Why is it that drunk people always think that they can do things that any “normal,” sober person wouldn’t even think of doing? It's like they have one drink and think they instantly have super powers. They are like the little kid who watches "Superman" and then jumps off a building. After having essentially lived at that bar for years, I have developed a kind of routine so to speak. Some people start their day one sock at a time, while I start every day with the following assumptions: the sun will rise and eventually set, Europeans rarely tip, a homeless person will approach me asking for change at least 3 times through out the day, and that I will witness a drunk person doing something plainly stupid. This act of stupidity will happen at any point throughout the day. It may happen the second that I leave my apartment building, across the street, 5 feet away, or 5 hours into the night’s shift. Regardless, drunks make the city and world that I live in go round, so I deal.
For some reason, in a room full of drunks, there is always the guy that has to pee. By pee, I mean that this dude feels this urgent need to pee on something, anything, anywhere, but not in a toilet or urinal because that would make logical sense. He is like that little boy who feels the need to randomly and inappropriately pants himself and show off his business in public. These gentlemen, a term I use loosely, are often of a certain kind of breed. It is often the ex-frat bro-douches that do this. This act though, is not just limited to them. About a year back, I see this guy, who looks like a regular guy, even slightly more attractive than the average Joe, not that this is relevant, but one must get a fully painted picture visualize the event. He is tall and a bit white trashy, with shaved blond hair. This is the type of guy who probably has a tribal tattoo on their forearm and I assume a pack of menthols in his back pocket. He looks similar to Matt Damon with a crew cut, with Emminem’s thug-wanna be style, complimented with a tattoo of a rose on his neck, next to a tattoo of what I assume to be his area code in Gangsta-font. I'll admit it, he is what I would consider trashy hot. They type of guy you just wanna have sex with, but would never introduce to your friends. In the middle of a busy bar, right next to the bartending station, he just whips out his penis and just starts pissing right there. Like a dog he just pees all over the floor. He does it like it’s normal for a grown man to pee on the floor in the middle of a crowded bar. What is even more astonishing, is the fact that in a room full of drunks, not a single person says or notices this guy treating the floor near the bar station like a fire hydrant. No one even glances his way, to give him a sneer of disgust as I would expect. They are all too absorbed in their own lame conversations… This is until one queen with frosted tips screams as they notice their Diesel shoes getting wet and blows this guy’s cover. By scream, I mean a pitch barely audible to humans and so high that most dogs would be on alert. The ironic part is that while this is an isolated event, goes on to happen every Friday for 3 months, all different dudes.
There is another drunken fool who comes in during our busy Friday two-for-one happy hours. In San Francisco, where the gays are alcoholics and they are cheaper than a Jew in a 99cent store at the day after Christmas clearance rack, this drink special works as a gold mine for bars and is the best time to work. This is the easiest and hardest time to make fast money to pay your rent, if you can survive the craziness that ensues. Anyway, there is this guy who comes in every weekend since the bar opened 8-years ago. This man is this rather rotund slob who resembles Jabba-the-Hut, so we shall call him “Jabba” since I don’t know or care to know his real name. Jabba works his way around the bar in his wheelchair. He is an average looking guy surrounded by his own fat who is probably around forty-fiveish at the oldest. Normally I am not one to talk poorly about the physically challenged but this guy’s case, he is a flat out perv./asshole. He always whirls around the bar trashed regardless of how busy it is and makes his way to the dance floor. Normally I am one to applaud those who defy the odds life has handed them, but really, I mean, who dances with a wheel chair in a crowded bar? If this isn’t enough, not only does he dance on the floor in his wheelchair, which normally I have not issue with, but he uses it as a lethal weapon. It’s like his way of getting back at those who have two-working legs. He get’s right in the middle and whirls around, knocking everyone around him in the shins, this in turn also clears the dance floor. Many people end up walking off of the dance floor with burst, cut up shins, limping off to get some medication (a drink) and complain about the whole fiasco to me, like I can do anything about it. To make things worse, dancing Jabba also slowly pushes the joystick on his chair as he is cruising his way through, in the same fashion that Vatos cruise down streets to “holler at bitches.” He pinches every ass-cheek, cock and tits that get in his way. To make things worse, you can smell him coming from a few feet away. His odor is very distinct, like raw meat that has spoiled, covered in that rotten egg-sulfur smell that only induces the gagging feeling more when her passes by. This just adds to my disgust for Jabba. Then after a few pints he leaves a restroom even more vomitalicious than it is prior to his visit. He does the unexpected. He leaves pint glasses all over the various restrooms and bar, filled with the piss that he empties out from his catheter. It makes no sense. Again, a sane, maybe less drunk person would empty that crap into a toilette or near by lawn I assume, but not this guy.
I come into work knowing that I should always be ready for the worst, having experienced all sorts of drunken crazies in their natural habitat. I generally assume that I personally have the ammo needed to survive these for various situations both mentally and physically, without ruining my day or my money. I keep the Emminem wannabe in my pervie little head (the place that women put romance novels and men hide their porn), in a compartment separate from Jabba, in the back of my mind as awareness of what may happen and stay prepared and remember that I am the one who has carried these people out often and kept my cool. Generally, I take some time to myself before work to do my own version of meditation for this reason alone, the maintinance of sanity or at least the closest thing I know to it. Depending on the day, year, week and what’s going on in my life this may include a cigarette, maybe a piece of chocolate. Always, always, always there is a cup of coffee or shot of espresso during this meditation period. I just sit, sip and watch passerbyers heading to bars, or walking from them as they trip over their own feet upon exit. I sit for 15-20 minutes before every shift to help keep sanity and prepare for battle.
(to be continued)
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