Here we go again.
The Bartender Knows receives a litany of fan mail because of two topics. The first is when
I rail against terrible service, the arrogance of shitty bartenders, the
inability to be greeted when I walk into an establishment, and hope to get a
drink order in after five minutes at a bar that’s not even busy.
Trust me, partner, you walk into my
bar, you get:
1.
Greeted at the door.
2.
A smile and a “how are you?’
3.
A fucking drink in front of you
before your ass warms the bar stool.
The other topic that incurs such a
multitude of letters, comments, and complaints is this:
Dating.
I have ranted and railed, disputed
and attacked, criticized and condescended this fine mating ritual.
I'm sure you recall the last times I commented on said topic: (PART ONE) (PART TWO) (PART THREE) (PART FOUR)
But this
week, dear readers, we’re going to approach this immortal question a little different.
Let me tell you a story.
Before I dropped out of high school,
I had this wonderful girlfriend from the Mid-West. She was beautiful, new to
the school, somewhat shy, matched with a great sense of humor and a smile that
could melt ice.
So D. (we’ll leave it at that) sat
behind me in Biology class, and being somewhat of a morose lad, clad in all
black with raging nihilist tendencies (not much has changed), I wanted to learn how to charm her. However, without having any experience
in the Cassanova arts, the best my little teenage mind could come up with was
Skittles.
Yes.
Skittles.
I had over heard that she really
loved the red Skittles, this being not only her favorite color, but she loved
them for the taste. So, upon receiving this holy information, before each
Biology class, I would buy Skittles and purposely separate out the red
Skittles. Then, without even a hello or a greeting, I would quickly turn around
in my desk, smile, and place these red Skittles right down in front of her.
Of course, this ended up working.
She was charmed, I couldn’t believe it. Neither could the audacious bullies,
who viewed me as some strange pariah (yes, this was before nerd shit was cool.
Back in the day, if you participated in half the activities now regarded as
cool you would have just got your ass kicked.) The bullies wanted D., not only
because she was new to the school, but she was sexy and damn sweet, and this
made those punks want her even more.
But no.
She was with me. And we fell in
love.
And things were wonderful for a
time. But, just like in the Garden of Eden, that Snake started talking some
crazy shit in my ear. I actually remember the conversation verbatim:
Snake: Hey. You got a girlfriend
that really loves you.
Me: Thank you Snake, that’s true.
Snake: You’re pretty lucky.
Me: Tell me about. We give each
other head and watch Montell Williams afterwards, happily satisfied with our
post fellatio/cunninglingus bliss.
Snake: Nice.
Me: It’s not bad at all.
Snake: Have you ever done anything
else sexual with anyone?
(pause)
Me: No.
Snake: (nodding) Hmmm. Interesting.
You think you could marry D.?
Me: Absolutely.
Snake: Hmmm. So you’d stay with her
forever?
Me: Yep. (sort of believing this)
Snake: That would mean you would
never know what another woman feels like?
(pause)
Me: True.
Snake: I don’t want to seem out of
line here, but would you be okay never touching another person? Would you be
okay never knowing what another woman could feel like?
Me: (no comment)
Snake: Just sayin’. I’m happy for
you. I really am. It seems like you got a good thing going. Love, man, love.
Me: But I do love her.
Snake: I bet you do.
Me: Hmmm.
And right there, right at the last’
hmmm’, that’s when I knew ole Snake was right. Corruption had begun. Now I’ve
never been the cheating type. So after me and the ole Snake’s chat, D. and I
consequently broke up.
I thought of the great land of
singleness and what adventures, one day, I would have,
Now, after being sexually active for
over 20 years (I lost my virginity the year Nevermind
dropped, yep…) I can tell you exactly what I’ve learned in the trials and
tribulations of dating in the 21st century:
Nothing.
I’ve learned nothing. D. went on to
marry the dude after me and had three of his kids.
What worlds did I miss?
What did I think I’d find out here
in the land of promiscuity?
Where does one end up after 15
cities, several unpublished books under the belt, and countless partners?
The dive bar, or course, where else?
And there it was. What began as
Skittles now ends in The Subway Bar (god rest it’s soul). I suppose there were
worse deaths.
I don’t regret anything or course
(that’s a lie, but I’ll save those
stories for future books).
But that’s where I find myself,
either on one side of the bar or the other. I’m typing this blog currently in
an undisclosed bar in Brooklyn. The words come easy in this kind of light.
I think about my average Saturday
night working.
I clean my bar rag, rinsing out the
hot water through my fingers, twisting the towel tight as the nights wind away.
The crowds from the boulevard trickle in. They are talking together and laughing
in large groups. This is especially true on the colder evenings. Now Winter is
really showing her face. The wind is the kind of cold that makes you cry, then
freezes the tears on your cheek.
The groups come in, order drinks.
More parties stroll in. One or two solo drinkers prowl through the doors and
order Budweisers quietly. A woman reads a book at the far end of the bar. I
serve all without judgement, without concern, always with a smile. My favorite
part comes round the hour of 1am.
This is when the barriers melt.
This is when the jukebox wars begin.
Someone puts on Led Zepplin. Another fights back by putting on Rihanna.
Someone throws on “Pony” by Ginuwine,
people start losing their shit. Now there's dancing, people falling off their bar
stools, splashes of whiskey dripping from shots glasses cheersing. People
start singing along to Oasis songs, a couple ducks into the bathroom to make
out, someone does the Roger Rabbit. People are cracking up everywhere.
The groups start mingling with each
other. The girl with the open book, closes it, takes her shot of whiskey and
asks for the check. Two new strangers start talking.
There is no Ok Cupid here.
No one met on Facebook.
Right here, on a random Saturday
night, someone (if not several people) exchanged phone numbers. Next week they’ll
be naked somewhere.
I was consoling a recently single
friend the other night. I sat him right down:
“Brother, the answer is right in front
of you. So many people spend time thinking about meeting people other than actually meeting people. They rarely just
let it happen. They’d rather stare into their phones than talk to the person sitting,
also alone, right next to them.”
And that is one of the scarier
scenes from the bartender’s perspective. Seven people, all drinking solo,
staring at their phones at the exact same time, each sitting exactly one bar
stool away from each other; I have to start telling stories just to change the
fates. Before you know it, I’ve got everyone talking. Anything to not let the ‘phone
haze’ settle in. Not on my shift.
And the same goes for dating. Why
does dating suck in NYC? I’ll tell you.
Because dating sucks.
Don’t date.
It doesn’t exist.
As some guy so appropriately pointed
out: “I don’t know what dating even means anymore.”
I would have never had my first
blowjob if it wasn’t for some eavesdropping and Red skittles. You can’t get
anymore random than that.
Let the moment happen. Start dancing
to jukebox music. Start some political talk. Buy a stranger a shot. Ask your
bartender who’s single.
Everything good in life happens completely
by accident. Your dating life should be the same.
After all, how’d you think your
parents met and had you?
Till next week, keep drinking!
SERIOUSLY, LADY, GET OFF YOUR PHONE FOR LIKE 4 MINUTES AND MEET SOME PEOPLE.
ALL OF LIFE. A GIANT ACCIDENT.
TASTE THE RAINBOW!
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