I could have been a lawyer.
What’s more punk rock than that? In
a country run by lawyers, what better profession to aspire to? If both the
Senate and the House of Representatives are chalk full of lawyers, and these
are the men and women who decide the Fate of our country, wouldn’t it be the
smart decision to know exactly how the game is played, and, on top of that, be
able to learn the rules of that game to break them and exact some kind of
change? Pass a bill of legal fuck offs
and slam into Congress like it’s a judiciary mosh-pit.
But that’s not what happened.
I opted for a life of tax free
money, loose women, and deranged drunks, swimming in an endless ocean of
Jameson shots. If one is not careful, one can lose oneself fully in this sea of
debauchery, only to find oneself stranded in ones mid-40's, still
trying to chase 23-year-old college ass, all while wearing some kind of
ironic tee-shirt far too tight on ones bloated and liver spotted stomach. That
is a Fate worse than death.
It’s not technically our faults. Our
‘clients’ want us to share in their intoxication. No one is more boring than
the sober and irritable bartender. It’s not like the common populace wants to
stop drinking anytime soon. I try to imagine a world without alcohol and bars.
That’s what made the Baby Face Kelly’s and Capone’s of the world so popular.
People want a drink so bad after work they’ll deal with blood thirsty thugs just
to get their hands on a Budweiser. And if they buy Anheuser-Busch products
(owned by John McCain’s family), they already do!
It is an essential part of life,
drinking in pubs, seeing a familiar face that will greet you and slide a cold
one across the bar. Hell, I remember when I was a kid, I would see one of my
Uncle’s crack open a beer, take a long pull off the bottle, and set it down
hard, a look of relief on their face, and say: “I needed that.” I’d stare, wild-eyed,
at the bubbles of this mysterious elixir.
“You want some?” They offered my
young self.
Trying to be a man (at 12), seeking
the same feeling of ecstasy, I took a pull off the bottle and spat it
out.
Beer tasted like old man sweat. I
never understood why my Uncle’s wanted to drink an octogenarian’s excretion and
found such comfort in it.
Now I get it. Now I drink 31
Budweiser’s and feel better for it.
Beer is poor man’s Prozac.
No, the bartender’s life is very
different than those who follow justice’s blind eyes.
I recently went on an interview for
a new dive bar job. The proceedings were simple. I already came recommended by
another bartender (a minting worth its weight in gold) so I did NOT bring a
resume. As we have previously stated, no one will ever get a dive bartender job
from a resume. The bar keeps resumes in their basement offices to use as fodder
for jokes during work meetings.
I walk in at 230 in the morning, the
bartender’s version of late afternoon, and set my sights on the man behind the
bar. I roll up, dig my elbow into the lips of the old wood (I already like the
feel of the place) and extend a hand.
“I’m Matthew.”
He introduces himself, wipes his
hand down with a white bar rag, and we shake with a firm understanding.
“Hey,” the boss man says, “you doing
all right?”
“Any better I’d be dead,” I say.
“Hear that,” he says, giving me a
once over. “so you know about this…” he asks, gesturing to the liquor lined bar
wall.
“Oh yes. All too well,” I huff.
“I know what you mean.”
I nod: “I’m 35,” I say, bluntly.
He nods back with a gentile accord:
“I hear you. I’m 40 and am really feeling it back here. You drink?”
“Does Momma Kennedy own a black
dress? Wanna pound a Bud Light?”
He’s take’s a moment and I see a
sparkle in the man’s eyes. He grins: “Sound about right.”
He cracks open two bottles, We raise
them under the dim bar light. They're gone in a minute and a half flat.
We place them hard down on the wood bar. He nods:
“Can you start Tuesday?”
And that’s how you get dive bar
jobs. No Law School necessary. No diplomas, no degrees. Just a hundred yard
stare, a fierce thirst, and a casual understanding that you can handle a room
full of liquors and the people that consume them. The bartender stands against
the wave of humanity and pours them a shot. And we have to judge situations as
they arise, just how dangerous or tedious they may be, and deliver a verdict.
Here are some cases that no law
degree could ever help in determining a fair outcome. There’s no logic or sense
in dealings with these whiskey-soaked defendants, nor the already drunk prosecutors
who have left any semblance of reason and dignity at the door:
1.
THE BAR FIGHT
It happens.
Try a cocktail of a shitty day, a
horrible boss, not enough money for rent, and a recent break up and that same
cocktail will get spilled across the bar, dropping F-Bombs and threatening
lives. The bartender can usually sense tension from a mile away, but sometimes it’s
the shattering of glass or the yells of men from the darkness of the back of
the bar that cues imminent danger.
The only thing you can do is jump
over and get in the middle of it. Most of the time, drunk patrons will not hit
the bartender. It’s when they are so blind drunk they don’t even know who they are
swinging at that you will take a hit.
Just a couple of month ago, one of
my favorite bartenders, T., took a punch to her face (yes, a woman), knocking
her glasses right off her nose and giving her a bad shiner. The only good thing to come of it was that the
douche bag woman-hitter left his IPhone at the scene of the crime. Not only do
we know who he is, but his personal information was put up on Facebook.
Nice job, dick head. Now you’re
known as the guy who hits girls. You’ll get what you deserve soon enough. Vengeance is a dish best served ice cold.
The dangerous thing is that once the chaos
starts, there is no time to call the police or scream for help. You have got
to get the skirmish out of the bar ASAP. Once past the threshold, it is now the
cities problem. You lock the door behind them, batten the hatches, and pour
some shots for the rest of the patrons trapped inside with you.
I’ve been punched. I’ve had pint
glasses thrown at my chest, and beer bottles sail past my nose. It can get ugly
late at night, and bartenders without doormen must join the fray.
And
bartenders can get hurt.
Bad.
2.
GET YOU LAID
As I’ve stated before, bartenders
are more trusted than strangers.
Our word is better than cash money,
and when a certain young lady asks us, even with the slightest hint of flirtation
about you, we can add or subtract to your fuck quotient with a smile or a wary
glance.
This goes the same with female
bartenders in regards to other women. I have had many a female bartender friends
vouch for me to her female cohorts. There is just something
trustable about a person serving you drinks. Never have drug dealers received
such lauding since Pablo Escobar from the people in his village. We are those
civic leaders, aware of the many tidings around the veranda. And as local
celebrities, we can change the order of Fate for the right kind of people.
My favorite move is the: “Come and
sit over here,” technique. Let’s say a lonely guy friend of mine is in need of
a little attention and another friend of the fairer sex rolls into the bar, I
usually signal her over and guide her to the empty bar stool conveniently next
to my ‘client’. I begin a dialogue with her about her day, warm her up, offer a
free shot, and make a couple of easy jokes to loosen her up. Then a couple
more customers need some drinks down the bar (or I fake that they do) and I leave her with: “Oh,
by the way, this is my friend, X. He’s cool (I give the approving nod) and...(insert something relatively interesting about him that she may dig)...I’ll be
right back.” And that is that. It’s up to the guy from there (we are not love
magicians). If he comes off like a rapey stalker weirdo, that’s his fucking
problem.
But that’s us bartenders, just here
to help.
Or we can fuck your shit up. Don’t
think we won’t.
Remember that extra buck for
extraneous services.
3.
PSYCHOLOGISTS FOR LIFE
Actual psychologists get approximately
$250 an hour. We get about a dollar a drink.
I can’t tell you how many hundreds
of people I have served who have just received horrible news.
Recently fired (like that day, the
2008-2009 recession was a tough one).
Family sickness.
Loss of a pet.
Serious heartbreak.
That’s when we shut up. Just as much
as a bartender needs to know just what to say for the mood, they need to know
as well just when to shut the fuck up.
Just pour the whiskey quietly. Lift
up a glass for yourself. Cheers somberly. Knock on the bar in front of them
and leave them be. And keep the others away as well.
Sometimes when you look into the abyss, you gotta do it
alone.
There’s a whole different kind of
justice system that exists in the bar rooms.
There are rules.
There is a right and a wrong. And it
is the bartender who wears the somber, magistrate black robes. His gavel is his
church key, his bouncer is the bailiff (if he even has one). Judge Wapner ain't got shit on us.
And in a lawless world, somebody’s
got to act the part.
Let the lawyers run the country.
We’ll clean up the rest.
BOTH LAWYERS AND BARTENDERS WILL FUCK YOU. ONLY ONE YOU'LL ENJOY AND THE OTHER YOU'LL HAVE TO PAY FOR.
WE CAN MAKE HER VERY CURIOUS ABOUT YOU. OR AS REPELLING AS THE SMELL OF FRESH SHIT.
WE ARE THE FINAL JUDGE. AND WE MAKE A WAY BETTER MARTINI THAN THIS GUY CAN
(WITHOUT THE PLUCKED EYEBROWS).
