Bartending nightmares (a short story)

An ice cold Cuba Libre splashes against the back of my throat and I feel a sense of euphoria, briefly justifying why I'm here. I lean back in the booth and glance at my coworkers who don't seem to be as tired as I am. The Jamaican rum is helping to sooth the rush of anxiety that has been the last four hours of my night. One of the veterans, Angela, takes a seat next to me. As she begins to talk to me, her overpowering scent: Givenchy's Very Irresistible, makes it hard to concentrate.

"How'd it go tonight?"

I consider bitching, but she probably doesn't want to hear it.

"Not bad. How were your tables?"

"It was a little too dead."

I can't comprehend this attitude. The last four hours tested my mental threshold. There were moments when I considered slipping out the back door. I had it all planned out, too. I could have told my manager to quickly cover the bar for me while I used the washroom. Then, I could have bolted through the rear exit and made a clear getaway to my truck. I was parked within eyesight of the restaurant's front windows, so it would have taken a James Bond-esque effort, but I could have done it. Then, if I escaped undetected, I could speed away in my 2000 Nissan Frontier and spend the next year avoiding the restaurant, my coworkers and any patrons in attendance on this given evening.

"Yeah, I hate when we're this slow," I lie.

She nods and begins to calculate her cash-out. She seems as if she is on auto-pilot as she flips through all of the $50, $20, $10 and $5 bills she has accumulated. As I watch her, I wonder if I will survive this long enough to ever gain her level of experience.

I consider beginning my cash-out, but instead choose to procrastinate and take a scan of the bar. One of my managers–the only one I can tolerate–told me to clock out early. He has taken over the bar to serve his employees any post-shift beverages they choose to consume. Three servers gossip about other coworkers who weren't working this evening. Someone has been too bitchy lately and someone else is too cocky and one of the managers has been cutting too many hours.

Every now and then, a few of the kitchen staff pop their heads out from the swinging doors. Their faces show envy. If they only knew, when I looked at them, I, too, felt the second-most deadly of the seven sins.

One of the gossiping servers, Mark, is pressing another one of the gossiping servers, Summer, for information.

"Did you sleep with him?" Mark asks Summer, while periodically glancing over at the third gossiping server, Kirsten.

"Oh my God you guys; I can't tell you that," Summer tells Mark and Kirsten.

"Come on! We're like your best friends," Kirsten says.

"OK, but you swear not to tell anyone?" Summer asks.

"We swear!" the Mark and Kirsten reply in unison.

As I eavesdrop, I wonder if Summer knows that all of the staff remaining in the bar can hear her loud, whiny voice.

"We fucked. But it didn't last that long, which was annoying. But holy shit, I forgot to take the pill that night, and I was too drunk to notice that he didn't wear a condom, and I'm totally freaking out."

"Oh my God!" Kirsten replies.

I now have a new motivation for starting my cash-out: getting Summer's whiny voice out of my head.

Angela is now putting on her jacket; it is clear she is in a rush to get home. I take the calculator she was using, pull the receipts and money out of my pocket and begin my last chore of the evening. A bill from table 34 brings back haunting memories that the rum had helped subdue.

---

"Wade, table 34 is yours."

I don't believe what I'm hearing. I haven't even gotten to two of my other tables yet and I've got a drink order up for eight Strawberry Daiquiris that I need to blend for one of the other servers.

This particular manager–who is a dick–stares back at me, waiting for a response.

"I'll try to get to it as soon as I can," I say.

"Fuck! Just figure it out."

I feel like throwing up the middle finger but I don't have time for that. I rush over to the dishwasher and grab our one and only blender. I scoop ice with one hand and grab the pop-gun to shoot in some lime juice with the other. The lime juice trick was an early tip I learned from an experienced bartender who trained me. "It helps the liquifying process," she had said. I take the strawberry mix and give three generous squirts. I throw the lid on and fire up the blender. I then rush over to one of the tables I have yet to greet.

"Hi there," I say with a beaming smile. "I'll be looking after you folks this evening."

Two men are at table 31 and one of them is staring deeply into my eyes.

"Hi," he says. "How are you doing tonight?"

"I'm doing great, thanks."

"Oh, good. We're doing great, too. We've had such a good evening, and so we decided to come here for a lovely meal," says the man who is staring at me. He has yet to blink.

"Awesome! Can I grab you gentlemen a couple of beverages?"

"Oh dear, well we haven't even looked at the menu yet. How do you like working here? It looks like a lot of fun. Is it fun working here?"

"Yeah, it's great," I lie. "How about I give you guys a couple of minutes with those drink menus?"

"Sounds great," he says, then finally blinks.

I'm a few steps away from 31, en route to my other yet-to-be-acknowledged table when I suddenly hear a familiar voice.

"Actually," says the guy who I had just managed to escape. I do a 180-degree turn and step back to his table.

"Yes, sir?"

"I would absolutely love a strawberry milkshake."

I pray that this is a joke. Milkshakes are more of a pain in the ass to make than Daiquiris and I don't have time for this. He's not blinking, but he's not laughing. I jot down 'strawberry milkshake' aggressively on my notepad.

"And for you, sir?" I ask the other individual while forcing a smile.

"Just water, please."

Thank God.

It is at least 15 minutes before I acknowledge table 34, which in restaurant terms is an absolute failure. As I approach the table, I make eye contact with an elderly woman who gives me a sweet smile. I breathe a sigh of relief as I approach the table. I love those who have sympathy.

"Where the hell have you been?" is what the sweet old woman's angry spouse asks me.

Don't judge a book by its cover.

"Sorry folks, my apologies. We're a little busy tonight and I'm also barten–"

"I don't want to hear your damn excuses," says the old man while staring at his menu.

"Fair enough, but I am sorry folks. Are there some drinks I can get you two while you take a look at the menus?"

"I think we've had long enough with the menus. You can take our food order as well."

"I'd be happy to," I say with a smile that is forced.

They order the same meal and I consider complimenting their originality, but decide I should probably keep my smart-ass comments to myself.

I get back to the bar and servers have taken over, making their own drinks and giving me disgusted looks as if I'm lazily not doing my job. To make matters worse, the old grump from 34 wanted a pint of Molson Canadian, and I discover that that the keg has run dry. I rush to the back to swap kegs. Somehow, that goes successfully and when I get back to the bar I decide to get the grumpy old man's wife her glass of house white, but I have trouble locating the Jackson-Triggs in the fridge.

"We're out of Triggs," my manager says.

"Fantastic," I reply.

I pour out a jug of foam from the Molson tap to bleed the line before pouring a pint for the gentleman at 34. I rush the beer over to him and turn my attention to his wife.

"Unfortunately, we are out of our house white wine, but if it's alright with you, I can upgrade your glass to Beringer, a higher quality white wine, for no additional charge."

I figure this good deed will definitely win over the hearts of my senior citizen guests at table 34.

"How about you bring my wife some sort of goddamn drink right now!"

"No problem, sir. I just wanted to make sure that the change was alright with her."

"What the hell is your problem?" the man asks me. The question catches me off-guard.

"I don't have a prob–"

"You take ages to come to our table, then you go fool around for 10 minutes while we're waiting for our drinks, and now you come to our table and you don't even have a drink for my wife?"

I glance out the front window and see my silver truck parked in the lot. The back door has never been so appealing.

"Excuse me," says a voice from behind me. "My strawberry milkshake?"

---

"Good-bye," I tell Angela as she walks past me toward the door.

I decide that maybe some people are simply cut out for this work, and others–like me–aren't. Angela never seems to complain. She is always looking to make herself busier and she is probably the only one here who can survive without requiring an alcoholic remedy at the end of a shift. I wonder if I will ever get there. I wonder if I even want to.

"See you tomorrow," she shouts back as she walks out the door.

I shiver as she says this.

My glass is empty. I ask my manager to mix me another rum and coke, this time without the lime.

"Oh, and one other thing," I say. "Make it a double."