about the music being too loud.  With that being said, most of us will give our favorite places the benefit of the doubt, and several chances to improve...and should things not improve, we move on to new digs.

Send It Back Sandy, on the other hand, is not like you and me.  In fact, she thrives off of being an absolute pain-in-the-ass.  Most of the time she is a bitter divorce who loathes her job, what's left of her family, and life in general (are you starting to see a common theme here with these people?).  I encountered Sandy when I worked at a small neighborhood pub that was located right next to a train station.  She would saunter in every afternoon after the four o'clock train spilled out and would walk through the door at the exact moment happy hour started to get her two dollar glasses of house chablis. 

Never a minute late, never a minute early, and she also made sure that she not only ordered a glass right at the end of happy hour, but would beg and plead for you to back her up so she didn't have to pay the outlandish price of $3.50 when normal prices kicked back in.

Every night, she scoured over the menu as if it were the first time she had ever graced the door with her presence, rolling her eyes and sighing as if she was deciding whether or not to sign the Declaration of Independence.  In the end she would sadly settle for the same damned hamburger deluxe she would get every single night of the week.  

“Medium rare, but not too rare, a little pink but no blood; and make sure those French fries are crispy and hot, last time they were soggy and cold. And can you make sure the roll is fresh, you can do that right?”

Yes, Sandy, fresh roll, crispy hot fries, no blood...you got it!  The next 20 minutes or so are the absolute worst.  Right after you set up her silverware and place mat, she will begin to complain about how uncomfortable her seat is and begin her adventure of musical chairs around the bar.  Seat number two is then too cold, followed by seat number three which is too hot.  Seat number four is too close to the stereo speaker or located next to an “undesirable” at the bar.  Eventually when her three little bears act is over, she settles in for the right bowl of porridge in the same damned seat she started with.

Now it's time to eat, and we all know how that is going to turn out.   The burger is never cooked enough and the fries are cold and soggy.  And let's not forget about the roll which is stale and tasteless.  Of course, it is sent back to the kitchen, and she now gets a free drink for her troubles.  When the burger comes back out, it's over cooked and she wants to talk to the manager about how her food just never comes out right. 

She mopes and sighs, and eats the fries and two bites of the burger.  Her food is comped and her free drink is secured.  In the end she tips 10 percent on her 12 dollar tab and you as the bartender loses a stool at happy hour and another patch of hair from your head.  Oh, and did I mention nobody ever wants to sit next to her?  So let's make that lost three stools!  I'll see you tomorrow at four Sandy. Fucking pain-in-the ass!

In My Day Ray

Every generation always thinks theirs is unmistakably the greatest generation of all time.  They had the steepest hills to climb, the best work ethic, the best music, the greatest moments in the history of history.  

“Yes, these kids these days just don't know how good they got it, and quite frankly, I don't know how we are going to survive with these idiots taking over after we are all gone.  Yes, in my day things were different...and quite frankly, better.”

In My Day Ray is often a lonely old barfly who can't stand his wife, argues with his kids and is more stubborn and bullheaded than a Tea Party member or MAGA nutjob.  Generally there are about five or six topics they always talk about, and they only have about 20 stories that are rehashed ad nausea.  Not a terrible guy, or an evil guy because he is always looking to talk; whether it's to you the bartender, or to any random stranger who happens to come in off the street to wet his whistle.  Quite frankly he makes your job easier, because you don't have to put on your entertainment hat, for Ray certainly likes to hold court.

Ray can tell you directions to any place in the state, hands down.  Although, they are via landmarks that either do not exist anymore, or landmarks that have changed names several times over in the last 50 years or so.  These landmarks are most notably bars.  This man can tell you the name of every bar that has ever existed, how many times it has burned down or gone out of business, what the bartender's name was or is, etc.

“We used to go to this place down off the parkway called the Rusty Nail, but then it burned down and they rebuilt it. The bartender Doc bought the place and renamed it Harridan's, but that went under and it became Muldoon's for a short time.  They moved it to the other side of the road when the railroad had to go through, and eventually called it the Rail House until it was later turned into a CVS.  But then Doc bought the liquor license and built it back on the original side of the street and named it the Rusty Nail again.”

As crazy as it sounds, he can get you to any destination in the state of New Jersey via bars as landmarks.  Many of the regulars, including myself, actually began stopping at these places he often talks about, only out of pure curiosity.  And the funny part of it is, if you sit at the bar and mention his name, the staff knows exactly who you are talking about.  And if they don't, you just have to start telling one of his stories, or talk about how his wife has cut him off for the last 20 plus years and it jogs a memory... “Yeah, I know that guy.  Ray's his name right?!”

Divorced Dave

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  Well, don't leave men out, because Divorced Dave is so bitter and full of hate, he is comical.  You see, Dave and I go back far, because when I first met him I was so fed up with women, that he finally found a sympathetic and agreeable ear.  Yes, that's right, I for a time was a bitter old crank who had come to despise women, and my buddy Dave loved to hear my nightly rants about how insane they all are.  Yes, that’s right, you’re all nuts, get over it.

I have never in my life met somebody who was so bullheaded and opinionated, it was a wonder he was divorced and single.  I simply can’t imagine spending even one night listening to his bullshit, Christ, I had a hard time making it past one hour with him at the bar.  Which, may I say, is the greatest thing about being a day time lunch bartender.  You see, most people only have an hour or less and they have to get out of there and back to work.  So right when you're getting sick of somebody...oh, sorry pal, it's time to go back to the grind.

Years back when I used to work nights, I would get guys like Dave all the time.  Sobbing into their beers and bitching about how their wives are getting half of their salaries.  Well, maybe all the hookers you banged on business trips and the herpes you brought back and gave to her was the final straw.  Or maybe if you put as much effort into seducing your wife as you do the  22-year-old waitress, then maybe you'd still be married, ey Dave?  

Getting back to my point though, when you work nights, you get stuck with people all the time.  From happy hour until closing these mopes just will not leave and go back home.  Sometimes I can't blame them, I mean, shit, that's why we're in the business we are in…there are a lot of lonely people out there.  It's a shame that sometimes owners and grizzled old veterans such as myself forget that sometimes.

The major problem with this situation is that eventually you have to cut these guys off and send them home.  Again, when you work for tips, this is a razor's edge you must walk on all the time.  If you piss the guy off, he leaves nothing and you just spent five hours listening to his bullshit and serving him his dinner, dessert, his snack and his second dessert.  

You see, without a wife at home these guys are needy and they like to be waited on hand and foot.  I realize that's my job, so I won't bitch too much about it...but when you invest that sort of time and get nothing in return it sucks.  Luckily Dave's loneliness will bring him back the next day, and while he's still sober and apologetic for getting in your face the night before, you collect your tip up front for last night's work...and repeat the process again.  Jeez, maybe I should set him up with Rhonda or Sandy…wait, that wouldn’t be good for anybody!  Scratch that.

Even though Dave was a miserable dick most of the time, I enjoyed his company.  He reminded me that I was the luckiest person in the world to have a wonderful wife and kids waiting for me at home.  For it is very easy to fuck things up good and end up sitting right next to him at the bar, discussing just how evil women are.  

Here’s to you Dave, for making the rest of us feel like millionaires on acid!  I certainly do really hope he finds true love one day and that his ex-wife gets remarried so the poor sap doesn't have to keep giving half his check to a woman he doesn't even get to see naked anymore!  Here's to love and happiness, cheers.

Drink and Dash Danny

Oh Danny boy, the wife, the wife is calling...yep, you guessed it, Danny is a closet alcoholic still trying to be 17-years-old without a care or obligation in the world.  Sure, now he's in his 50’s and his kids are just about to finish high school, but he still hits the sauce like he's one of them.  The only difference is, nobody but his bartender and his cohorts at the bar know he is still a drinker.  As far as the wife and the kids know, dad has been sober for ten years now...oh, how naïve.  

Every day, without ever missing, Danny would blow through the door at about three o'clock and pop down five-to-six vodka martinis in less than a half an hour.  It was a pleasure to watch this guy drink, a true fucking professional and you would never know the guy had a drop, it was amazing.  But here's the catch, Danny had a limit, and six was it.  He would beg and plead for the seventh, but I knew I'd be sending a bomb with a severed guidance system out onto the roadways if I did.  We formed an understanding because on the rare occasion I gave in and supplied him his seventh, he turned off like a light switch.  

The true professionalism and drinking prowess that got him through the first six martinis without even the blink of an eye, disappeared instantaneously.  This is what I call a “light switch” drunk.  Our bodies are only designed to take so much, and even a professional drinker like Danny has his limits.  After finally learning my lesson about his limits, I came up with the rule of six.  No more no less, Danny got six and that was it.

Once in a while, though, he still wanted that little extra push, he wanted that seventh cocktail.  Knowing full well I wasn't going to give it to him he would try and get the guy sitting next to him to buy him a drink; feeling awkward telling him no when somebody was trying to buy it for him only worked a few times.  He soon got a stern “talking to” from me, when I threatened to cut him off altogether.  

Danny's drinking began to get worse over time and after leaving my bar with six in his belly, he began to hit the bar two miles down the road.  Luckily, all us bartenders communicated with each other, and Danny was flagged town wide...all it took was a phone call and the bartender's network swung into action.  Danny soon had to get that seventh drink at a pub in his own town, which is where he eventually got caught by the wife.  Oh Danny boy, the wife the wife is calling...

The Borg

I encountered my first Borg in the summer of 2000 when I had gotten my second gig as a barkeep, working the lobby bar at a hotel out in the middle of the woods in Northwest New Jersey (yes, New Jersey has woods).  You recall the story from earlier in the book, right? It was a Sunday night, the worst shift of the week in a hotel saloon.  Most people don't arrive until late night, or early Monday morning.  But, being the rookie on the staff, those are the nights you have to work if you want to get your foot in the door to eventually get the Friday and Saturday night windfalls.

Cell phones and laptops were still in their infancy and only the rich guy or the business guy had them.  This being the case, the concept of cell phone etiquette had yet to be developed and or discussed among the populace.  In fact, those who had cell phones were either guys who had money or guys who sold drugs.  Either way, an important man around town (or at least that's what they considered themselves, most of the time they were pretentious assholes who thought their shit didn't stink).  Most of these people were just absolute douchebags who would consistently let the world around them know just how important they were.

“Yes, yes, I'm talking on my cell phone!  What do you mean she got herpes?  Well how does a 14-year-old contract an STD?  From a public toilet you say?  So our little girl isn't having sex then?  Oh thank god!  Well how are you then?  You've had the runs all day?  Five or six times?  And now you have a festering rash on your ass because of all the excess wiping?  Oh, that's terrible, well at least your hemorrhoids haven't flared back up...oh, they have, I see.  Well, I better go, my food just got here.  Hey buddy...oh sorry, talking to the guy next to me at the bar, hey buddy how's that Irish stew, any good?”

Now I realize assholes like this still exist, and probably will always exist, but seeing the etiquette of cellphone behavior improve over the years has given me some faith in humanity...although, I think texting has a lot to do with that.  But that is a whole other ball of wax I'm not even going to get into, at least not with this character.  Which brings us back to the first Borg I met back in the summer of 2000, the last of the good times before terrorism and wars and the economic downfall drove this country and its barrooms into the gloomy depressed state that eventually got me out of the business.

It was a Sunday night and he was the only guy sitting at the bar.  He sat at the far end because there was an outlet, and he was one of the rare ones with a laptop.  I did my best at first not to bother him because I knew he was working, but the guy kept talking to me.  Every time I went down to ask what he needed he would give me dagger eyes and wave me off.  This went on about a half dozen times before he finally slammed his laptop shut, tore out what I later found out was a bluetooth device, and scolded me for interrupting his phone conversation.  So now, not only do I have to deal with assholes sharing their conversations with the world via cell phones, I now have to decipher whether a person is on a bluetooth device or is simply schizophrenic.  Which may I add, we do get a lot of strange birds at the bar who do talk to themselves…so this isn’t out of the realm of possibilities!

So yes, now the Borg has been introduced to the fragile ecosystem that is the bar.  The whole little world that exists in a barroom that I spent most of my young adulthood dreaming about being a part of, was changing at lightning speeds.  Instead of taking an hour to relax and get away from work and the wife and the family, people began to bring it with them. 

There was no such thing as a lunch break any more, the three martini lunch was dying and the executives and salesmen and market gurus that had filled our stools and our coffers were disappearing at an alarming rate.  You simply could not hide anymore.  Like in Star Trek, the Borg had assimilated lunch time.  The bar was no longer a place to get away and regroup your thoughts, catch your breath or reward your workers with a burger and a beer for a job well done.

Wives no longer called bartenders looking for their husbands.  What happened at the bar stayed at the bar, and the bartender was rewarded for containing such vital information.  The Borg ruined that forever.  Instead the cell phones would buzz, the hand of the Borg would reach into his ear, stare at you as if he were about to place his order...but instead of asking for the 20-ounce rib eye steak cooked medium rare, he would say,

“Yes dear, I will be home by five...oh hold on, the boss is buzzing in, yes sir, I will have those reports to you in an hour.  Barkeep?  Can you make that steak to go, I have to be back to work right away!”

In the end, the big fat juicy rib eye, the half dozen ten dollar martinis and the slice of cheesecake are scurrying back down the highway.  Instead of getting a nice fat 20 dollar tip, the Borg gets his food to-go and leaves me a buck and change for packaging up what should have been his brief beef laden escape from reality.  

Yes, the world has changed, but it wasn't only the maniacs who flew those three planes into buildings in 2001, it was the Borg and the corporate machine that took away our innocence.  Cell phones, laptops, IPads and all other devices should be left in the car and never brought into a bar.  We as a society have forgotten to turn off, and until we do, the good times will never return.

Free Drink Freddy

Every bar I have ever worked at, from fancy hotel lobbies to wedding halls to Irish pubs to neighborhood pubs to fancy eateries…people are always hitting you up for free drinks.  I understand that in some bygone era you were bought a drink every time you came in for a few cold ones.  Some places bought every other one, some places bought every third one and so forth...the term is the “buyback”.

I actually agree wholeheartedly with the entire concept.  It's good for customer retention and it makes people feel appreciated.  But if there is one thing I have learned in the business, it’s that restaurant owners are the cheapest sons-a-bitches you will ever encounter...especially the Irish (I will go into this in more detail when we get to the part of the book discussing ownership).

The only place I ever worked at that allowed me to buy free drinks was the Greek joint owned by the witch of Spring Street.  And it wasn't really a “bar bar”, it was more of a fancy schmancy place where we wore tuxedos and bow ties and dealt with the so-called “high-class” members of society.  It was located in the county seat so we always had judges, lawyers and politicians frequent the place.  A free drink here or there to that crowd was a good insurance policy…not only for the witch, but for yours truly as well.

Funny thing is, these were the scumbags always looking for handouts.  Kind of ironic that when the Republican Party had its monthly dinner meetings they would consistently moan and groan for a free cocktail.  Same with the lawyers and judges...why is it that those who have the most are always asking for handouts, and then in the next breath bitch and moan about how the Democrats and the liberals give money away to those who don't feel like working?  It makes me laugh that most of the Free Drink Freddy’s out there are always the people who don't need to be given a freebie.  Why is it that the guy making minimum wage and breaking his back never ever asks for a freebie?

Another trait of the Free Drink Freddy is that you never know him.  I could understand if one of my regulars who spends a couple hundred bucks a week at the place asks for a freebie once and a while, but these guys come in off the street and after two or three pops, actually have the brass balls to complain!  

“What, no buybacks? At my bar back home we get every other one for free!  What kind of place is this?”  

“Well, Fred, if you get every other drink for free back home, then go back there asshole...if I can't even buy my regulars who are paying my mortgage a drink, why the hell should I buy you one?  You want me to put my neck on the line for some jerk I have never seen before?  Yeah, good luck with that!”

The absolute worst part of it is, they always stiff you on the tip because somehow you, the bartender, gets blamed for the owner being a cheap S.O.B.  Most of the time you'll get the change that was left over from the six pack of Bud he slammed down while bitching all the while.  There is nothing worse than dealing with a rich asshole who makes more money in a month than you do in a year, stiffing you because your boss won't let you throw a beer here and there to the customers.

---

Rules of Old

If the owner of the establishment, or the manager is bartending for whatever reason, you are not obligated to tip them. The manager is a salaried employee and the owner is already raping your wallet. There is no need to pad his or hers already inflated bank account.

---

Here's a newsflash for all you Free Drink Freddy's out there…there is no such thing as a free drink!  Even at the rare establishment that still “buys back” drinks, you aren't really getting a freebie.  Here's how it works in a nutshell:  My bar charges four dollars a beer and does not give out anything for free.  Your bar charges five dollars for the same beer and gives you every fifth one free.  In the end you spent 20 dollars at both places for five beers.  See how that works?  That's what cracks me up about these owners who refuse to buy free drinks.  You're not giving anything away you dipshits! Marketing 101 folks.  Make the customer think he is getting something for free even though it is costing you nothing.  Oh, and FYI, most beer wholesale goes for under 75 cents or less for a bottle of beer.  So the up charge you're paying just bought the owner another house on the golf course.  Fore!

The Creepy Crawler

Nothing sends shivers up the spine quite like the Creepy Crawler when she saunters and slinks around the bar stools.  A creature of habit with a nasty dependence on lady liquor, she slips into the bar quietly and stealthily once the front doors are unlocked at 11 am sharp every morning.  More often than not, I would turn my head to load the cash register with my daily bag of startup loot, and when I turned around I would jump and then grab my chest…because there she was patiently waiting for her morning goblet of cheap chardonnay.

She wasn't always the first soul in the barroom every morning, for there were many times when the bored retirees had already graced the door.  More lonely than the old-timers who are eager to hear any story you may have on tap for them, she will go out of her way to walk all the way around the empty bar and sit right down next to whatever unlucky patron who decided to start their day early with a beer and burger and the sage advice from whatever young and eager bartender that happens to be on stage that day.

My Creepy Crawler was an old Irish lass who was in her second marriage to a man she didn't particularly like.  She was in her 60’s with two out of control children who could not get their lives in order.  It was of no surprise, since she herself was a closet alcoholic who had been warned several times by her husband and her employer that this was absolutely her last chance to straighten up and fly right.  She drank iced cold wine as if it were a beer on a hot day and stained the glasses with the 50 or so layers of cheap red lipstick she plastered on her face every morning in an attempt to look like she was still alive.

The Creepy Crawler talked of odd things like how she surprised her husband that morning by serving him his coffee in the nude and servicing him with her lipstick stained mouth under the table while he sipped on his steaming hot cup of morning Joe.  She would tell you about her most intense orgasms and how even though she had to lube herself up with the absolute best products on the market that she could still get her little kitten to purr just right when the time called for it.  Even the horny old men who loved to hear this sort of banter from an old cougar were turned off by her, rarely finishing the meal that had been placed in front of them before she slithered her way over to grab their ears and whatever other body part she could manage to get her hands on.

Alas, though, like most alcoholics, she eventually got herself into trouble.  For you see, I wasn't her only stop of the day.  She would always bounce from place to place to avoid seeing anybody that might happen to know her.  As a matter of fact, she would often have to scurry out quickly when a client or somebody from her office happened to walk through the door to grab a bite to eat.  I knew the routine well.  She would throw the exact change and appropriate tip down on the bar which she always had ready in her pocket at all times.  Run to the bathroom to freshen up and mint up the old breath and then she would go out the door with the hopes she would not be seen.

Once in a while she couldn't avoid her capture, even if she did try to slink out the side door...or even through the kitchen which she did on occasion until getting chastised by me and the owner.  Then, like all professional drinkers, she would put on the “oh, my god, thank god I found this place I had to pee so bad!”  I must say, it was a pleasure to watch some times.  Closet alcoholics can be quite the elusive creatures when they have to be, but eventually like all drinkers they get caught.  My Creepy Crawler was tagged riding home one evening.  Drunk as a skunk and swerving all over a country road, she was reported by other drivers and the cops tracked her down and nabbed her.  

All drinkers eventually get caught, it's just a matter of when and where.  It's an odds game really, and to beat it you have to drive at the right times.  With the blood alcohol level now set at .08 percent, most people who stop for a quick cocktail or two at a bar are by definition drunk, so for the cops it's really just a game of pick the drunk on the donkey.  Which is another reason the whole bar community is shrinking by the day.  Drink six cocktails and leave the bar after ten pm, you're a dead man.  Drink eight cocktails and leave at rush hour, you'll most likely make it home without a problem.  

When a consistent regular like the Creepy Crawler vanishes all of a sudden, we usually know what happened and it's later confirmed when we read the morning paper.  The police blotter is not a good place to be written up in, and most closet drunks like the Creepy Crawler eventually have their 15 minutes of fame.  Except this time, mom and dad aren't cutting out your article and placing it on the fridge for all to see!

Last Hoorah Harry

Harry has always been my favorite customer in all my years of bartending. He is kind, generous and treats you as a friend before even thinking of you as the person who is there to serve him lunch or drinks. For the most part, he enjoys every aspect of life. Most importantly he enjoys his drink, his food and being around a bar as far away from his office as humanly possible.

Harry is known for bringing in several of his friends, picking up the tab and being a very heavy tipper. He will also orchestrate activities outside the bar, which include BBQ's, fishing and golf outings...which of course creates a sense of community amongst the staff and the regulars. He is a pivotal part of the organization and should be bought a drink every time he graces your door. That is, of course, if you don't work for a tight wad boss like I did for 10 plus years.  That being said, I always found a way to sneak Harry something on the house!

Harry is often slightly overweight, could be in better health, and rarely accomplishes all he should during his day in the trenches. Harry is well aware of this and is constantly struggling to conquer his vices. But like most of us in the world, he fails miserably in his attempts to right the ship. These failures, by the end, will most likely put my children through college when all is said and done. 

If all my customers were like Harry, not only would I live in a 5,000 square foot home with a butler, but I probably would never let the thought of leaving the business ever cross my mind. Usually, after every time he pays the bill, you will hear him say, “This is the last time you're ever going to see me pal, time to get my ass back into shape!”

Harry never disappoints though, for he is back with his cronies in a day or two.  He will begin the day by ordering a club soda with cranberry and a salad off the menu.  

“I'm going to be good today Ray, it's time I turned a new leaf and got my fat ass back in shape.”

Then the cell phone rings and it's his old work buddy who happens to be in the area...and it begins again.  The next club and cranberry becomes a vodka club and cranberry.  After a drink or two, it turns out the salad was not enough and as his friend arrives the menus are out again.  Salivating as if he hasn't eaten in days, the salad has worked against him, making him hungrier than he could have ever imagined.  To stave it off, I bring out plates of bread and bowls of peanuts to keep Harry at bay as his next meal is being assembled.

The indulgence that follows is nothing short of legendary.  Not only does he order a steak, he orders the biggest one on the menu, and while it's cooking he helps himself to a nice big bowl of creamy potato leek soup.  The steak, once put down in front of him, is consumed in marvelous fashion.  As soon as I turn my head to make his sixth drink of the afternoon, it is gone and Harry is eying up our decadent dessert menu.  

“Yes, I believe if memory serves me correct, you will be ordering the brownie a la mode, extra fudge and peanut butter if you got it?!”

Other lunch time regulars come and go, returning to their posts behind their desks at work.  Harry, a self-made man with his own business, has decided to call it quits and puts off his work until the next day, when he promises tomorrow is the day he starts his diet.  Six hours later, as the lunch regulars come back in at the end of their workday to have a stiff one, they give a chuckle, as they see Harry is still over in his usual corner.

“Diet starts tomorrow Harry?”  “You bettcha!  Hey Ray, you think the cook can fry us up a plate of those happy hour wings?”

Ah, if only there were more Harry's out there.  I've been told that is what lunches were like back in the heyday of the bar industry.  Three hour meals, martinis out the wazoo with no worries about ever returning to work, or how in the hell these folks were getting home.  Unfortunately the eating and drinking machine that he is, Harry is a rare find.  I wish I had more of them in my days as a barkeep, that's for damned sure.

Pete Repeat

While most drinkers are pretty much guilty of repeating themselves, Pete Repeat takes the cake.  Now, I have to admit, and my wife accuses me of the same thing, I too have been known to tell the same old stories over and over again.  You see, when you see all kinds of folks throughout the day, you start to forget who you told, what you told, and when you told it.  More times than not, I will begin telling a story at home only to have my wife finish it for me.  This is why it's important not to lie or to over exaggerate, because if the story changes, now you're the one who's full of shit.

Pete is an older fellow, and a decorated veteran of both wars and barrooms.  He is retired with nothing to do, so he makes his rounds on the bar circuit, spending his weekdays with his favorite bartenders while his wife, who doesn't quite feel like retiring yet, still works a standard forty-hour work week. 

I feel Pete's pain, for I was an out of work barkeep who sent his wife off to work every morning and his kids off to grandma's house so I could attempt yet again to write the great American novel.  The days can get lonely and long, and after a few months you begin to get lazier and less productive, for without a schedule to keep the mind sane, you begin to drift into madness...henceforth the need to get yourself out of the house and mix amongst productive members of society.

When I first met Pete I loved him instantly, he was a jolly old man who could probably pass as Santa Clause if he tried hard enough.  He is the grandpa of the barroom and full of fantastic tales of yesteryear which people gather to listen to, and never question, no matter how unbelievable and outlandish they may be.  It took a year before he started repeating himself as I thought this man was never going to run out of stories to tell.  Switching on and off between story and dirty joke, Pete never disappointed.

His jokes were better than his stories, as he would tell them as if he were telling a story from his past or his personal life.  He would lure you in and bait you hook line and sinker.  He once told me that his grandson and wife were having a hard time getting pregnant no matter how hard they tried...and try try try they did.  Being the wise old sage that he is, he took his grandson aside and gave him some solid advice.  Wouldn't you know it, a couple of weeks later, they were pregnant.  Me, being absorbed in the story, I asked what advice he gave him? 

His answer, “I told him to turn her around and try the other hole!”  Damn it Pete, you got me again!

After a while though, as Pete got older and the mind began to drift, he began to tell the same old jokes and the same old stories.  I knew the answer, ending and punch line of all of them, but I always played along as if it were the first time I had ever heard them.  Much to Pete's credit though, his fantastic tales never changed, not even the slightest bit.  Every detail, every punchline, every ending was always the same.  Kind of made you wonder sometimes about his crazier stories that were so fantastic there was no way they were even remotely true.  But that was the best part of all, you never knew if he was telling the truth or just completely full of shit.

Eventually his kids took away his car as his habit of drinking and driving began to become an issue of safety.  Another regular from the old days bit the dust and I never saw him again.  I still remember all his stories though, and maybe, just maybe, in 50 years that will be me, sitting at the bar making some young kid slinging suds for a living have a good chuckle to get him through his day.  I might even pass some of Pete's stories off as my own, making sure no detail is ever changed and no ending is ever altered.

The Mad Scientist

There's an old inside joke amongst bartenders that the older a woman gets the more glasses are in front of her at the bar.  A girl in her 20’s will order a beer or a cocktail and that's it.  A girl in her 30’s orders a drink and gets a glass of water on the side.  Once a gal hits her 40’s, though, things start to drastically change...and no, I'm not talking about the “big change” I'm talking about the countless glassware that is placed in front of her.

The Mad Scientist needs beakers and spoons and in some cases a shaker or two.  No I'm not joking, and I'm not exaggerating, not in the least bit.  It starts with the glass of wine, then comes the glass of ice, then the club soda, followed by the glass of ice water.  And what's next you ask?  Well, a spoon and another glass for mixing!  You as the bartender can no longer be trusted to get the mixture just right the way she likes it.  

There she sits, with her mini laboratory right in front of her, her glasses worn as protective goggles and her squinting eyeballs magnified by her bifocals as she carefully takes two spoons of chardonnay, a spoonful of club soda, followed by one ice cube and a gentle stir of the bar spoon.  With a careful and sophisticated sip, she swishes the concoction around her pallet and approves with a gentle smile as the warm feeling of accomplishment warms her gullet.  Yes, she has reached perfection and there is only one way to finish off the exuberance of a job well done...a giant sip of her iced cold water chaser that sits proud and tall, glistening with sweat amongst the half a dozen exhausted glasses that sit in front of her.

Once again, mankind is saved as the Mad Scientist has perfected yet another cocktail.  Then, like a grizzled old veteran pharmacist that she is, she carefully sifts through the basket of snack mix that lay before her.   She carefully picks out the pretzels she does not care for and places them in a row on the pile of napkins she had requested upon her arrival.  The other napkins have been reserved for the peanuts, caramel covered popcorn and sesame wafers that she has spent all day dreaming about at the dingy florescent lit cube that she sits in.  Only after she has exhausted her snack supply does she politely ask for more ingredients, a fresh supply of clean glasses and an untainted bowl of snack mix.

By the end of her stay, the Mad Scientist has used enough raw material to feed and soothe the parched throats of a small fraternity house.  Entertaining to watch, annoying to clean up after, she's most likely the kind of person who has one set of china at home so that when she's done eating her dinner, there is no chance for the dishes to pile up in the sink.  So I raise a glass, or one of the 15 you have used in your brief stay, and salute you in your never ending quest to make the world's greatest cocktail...after all, isn't there a little Mad Scientist in all of us?

Thermostat Thelma

I, personally, have never met a woman who is ever comfortable with the temperature.  In the summer, it's too damned hot.  In the winter it's too damned cold.  Spring and fall do have their temporary somewhat acceptable weather conditions for our fairer sex, but also don't quite ever meet the temperature and or humidity requirements.  I know what you men are saying, my god, I hear ya brother!  While the ladies out there are saying I'm being over dramatic about the female plight of achieving the perfect temperature.  

Well, similar to the Mad Scientist, Thermostat Thelma is in search of perfection, but it is not in search of the of the most grandiose cocktail, she is in search of the ideal temperature.  Seventy degrees on the nose, 20 percent humidity, no more, no less.  Sunny, but not too sunny...there must be some clouds in the sky so that the ground doesn't bake too much in the afternoon sun.  And there must be a steady five knot wind from the northwest...six knots is too much, seven is unbearable.  These conditions are rarely met in nature, but are consistently required when indoors.  It doesn't matter if it's five degrees out, or 105 degrees out.  Thelma does not care that the insulation in the building is poor, or that with the door opening too much it's hard to control the temperature.  She cares not that an air conditioning system can only bring down the temp a mere 20 degrees.   No, no, no...Thelma must be in her realm of comfort, even if that means all others around her will suffer.

I'm sure you've seen it in offices and in restaurants and in public spaces in general, and that's the lock box over the thermostat.  There is a reason for this lock box, and quite frankly, I have almost installed one at home to keep my wife at bay.   I once had a disgruntled husband tell me, “the house could be on fucking fire, and it wouldn't be hot enough for my wife!” So, for a brief while, we had one at the bar because both waitresses were having hot flashes. The up and down with the dials had become so bad that the air conditioning unit atop the roof caught fire one afternoon when the motor simply could no longer take the constant nagging.  We had theorized that the motor had simply committed suicide by lighting itself on fire.

There is certainly a little bit of Thelma in all you women out there, and don't deny it.  I once kept a log and recorded every statement about the temperature during the course of the week Thelma had made.  It ended up filling an entire page...It's too hot in here, it's too cold, man it's humid today, I feel a cold draft, do you feel it?  I say, this building is drafty, when is the owner going to get some insulation in here?  My god, I'm dying in here today, did the owner pay the electric bill?  I should have brought my coat in...Can you throw some coal on the fire, scrooge?  My god, is the kitchen on fire, it's friggin hot as hell in here!  The list went on and on...

One night, the evening bartender took a hammer, set the temp at seventy degrees and hammered a nail on both sides of it so it could no longer be used.  He had had enough!  He wanted to make it perfectly clear, that he too, would commit suicide like our old air conditioner if Thelma and the rest of the ladies in the bar didn't shut the hell up about the god damned temperature.  The lock box didn't work, and the nails eventually fell prey to the meddling hands of the waitresses.  The owner finally got wise and upgraded to a digital box with a security code...sadly, that too fell victim as the codes were mysteriously discovered one by one...we had a spy somewhere in our midst!

There is no stopping Thermostat Thelma.  No matter what arena she is in…whether it be home with the hubby, in a restaurant, the great outdoors, a hockey arena, a sauna; she will never be satisfied with the temperature.  The worst part of it all is, even on the rarest occasion, when all her requirements are met, she will find something else to complain about.  “It's nice out today, but man did that hot sun feel great yesterday or what?”  Maybe the ac unit that took its own life on the roof that one hot summer day had the right idea after all.

The Pickle Nazi

Simply put, there is no human in the world that is a bigger asshole than the Pickle Nazi.  Well, maybe Donald Trump.  Hands down, this creep has ended dozens of careers in the hospitality industry simply by being the miserable prick that he is.  Obviously the product of being raised by nannies and growing up in privilege, this sorry excuse for a human struts around the place like he just hit a triple, when we all know too well he was born standing on third base.  It takes every morsel of patience and professionalism to not put this guy in his place, let alone throw a drink in his face.  And sadly, even the best of us has been bested by this low down piece of absolute shit.

His name originates from his disdain of pickles, for this is his trigger to treat his server like the dog shit that is on the bottom of his shoes.  It's a funny thing, really, the amazing difficulty of keeping a pickle off a plate in a restaurant.  Every sandwich and every burger always gets a pickle, and it becomes habitual to the server.  You see a sandwich under the heat lamp ready to go and you throw a pickle on the plate.  So when you get a guy like this in the bar that absolutely and emphatically demands no pickle ever touch his plate, let alone his food, you have to take extreme precaution that it does not happen!  Unfortunately, for some reason or another, that pickle seems to always make it onto his plate.  Every fucking time!

Honestly, the guy probably doesn’t even hate pickles.  Somehow he knows how damned hard it is to keep that pickle from being thrown on the dish.  It’s probably his little way of controlling the narrative.  I bet you, if given the chance, he would order a Diet Coke with no lemon, knowing full well he could send at least one of them back because the server habitually throws the lemon in there without even thinking about it.

I once named the check that goes back to the kitchen “The Pickle Nazi” and wrote over a dozen times on the order “NO PICKLE!”, personally told the cook and took both waitresses aside and told them NO PICKLES.  Well, wouldn't you know it, the dipshit manager who does more getting in the way than anything else, takes the food without reading the ticket and slops down a big juicy pickle right on the plate.  Pickle juice all over everything, he delivers it with a smile as I'm running from the other side of the bar trying to intercept.

“How hard is it, people?  How hard is your job?  It's a wonder you people serve food for a living!  Seriously, you are nothing more than a bunch of halfwits.  It's amazing you can get out of bed in the mornings.  Take this back and make me a new one, and don't just put it on another plate, because I'm going to know.  Fucking ridiculous you idiots, it's a god damned wonder I keep coming back here!”

“I'm sorry sir, I tried the best I could...the manager wasn't here when I told everybody no pickles.”

Now luckily for this scumbag, I was never the type to spit in somebody's food.  Even after being treated like some lowly servant made to kiss this guy's ass on a daily basis.  But I can’t say that for everybody else.  Many times in my career I've seen cooks, waitresses and even owners hock a loogie right onto the plate.  I've seen food purposely get dropped on the floor and kicked around like a soccer ball and put back onto the plate.  Let this be a warning to all you Pickle Nazis out there, if you treat your server like some kind of indentured servant your food will be messed with.

Of course, now, in haste, the cook who is already swamped with orders, has to make a fresh burger.  So we begin with the patty hitting the floor, then the cook wipes his nose clean of snot and picks it up, tossing it onto the filthiest part of the grill.  Now since it's being hurried, obviously the food comes out not being cooked to order.  Once again, the Pickle Nazi sighs at the results, takes one bite and sends it back again.  Meanwhile, his guest is red in the face and squirming about, as he too is uncomfortable with the fact that he is being seen out in public with this lump of human excrement.  But since he too is in the presence of this man only out of necessity, he must grin and bear the highly uncomfortable situation.  

“This happens to me everywhere I go,” he'll say.  “It's so hard to get good help, I guess that's what you get when you have these uneducated buffoons handling something as simple as a food order.”

He'll say this as you are standing over him making sure his food is finally right.

What he doesn't realize is that most servers and bartenders are actually college educated people.  We get into the business while going to school for a little extra cash on the side to help pay for books and tuition.  In the end, after our degrees have been secured, most of us have become so institutionalized by the industry that more times than not, we remain for some ungodly reason.  Or, on top of our regular jobs, we keep a shift or two just for the extra cash.

The best part of the Pickle Nazi's visit is always the checkout process.  Obviously the staff and I are happy that he is getting the hell out of there, but the most satisfying part is when his card is denied at the terminal.  He'll start by throwing down his three pound American Express Black card.  Firm, heavy and sturdy, to show just how rich and powerful he is.

“Oh, I'm sorry, my stupid secretary must have forgotten to pay the bill again!  My god that girl is awful. Try this one.”  

Of course, he throws down another Amex card only to have it come up denied again.  He will start to blame the machine and then reassure you that “you must not be doing it right”.  Yes, Pickle Nazi, it can't be you forgetting to pay your bills...it must be us or your secretary messing things up again.  Lord, you just can't get good help these days can you?  Eventually, he finds a card that works, or the poor soul that had to have a sit down lunch with this loser will pull out his wallet and pay.  

“I'll get you back next time when I figure out which idiot forgot to pay my bills.”  

Luckily for this guy, his companion usually feels so bad about the overall treatment of the entire staff, that he leaves a huge tip.  Also, luckily for the Pickle Nazi, is that when he does actually have a working credit card, he does tip well.  Perhaps it's because he's had too many waitresses and bartenders run out after him to confront him about the poor tip.  Or maybe because he wants the person he's with to see just how big of a hotshot he is...whatever the reason, he leaves an amazing tip, so that the next time this miserable lowdown sorry excuse for humanity comes in, you are willing to put up with his crap.

---

Uncle Ray's Tricks of the Trade

Always have a more tragic story and serve it with sarcasm. Misery loves good company, especially when you take your pain with a grain of salt.

---

Ear Lock Earl

Loneliness is a horrible thing.  It's depressing, it makes time slow to a crawl, and it gives you absolutely nothing to look forward to at the end of a long day of working.  Which, really, if you think about it, is the cornerstone of our entire business.  Nowhere else in the world is somebody going to kiss your ass and pretend that they are happy to see you than in a restaurant.  Let's face it, a customer is a customer is a customer.  Ear Lock Earl on the other hand is an exception to the rule.

It matters not if you are running your tail off and the bar is three deep, Earl wants to chat.  The busy world around him apparently does not exist, which could be part of the reason he is so lonely to begin with.  He talks low, so you can't talk to him in passing, nor can you discuss the minute details of his less than stellar day from the other side of the bar.  You must lean in, turn your ear and carefully and methodically tune in very carefully.  He does not move his lips, so don't even think of trying to read them.  Then he talks very slowly, very deliberate but rarely ever to the point.

When you simply can’t waste any more time discussing the humming birds that buzzed around his porch that morning as he sipped his rich dark Colombian coffee that he bought on special at Shoprite in that great two-for-one deal that he droned on about three days prior...you walk away telling him you must take care of the 50 other people that happened to come into the bar that day for a drink.  

He brushes you aside with a wave of his hand, “by all means, go, go!  I'll tell you all about it after you catch up.”

Now the impatient waiting game begins.  Earl watches your every move with a slight turn of his head as his squinting eyes follow your figure as you dance from side to side of the bar..  You wonder what is going through his demented head as you feel the small hairs on the back of your neck slowly raise to the heavens.  With the sweat beginning to roll off your head and half of your customers still parched, Earl grows impatient and begins to flag you down again. 

“So did you hear that this winter, since the squirrels were so busy this fall that we are going to have a lot of snow?  I was reading the Farmer's Almanac that I picked up at Home Depot last month...or was it the month before, I can't remember.  Oh, wait, I got it at Lowe's back in July when I was picking up some concrete to fix that split rail fence I put in back in the early 90's.  Can you believe those posts rotted out already?” Any hoots, because the squirrels are so busy...”

“Earl for the love of god, I can't talk now! Please!”

 Now Earl begins to get agitated because I am running around serving people that aren't normally in the joint.  A party from a local office coming out because their boss is buying them some drinks and appetizers for finishing up a big project.  Earl just can't comprehend why I would go out of my way to serve these people while he sits alone at the other end of the bar, like he does every day vying for my undivided attention.  He begins to seethe because I got snippy with him, and he takes his pile of money from in front of him and begins to count it as he determines my tip.  

Earl can care less that I'm going to make an entire day's pay from the tip on this big group.  Actually, he probably has no concept of that.  He's sitting there still stewing because I yelled at him.  He can't comprehend that the three dollars I'm going to make from him for listening to him go on and on about hummingbirds, coffee and fence posts is not going to pay my bills.  Yes, I appreciate a customer who comes in on a daily basis, but most of them understand that I have to do what I have to do to pay my bills and keep my family warm and fed.  Earl, who has looked forward to seeing me all day, because I'm one of the few who will actually listen to him, begins to behave like a three year old child who is being ignored by his parents.

As I zip around from guest to guest and make sure everybody has their drinks, I move on to cleaning up the glasses and any other mess I made during the rush.  I can see Earl out of the corner of my eye, flagging me down as if he had just discovered the cure for cancer and needed to share it with the world before he forgot it.  I wipe up the little spill I made on the counter, wring out my bar rag and slowly walk back over.  

“Okay Earl, what was so important that it couldn't wait 10 minutes for me to catch up.” He looks me square in the eye, I lean in so I can hear what words of wisdom he has been waiting so patiently to enlighten me with...

“You see this dollar?  It has a pyramid on it.  You see the eye?  That's the all-seeing-eye.  Did you know that our founding fathers were all Freemasons?  The all-seeing-eye says that today, you did a great job.  It was amazing to see you run around and take care of all those people.  Except you forgot one person, and that was me.  Earl, the guy that comes in every day to see you.  Yep, forgot about old Earl.  The all seeing-eye never forgets, nor did our founding fathers.  They did things right, not like these politicians today.  Do you know that Chicago is called the windy city because of the politicians not because of the wind off the great lakes?  I was reading that when they dye the river green for St. Patrick's Day...”

“My God Earl, get to the point already!”

“The all seeing eye is for you today.  Just one, because you ignored me.  I won't be coming back until there is a bartender who appreciates his regulars.”

Okay, Earl, I'll see you tomorrow.

Loud Larry

Nothing in the world vibrates the walls of a bar, or the bar three miles down the road like the booming voice of Loud Larry.  He certainly doesn't mean for the world in a ten mile radius to be able to hear his every word like a jerk boasting on his cell phone about how his beamer is in the shop again or how his trophy wife is getting yet another wax job to her privates, no Larry just can't hear a damned thing so he often doesn't realize that the patrons on the far side of the restaurant's ears are beginning to bleed.

Larry is generally the life of the party and if it wasn't for his decibel pounding attacks on the general public he would probably be one of the more liked characters at the bar.  His stories can sometimes get raunchy and uncomfortable, and sometimes not appropriate for everybody in the vicinity to be privy to.  While he thinks he is whispering in your ear, or the ear to the unlucky patron next to him, his stories of sexual conquest and drunkenness can often be heard by the seven-year-old prepubescent girl sitting in the booth in the far end of the restaurant.

Now I understand that a bar is not a church and everybody sitting at one is supposed to be an adult.  What's said at the bar stays at the bar, and trust me I've heard things that I will take to my grave, for that's all part of being a good bartender.  I know the innermost secrets of most men and women who pay me a visit on a weekly or daily basis.  I know of affairs, liaisons with hookers, tax fraud...you name it, I’ve heard it. That being said, the busy restaurant doesn't need to know about the time Larry scored with two chicks he later found out were hookers who charged him 500 dollars for their services.

The most embarrassing moments with Loud Larry are when he talks shit about somebody else sitting at the bar.  As far as Larry is concerned, he is whispering and nobody else can hear his snide comments.  Unfortunately for you and everybody else around him, a most uncomfortable situation is brewing and you as the bartender have to put it out like a nasty grease fire in the kitchen.  Be careful not to throw water on this blaze because it's only going to spread like a bad political debate between Tea Party knuckleheads, MAGA enthusiasts and left wing tree huggers.  The best thing to do is play it off like Larry was just joking and hope everybody buys it...other than that, I have no advice for this situation other than to get Larry the hell out of the bar as soon as humanly possible.

Lucky for you and everybody else, Larry is a creature of habit like most bar patrons.  He has his martini, his three beers, and his dozen wings, and he is out the door.  It's often funny to see the relief of those who were sitting around him when he pays his bill and goes on his merry way.  It's not that they don't like him, it's just that after each drink he gets louder and louder.  And when I say loud, I mean uncomfortably loud.  No exaggerating, your ears hurt and your head pounds!  Everybody needs to unwind after work with a stiff cocktail from time to time, but on a day that Larry was in, you need to unwind from your hour with Larry.

The Corporate Fish

Have you ever seen that old Sam Adam's commercial when there's this table of corporate stiffs with their boss and everybody orders water?  Then you have the confident and well-dressed new guy order a beer.  The boss thinks it's a great idea and orders one himself.  The other drones feeling left out and wanting a beer themselves change their order and get a beer too.  Well, that's real life folks.  I call these cowardly ass kissers the Corporate Fish.

I worked in a town next to this huge pharmaceutical complex with over 5000 employees and once in a while a boss would bring in his plebs at happy hour to celebrate the end of a big project, or a retirement, or whatever.  These are the people that would drive regulars like Earl Lock Earl absolutely crazy.

One by one they would mosey on into the door lost to the world, staring at wild wonder as if they had never been in a bar their entire lives.  They stop at the door and give a quick look around to see if any of their fellow fish have arrived yet.  As their eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the bar, I greet them and ask if they need help.  Ignoring me as if I did not exist, I ask again, and sometimes a third time as the idiot stands there texting his buddies to see if he's in the right place.  God forbid you acknowledge somebody who works with their hands for a living...that is beneath them!

As the Fish reunites with his school, I mosey on over to see what I can get them.  Ignoring me again like I do not exist they refuse to end their meaningless conversations with the rest of their cohorts, for again, I am nothing but a meaningless servant that is only to speak when spoken to.  After several attempts I finally get one of them to answer, only to let me know they are waiting for the rest of the school to arrive before they drink.  Not because they are being polite, but because god forbid they order something different than the boss.  There is no individual thought with these corporate drones, and quite frankly it worries me that these are the people developing the medicines we all take to stay alive!

The school of Corporate Fish begin to swell and take over the bar, which in turn infuriates the regulars who normally come there for some peace and quiet.  Now they are taking up space, not spending any money and driving out my regulars.  Then they always start amassing between the front door of the restaurant and the kitchen doors, getting in everybody's way.  I try to coral them, but since I am not the lead fish, they do not listen.  It is then that I must leave my comfort zone behind the bar and begin to move them as if I'm a cattle rustler or sheep dog so that the waitresses can actually get in and out of the kitchen.  

It always amazed me that I could stand there and watch the same guy get continuously hit by the kitchen door and he will not move unless directed by somebody to do so.  It’s a wonder why I didn’t last too long in an office environment.  There are those meant to work in an office, and then there are people like me.  I was not a fish.

A half hour has gone by since the school arrived and not a penny has been spent, my regulars have either been pushed into a corner or forced to sit at a table.  The parking lot is filled to the max, so any traffic we would have gotten has decided to stop at the next watering hole.  Finally, the Big Fish comes in.  After another half an hour of hugs and hellos, I finally get this self-righteous prick wearing a Rolex watch and sporting a three hundred dollar haircut to order.  After contemplating for five minutes while he makes you stand in front of him, he orders a beer off the tap and then all hell breaks loose.  

Before you know it, I have 50 fish ordering the same exact thing.  So after scrambling for a half an hour to get everybody served, I notice something peculiar.  Every single person's beer is at the same level as the boss.  Nobody has the spine to finish their drink before he does.  And of course, he himself is so absorbed in his own little world that he sips ever so slowly.  I can see people literally dying of thirst and praying that he will gobble up those last few drips.  Knowing that I won't make any money until this prick finishes his glass, I follow him around and prod him for a refill.  He, too, ignores me like I am the scum that grows on a stagnant pond.  I go around the room begging and pleading with folks to fill up their glasses and they act as if I am not even there.

Eventually, the Big Fish decides to have another.  Of course, I am busy at the time trying to serve what's left of my regulars.  He grows antsy and impatient and comments about how hard it is to get a drink around here.  I politely remind him that I've asked him over a dozen times and he acts as if it's news to him.  This time he orders a martini, and like the good little school of fish that they are, they follow suit.  So now I'm stuck making 50 martinis during a busier than hell happy hour.  In the end, I do make out though, as their bill normally swells to 400 dollars or so.  As the fish get more liquored up on free booze from the boss, they loosen up a bit and actually start ordering on their own.  Of course, when it's time for the bill the “automatic gratuity” must always be added on, otherwise you'll be lucky to get a ten percent tip.

As soon as the free booze is cut off and the boss leaves, the entire bar empties as if the place were on fire.  And just like that, the Corporate Fish have swum home to their nannies and housekeepers, coping a slight buzz and a brighter outlook on life as they finish their day with a snifter of 100-year-old Scotch…their children spawned by their loveless marriages to their trophy wives are put to bed by the au pair flown in from England for pennies on the dollar.  No, I'm not bitter.

Manager Mike

There is always a customer that feels…no, scratch that…knows he can run the bar better than ownership or management.  Everybody is always a moron, and if Manager Mike, the titan of industry had his way, this bar would be hopping!  It doesn’t matter that you just did a 100 covers for lunch and the bar is still three quarters of the way filled, Mike can do it bigger and better!  

“This place would never be empty if I ran it!”

“Well, Mike, you do realize it’s a Tuesday afternoon and most people are at work right?”

“Yeah, but I would do ten-cent wings and dollar drafts, this place would be wall to wall customers!”

“I see, so I guess the bosses of all these industries that surround us would just be forced to close up shop and call it a day to get some Natty Lights on draft cheap?  Perhaps the schools can close early so the families can come out for the cheap wings!  Fuck school, we’ve got them ten-cent wings at the pub!”

Ah, yes, Manager Mike, holding court in the center stool and watching all our mistakes on a daily basis.  He has no qualms about calling the boss or your co-workers morons within ear shot and trying to get you to do the same.  All those years he spent operating the forklift on the docks has given him the superior intellect and restaurant knowhow that will push your dinky little establishment to the top!  Perhaps a spot on Diners, Dives and Drive-ins is in order!

You shake your head in disgust at our foibles every day, you complain that the menu needs to be changed, drinks on the house should happen on the hour every hour, the bill is always too high…and for Christ’s sake, can you hire some nicer looking waitresses?  Yes, Mike, I will do my best.  In the meantime do you think you might try to enjoy yourself and stop armchair quarterbacking for once?

It has always been a pipe dream of mine to find out where one of these guys works, spend hours watching over them and then tell them how to do their jobs better.  Maybe even insult his co-workers and bosses within earshot, but never have the guts to actually say something to them face to face.

“Hey Mike, that boss of yours is a real nitwit.  Any moron with half a brain could do better than he does…hey, even you!” “SHHHH, he’ll hear you!”

“Oh, I see, now that the shoe is on the other foot, I have to be quiet?!”

Yes, Mike, I’m sure one day you’ll free yourself from the shackles of the nine-to-five drudgery and pull a team of investors together.  I’m sure you’ll take the time to write up that business plan, secure the loans to get it all started.  Then, work day in and day out, never touching a drop of the booze, burning the midnight oil to make sure the place purrs just right. Then, with your glorious intellect you will lead us all to the promised land.  Here is to you Manager Mike, Cead Mile Falite!

Rushing Rita

She comes in with less than ten minutes to eat, her hair is frazzled, her numerous cell phones are buzzing and blooping, she doesn’t know what she is in the mood for…but damn it, she’s got to get back to the office asap!  So let’s make this quick!  The menu in front of her lays there, the beverage napkin begs for a glass to be put on top of it, but she doesn’t know what she wants to fucking drink either!

Knowing she is in a rush, I put the rest of my customers on hold as I patiently wait for Rita to make up her mind.  Eventually, the synapsis fire up…the thoughts come together, I can hear the gears grinding in her head…

“I will have a cheeseburger, well done.  I want my fries extra crispy.  My soup to be extra hot...I want it to burn my tongue.  And oh, can you make me one of these Snikertini drinks on your cocktail menu that has 42,000 ingredients in it?  Oh, and remember, I’m in a bit of a crunch for time here, so can you let the kitchen know I need that right away?”

Oh yes, Rita, I will let them know right away.  You, and you alone are the most important person in this restaurant.  The screaming kid in the back who needs his chicken fingers and fries because he has low blood sugar?  Nope, you’re more important.  The party of four at table five that ordered 30 minutes ago, but the cook screwed up their food and they have to wait even longer?  Nope, you’re more important.  The other bar regulars who come in every day and leave me great tips, and have to wait for me to make this ridiculous drink that takes ten minutes to make and that you’ll have one sip of and have me make something else and eventually take it off your bill?  Nope, you’re more important.  The world stops for Rita!

It never fails either that everything you order takes forever to cook!  Well done this, crispy this, extra hot this.  How about you order something that’s not even on the menu?  You know, something the cook is going to have to take extra time to prepare because he doesn’t have the ingredients prepped for it during the lunch time rush?  Never mind I try to explain to you the logistics of well-done meats taking longer than those that are rare or medium rare!  Science and logic stops at your doors of reality!  

Sure, it would have made more sense to order takeout, or go to a fast food joint!  Christ, it might even make sense to have brought your lunch to work knowing full well your boss was only going to give you ten minutes to hoof something down at lunchtime.  But no, Rita, you had to get out and have a chef somewhere ruin a perfectly good piece of meat for you to eventually complain about.

After eating a few bites of what ends up being an utterly disappointing meal, you shake your head and let us know monkeys could do our job better.  You stiff me on the tip and say, “you’ll never see me again!” Oh, Rita, if only that were true!  If only that were true!

Machine Gun Manny

Growing up in New Jersey, I never really knew that many people who owned a gun.  As a matter of fact it was only a couple of years ago that I actually held a real gun in my hand for the first time.  To this day I have yet to actually fire one, I just don’t feel the need.  Perhaps it’s because as a man of short stature I’ve always let my words do the talking, not my muscles or lack thereof.  And certainly not through the use, or threat of use by firearm.

The only guy I ever knew that owned guns was my Uncle Doc, and he was an avid hunter and fisherman.  He had rifles and shotguns that were always kept under lock and key, only to be used during hunting season.  He was also a decorated World War II veteran who was part of the armada that led the assault at Normandy Beach on D-day.  If there was ever a civilian I trusted to own a firearm, Uncle Doc was certainly it!

I don’t begrudge a person for the want or need to own a gun, for its part of our nation’s constitution.  But nowhere in that amendment does it say civilians should own machine guns and weapons of mass destruction.  After all, it was written when the only guns available were single shot rifles, shotguns and crude revolvers at best.  I have a feeling that our founding fathers would have thought a bit differently in their wording had they lived to see today’s world.

Which brings me to Machine Gun Manny…he is the last man any of us in the world want to own a gun, let alone several dozen of them.  It never ceases to amaze me that the most bat-shit crazy, right wing conspiracy theorist nut job in the room is the one waving the NRA flag.  Quite frankly it’s a horrifying scenario that this little ball of pent up anger is most likely living in your neighborhood with enough firearms and ammunition to start a war.

Every time a school gets tragically shot up, every time concert goers get mowed down and every time there is even a hint of gun control legislation you’ve got this guy running out to gun shows stocking up for a war he is convinced is coming.  He’s got bump stocks, extended clips, hollow point bullets, riot gear and bullet proof vests.  He has his house surrounded in booby traps and cameras covering every square inch of his property.

This is the last guy you want owning guns and he’s always the one with the most.  He is a powder keg ready to explode, and every bar room I’ve ever worked in is chock full of them.  My only solace is that most of these men have guns to make up for a lack of something…small penis, closet homosexuality, daddy didn’t love him enough…there are a variety of reasons.  But all it takes is one loose screw and you’ve got tragedy on your hands.  I always went out of my way to make these guys feel like they were part of the group, and to treat them as equals.  Because the last damned thing I want to do is die at work because some nut job didn’t get their fries quick enough!

The Food Paparazzi and the Check Splitters

These are the newest characters on the restaurant scene.  Millennial types mostly, facebook addicts, twitter twits and Instagram aficionados.  It’s not bad enough that none of these people carry cash, or that they seem incapable of taking turns paying a bill…that’s just the start.  Every second of their experience at your bar will be documented ad nauseam and scrutinized on the world wide web.  Every spare minute will be spent taking selfies and posting minute to minute updates so that the rest of the virtual world can seethe with jealousy at the lives they wish they could be living.

Taking their orders is nearly impossible with their noses buried in their smartphones as they continually hit refresh on their facebook page to see who is liking or commenting on how perfect their medium rare steak came out.  Yes, oh internet guru, I can’t wait to see how you rate me and my establishment on your yelp review tomorrow.  I’m sure there will be at least two dozen pictures to back up your review.

As the group finishes up their meal and its complete and thorough documentation, it is now time to divvy up the check seventeen different ways.  Yes, you managed to cover the event like a press corps dinner, but doing math in your head and figuring out what everybody owes?  Yes, that’s beyond your paygrade. 

Okay, Dakota owes three bucks…do you take debit cards?  Aiden, Jaiden, Braiden and Caiden owe seven bucks each…hey Jaxon, do you have that ten bucks you own me?  You can send it via Zelle or Venmo! Oh crap!  Your dipshit parents didn’t pay your credit card bill yet?  The nerve!

And we wonder how a person like Donald Trump was accidentally elected president of the United States. Twice! We wonder.

Don't you dare finish your drink before I do!