After two and a half years of
working at the place of lost souls, graduating college, 4 or 5 blank page love
affairs, getting laid off from my first professional job, and months of
worthless interviews, numerous job placement agencies, I finally am being
promoted at the bar. It’s an odd
feeling to be moving up at a place that you never planned on being at for
longer than college. My post
college life is supposed to be career driven, and at a place where I am using
my education ideally to climb some corporate ladder in some sort of
business. I’m supposed to become
the Angela Bower of the 2000’s. I
should wear expensive casual clothing that looks cheap, but my jeans would cost
more than 1 month of groceries. I
am supposed to become a yuppy, someone who gets to a bar and orders a
“pino-o-o” because they are too lazy to finish the sentence, assuming they are parched
from all their white-collar conversations. I should be working on an account and casually updating my
facebook with witty comments that show the rest of the world that I am a
success, even though a real success doesn’t need this validation. I am supposed to be a walking, talking
status symbol. I should be the guy
that left my home town and didn’t give up on their dreams at 22 because the
condom broke. In San Francisco,
these yuppy-people spend a lot of money to look like they don’t care. For those who have never worked in a
bar or restaurant, those who order their wine this way are often douche
bags… These people often do not
tip even though they sweat money.
When you serve them in my line of work, they often make it very obvious
that they haven’t worked a hard day’s work since that summer during their
freshman year when daddy cut them off.
At least pretending to be one of these peeps is what I have worked
towards doing all these years. Why,
I’m not sure. I just figure that
is a way to break out of the only life I know which means knowing too well the
different ways to prepare Top Roman.
Life
doesn’t always turn out how we plan.
I am making more money now at the bar than I would ever imagine making
at any professional job right now.
The question that I and perhaps every other bartender in my situation
ponders, is how long this will last?
Is it like being a model?
Once the goods are dried and wrinkled up, you are through? Maybe one day, I too could open my own
bar? Or become a brand like Tyra
and Heidi? Then, I will not have
to worry about an expiration date and live desperately on vanity, botox and
anything that can keep my youthful disposition pickled and intact? While many
questions fly through my head, one concept is certain. I am young and will not be young
forever so I’ll work it while I can.
Now, after two
years of busing every nook and cranny of this place, cleaning up vomit, dealing
with nasty old men playing ass-grab while I am trying to get my job done, I am
no longer a barback. I am a
full-fledged bartender. It sounds
stupid to gloat about but it means something to me. What does this all add up to? I finally am now a part of the face of the bar industry. While
this sounds simple, there are more ingredients to this position. To do well, one must create a persona,
a schtick. This persona is what
creates a bar’s atmosphere and pays my rent. The face always has to look pleasant. This persona is a meld of one’s actual
personality but more social and outgoing. This persona is not necessarily different than one’s true
identity, but it may be. The point
is, this persona character is who we bartenders become when we want to pay our
rent and sell. Yes, the persona is
what we in the field use to sell ourselves at least to a degree. Many will argue that this isn’t
true. I will argue that in order
to do well in this field, one needs to create a strong persona that is often
more outgoing than their personality.
Some of my co-workers have personas of “the partier,” they are always
the life of the party. Some try to
emphasize their skill and flare, while others completely rely on their looks
and can’t have a conversation or make a proper drink to save their life. My persona is one that is to be very
straight-forward and not blow smoke up people’s asses. I’m not overly nice, not afraid to tell
anyone how it is and push the borders between clever and nosy. I try to keep the scene lively and as
though I won’t take shit from anyone, this hopefully shows people that I won’t
be taken advantage of.
Keeping the
persona in mind, one should look happy at all times. Always be ready for a photo opportunity. While no one can be happy at all times,
a good bartender must make it look like they are always ready be the life of
the party. Sometimes bartending is
like doing stand-up for a “shitty” crowd, you just have to make it work. If your relative just passes away or
boyfriend tells you he was cheating on you right before your shift, you must
clear your head, still should remain smiles because you know that makes the gimmick
work better. Not to say that we
aren’t sincere, it was just a part of the game we knew we have to play to do
well. Unlike barbacking, where one
can just walk away from asshole customers, we stand there at our given
stations, about 3-4 feet away from another bartender and work it for our
customers. This is much like the
way the hookers stand in their perspective windows of Amsterdam’s red-light
district, but less alluring and you can’t legally smoke your pot here. There is a mix of confidence and
desperation of which smell.
Getting to work,
stepping behind that bar is similar to walking into a cage. Like being the panda at the zoo a few
days a week. It’s a place from
which you can’t escape. Instead of
escaping, for hours on end you sing and dance your way to rent. Every move you made can and will be
analyzed because there is always someone in the bar watching you. At our bar, if it’s not a customer,
it’s “big brother.” When you got
the crazies at your station, you can’t just walk away. This promotion truly is a test to my
patience and social educate.
My first time bartending
alone in the bar is pretty scary.
While I have been here for years now, I have never been in this
place. From this of view, it all
looks different. There is this odd
freedom that comes with bartending in a busy nightclub. Being the nerd that I am, and I guess
still the boy with low-self-esteem, it feels great to be in this place. It’s like a self-esteem booster and
cheaper than the drugs that make you feel this way. I instantly feel more attractive once I am behind the bar in
my cut-off shirt, and for this reason I am beaming smiles today. It’s a Friday night, unlike any other
that I have ever known. It is also
during one of the busiest times of the year for the bar. It starts out slow, which I am easily
able to handle. Since I have the
new kid at school advantage, having barbacked there for so long, I also already
know the rainbow of customers.
Since I am working next to Aaron, it makes life easier for just this
night. It’s going to be as easy as pie, unless it’s a pie made with
veggies I very much dislike them in my deserts. Just a personal preference.
I have spent the
past 2 weeks memorizing every drink I could think of. I worked through about 40 drink cards with
various cocktail and shot concoctions, just so that I would be ready. I make sure to learn not only what
a Manhattan is, but that shaking it was called bruising it, and apparently a
way to ruin the cocktail. I also
learn entirely too many drinks with the words orgasm in their title. These drinks apparently died in the
early 90s with grunge, but I will learn that later. I also learned how to properly make a Singapore sling and
various layered shots.
As my first
thirsty patron approaches me, I try to look cool. They don’t even make eye contact with me really. It’s like they are looking me straight
in the eyes but looking right past me at all times. There is no small talk at all. The guy says, “vodka cran.”
I smile as I fill
up a glass with ice. In my head
I’m saying, “I’m fine thanks, how are you?” What comes out is silence.
As I pick up the
vodka with my left hand and the cranberry juice with the right the guy tosses a
ten-dollar bill at me and then looks away. I ask, “would you like a lime?”
He is not paying
attention at this point. I ask
again. Nothing. He is staring off in the distance at
one of the music videos playing. I
ask a third time a bit louder, “LIME!?”
He instantly looks at me, shakes his head, pulls his drink from my hand
and walks away.
The night seems to
go smoothly. I get a few more
dickheads who are just rude but not mean, nothing I can’t handle but all simple
drinks. I am ready and
anticipating one of the complicated drinks I memorized mostly because I’m
afraid I’ve already forgotten them.
I get my first complicated shot order. It’s some Bachelorette party. Twelve women who are walking advertisements of how not to
behave at a bar order 12 different mixed shots from me. Each one tries to flirt with me. One shows a tit. Just a tit. Just cause I’m gay doesn’t mean you gotta skimp on me! They don’t tip cause often Bachelorette
parties don’t and leave within ten minutes.
The shift keeps
going and it looks like I have been making them for years. The truth is, that I only know the
ingredients and that’s it. Come to
think of it this will be the first alcoholic beverage that I will have made
outside of a college kegger. The
man who approaches me, opens his mouth and for some reason everything seems to
be coming out in slow motion. By this
point, I already have beads of sweat on my forehead since I realize that I am
not an experienced bartender and a horrible liar. He asks for a vodka cranberry. All of a sudden, I am put at ease because he has ordered
such an easy drink. I am so confident
that I will make him the best vodka cran that I try to pick up the bottle with
flare. I toss the bottle in the
air just slightly, so that I can catch it upside-down to pour the booze
required. The bottle is slipperier than anticipated, it of course gets into my
grasp and slips from my little hands.
The bottle falls on the ground, spills on my shoe and all over the
floor. The bottle has not broken
though. While I am horrified at
what is unraveling in front of my eyes, I feel a laugh coming on. As the confused customer is now staring
at me pissed off, not amused and checking their cell phone, I just start
laughing really loud, smile, give a wink and tell the poor dope that he made me
nervous. He seems shocked. The poor sap is eating it up. This is when I realize the obvious,
that this job is not as hard as I am making it. Now one should ever take them-selves too seriously.
Luckily, as
mentioned earlier, I have Aaron working next to me. He is on fire tonight and probably higher than I have ever
seen him. He is also wearing a lot
of glitter which ads his look tonight.
I am amazed at how resilient he is. Every few minutes when there is a lull he pulls me aside and
tells me about the new little furry bear man he is dating for the day. He then tells me about how he hasn’t
slept in the past 3 days, has fabulous sex the night before and had just gotten
back from a trip to New York where he partied with famous DJs like
Cozwell. Getting caught up in his
extravaganza of a life makes it easier for me to just let go and not take
myself so seriously. Aaron has an
interesting way of exaggerating in his stories that entertains and puts me at
ease. After listening to one of
his stories about his cub-man lover from nights’ prior, I turn back to my
bartending station to a wall of people literally. I almost shit myself.
All of a sudden I feel like I have to pee. I have been fine all night, but now I have to pee. It’s a nervous tick I have always
had. Interviews, tests, long road
trips, while I can make it a near day without peeing, the second I get in a
pressure-filled situation, the bladder decides to hate on me. I know that I can’t leave now, because
if there is a time to pay my rent, now is the time. I cork it. In
my head I had imagined tonight to be so simple and unravel as such. I assume that I will have people
throwing money my way simply. I
will have beautiful men fawning over and waiting for me. I will look amazing shaking shots,
doing tricks with the bottles.
That’s kind of how the night seems to be working out, minus the spilled
vodka bottle and the 10 or 15 broken glasses due to my clumsiness. It’s fine until my station is insanely
packed with people. I spill one
drink on a customer. I tried to
look cool while making shots for a round of girls and then I can’t get the pint
glass out of the metal shaker cause I had put it on too tight. Then I continue to accidentally break
the pint glass with little shards of glass sprinkling into the shot
glasses. The poor girls looked
horrified. Then a few minutes
later I spill a pint of beer on a customer as I slip walking over to them. After that, I made a martini and
accidentally break the martini glass stem as I am filling the glass. Essentially, the night closes with my
back and arms in pain as though I just finished some aerobics class. I am also drintched with beer, wine,
and a few hints of whiskey. The
smell reminds me of the white trash memories I left behind in East County San
Diego.
It has truly
turned into a classy night. From cosmos to lemon drops, I make everything that
night. Most of them are made
incorrectly, but that is the least of my problems. After an hour or two I felt at ease while still clumsy, I
learned that playing dumb worked in my favor. Turning a blind eye to my mistakes I make and just try to
make it look like I am having fun.
Aaron sees that I am having a stressful night, so being the big
brother-type that he has to me, he hands me a cookie. Starving and stressed out I took a bite of his magical
cookie, not realizing that I will be reeling from it’s mystical powers sooner
than predicted.
Next predicament
of the night to get through… Now
that I have made it through a night of drink slinggin’, I need to count my tip
money. I have piles of wet
one-dollar bills, quarters and stuff to organize and then get someone else’s
register counted and balanced. I
am too messed up by this point. It’s too late to save me. I am trying to keep my magical cookie experience
under wraps and focus on the job at hand.
I am counting this money now for the fifth time and still things aren’t
balancing out. Come to think of it,
I have been counting this bundle of fives for the past what seem like
forty-five minutes but are actually less than two. Instead of counting my twenties I just start to stare at one
twenty-dollar bill and forget where it came from. Now Aaron looks over at me to see what’s taking me so
long. He looks like he has seen a
ghost. I look at him, his lips
that are covered in lip-gloss and think to myself about how thirsty I am and
how much I need chap-stick. Dry
mouth is kicking in.
Aaron quickly
whispers, “that cookie has hit you hard girl… You should go.”
Aaron out of all
people says that. If that’s the
case, then I must be messed up.
The night ends with me hopping into a cab, red-eyed, with a hagen-daz vanilla
ice cream bar in one hand (half eaten before I get in) and cab fare in the
other. I ask Aaron the next day
what happened, if he counted my stuff for me.
Aaron says, “gurl,
I counted your stuff and it was fine.
After that I went to the gym and was there for ten hours! I met this
daddy that was fuzzy and fine!”
I assume if Aaron is okay with the way the
night went, so am I.
No comments:
Post a Comment