Tag Archives: bartending

Protected: One Lawyer, One Gym Goer, Both Assholes.

13 Nov

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Let the freak out attacks continue

8 Nov

I feel compelled, in this blog post, to acknowledge that I know that I am freaking out about things much less BIG than not having heat and electricity, or having my house washed away or burned down, or not having access to food, or having lost friends or loved ones. I am sitting here in my lit and warm apartment, my cats meowing hungrily (they are totally thrown off by the time change and subsequent early darkness and think it is time to eat, it isn’t), and with home-cooked food in the fridge.  All that being said, I am freaking out.

I have just recently articulated to myself, and now to all of you, the fact that I am completely and totally self-sabotaging.  Not to the point where I am incapable of being a reasonable human being in the world, but to the point where if I don’t do something I will be bartending forever… not that there is anything wrong with that but it just isn’t for me.  For example, I am really bad at applying for things.  Like, really bad.  I will find a job or an internship or a program and be like

Yea!  That is perfect for me!  Wow!

And then I will go for a run and have an imagination adventure where I get that job or internship, or get accepted into that program, and I am so super awesome at it that the head promotes me, or moves me somewhere really cool, or tells her friends about me and then all of a sudden I am this really fantastic and successful person with this job that I love and everything is great.  Only then I look at the qualifications and see that I need relevant experience.  Don’t have it.  Unless they need someone to shake some cocktails.  And then I look at the recommendations and I fall short.  Who would want to write me one?  What professor would I ask?  What professor would even be willing to write it?  Would they even remember me?  Do they know enough about me to make it work?  Do I even like them?  Does a recommendation from my boss at the bar count as a professional reference?  And then I sit there and stare at the computer and then I decide,

Okay, maybe I will do it tomorrow.  I will send out the necessary emails and put myself out there.  Can’t hurt to try, right?

But then tomorrow comes and goes and then the deadline is past and, voila!, I have not applied and there I am imagining what could have been rather than what could be.  Or, another example!  One of my friends will be like

Oh!  Hey!  This is perfect for you and I know someone who would hook you up and you should so totally email them and drop my name!

And I’m like sweet.  So I look into it and it seems great and then, guess what?  Don’t reach out.  Think about how cool it would be.  Then get nervous about not being a good fit.  Or doing something stupid and having it reflect badly on my friend.  Or I worry that I won’t interview well and that I own absolutely zero business/business casual clothing.  And then I’m like,

Well, let me sleep on it and email them tomorrow

And then guess what? Tomorrow comes and goes and I don’t do it.  I sit there and feel bad about how I’m not doing it but I still don’t do it. And then I realize my friend has put herself out there by offering to put me in touch with someone and I am the asshole who doesn’t follow through.

Or!  This!  I am like inches away from getting my master’s degree and all I need to do is write one thesis (70 pages) and one final paper (20-25 pages) both very manageable and both things I can do, and what happens?  I get so distracted by learning all of the things that I fall into this black hole of information, most of which is not relevant to what I am theoretically working on.  And then I have piles and piles of papers that I have mostly read and lots of blank pages.  Or!  Lots of pages that are written but may or may not be connected to the other pages or the overall theme of whatever project I am working on.  This is a problem I have never had before.  Usually, if nothing else, I can sit on my ass for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week and knock out whatever it is I need to knock out.  But now?  No.  And then I am like

Great, here I am with almost this degree that will make me feel, if not be, more qualified to do something other than pour a pint of beer and what am I doing?  Obsessing over farmer’s rights, downloading Ever Note so I can save everything that ever seems interesting and read it later (but really I read it right away) and downloading real crime books on my Nook (okay, that last part only happened once, about 15 minutes ago).

But then I think

Okay.  How about this?  How about I just finish my thesis and then I travel and try and get my head on straight.  And then I realize I don’t like to travel alone and basically all of my friends are doing things and therefore can’t fuck off for a few months.  And also, I get very stressed out about money and I have to pay off the loans I took out to finish this degree I can’t seem to finish but has to be finished in 5 years otherwise all my work was for naught.

And so now it has been 30 minutes and rather than working on an application for a really cool language program in India, or a conference in Switzerland, or a scholarship to do research, I am writing this blog about how I am incapable of doing anything.  And now I am going to publish this blog, read my newly downloaded nonfiction crime book, and occasionally stress about how I am not doing anything productive.  And then I will go to work until 4am.  Maybe I’ll see you there.

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Basically the most awkward shift EVER

5 Nov

In honor of my favorite day of the year, Marathon Day (basically a national holiday in Rebekah-land) I switched my normal Sunday day shift for the evening so I could stand on my corner in the cold, screaming my voice raw and clapping my hands so hard I bruise them.  Man, I love Marathon Day.  But this year there was no Marathon Day.  No waking up in the morning like it’s Christmas, jumping up and down on the bed screaming “Marathon Day! Marathon Day! Marathon Day!”  No frantic run for coffee before the elite runners fly by.  No crazy costumes.  Instead, I woke up a little late, played around the house, went for a run and did the laundry.  Then I went to work, or tried to anyway.  Besides all the other effects of Sandy, the F train is running a little…er…slow.  I waited on the elevated train platform for 40 minutes, arriving at work at 8:30 for my shift that was supposed to start at 8.  Damn.  I finally got there and the bar was dead.  Like, dead dead.  We’re talking crickets.  I figured it would eventually pick up.  It didn’t.  What did happen was probably the most torturous, awkward and uncomfortable shift I have ever worked.  Curious?  Read on.

At approximately 11PM a tall brunette walked into the bar, ordered a Guinness and took a seat.  She sat right in front of my dish washing sink which, as events unfolded, became problematic.*  About 10 minutes later, a shorter blonde woman came in and walked right up to the brunette.  This is what happened (names changed because I think that’s what people do in situations like these):

Blonde:  Morgan?

Brunette:  Yes.

Blonde:  I’m Allison.

Morgan (awkward silence): Do you want to chat?

At this point, readers, I figured this was an internet date.  I mean, why else would two people who clearly did not previously know each other have this sort of awkward introduction at a bar?  Well, I will tell you.

Allison:  Chat?   About what?!?  You ruined my life.

Um.  Okay.  So now my interest was piqued.  Having done all the dishes trying to figure out whether these two ladies were on a date, I had no other reason to hang out right in front of where they were sitting.  (Why did you fail me, dishes?!  In my one time of need!)  I positioned myself slightly down the bar, standing near my only two other customers who also happened to be the only other customers in the bar for the rest of the night and who also happened to leave me about 10 minutes later.  Alone.  In what I can only imagine is something akin to hell.  I eavesdropped on the next bit of the conversation.  From the bits and pieces I got, Allison’s husband was sleeping with Morgan.  Not only was he sleeping with Morgan, but Allison had gone on a business trip only to come back and find out that (1) Morgan was basically living in her house while she was gone and (2) at some point during the stay Allison’s 7-month old baby was in the bed with her husband and his side piece.  The two women then sat there talking for about 30 more minutes, with Allison trying to explain to Morgan why what she was doing was wrong but how Allison doesn’t really blame Morgan but instead blames her lying sack of shit husband (not a direct quote) and Morgan saying that part of the problem was that Allison wasn’t having sex with her husband and that’s probably why he looked elsewhere.  Allison then told Morgan that the reason they hadn’t been having sex was that Allison had given birth to 2 children in the previous 3 years and was basically either pregnant or breast feeding at all times.  Also, she was tired.  At this point, dear readers, I would like to interject two points.  One, I was very unclear as to why Allison was sharing with Morgan any details at all of her sex life (or any other portion of her life, for that matter) with the woman her husband is banging and two, if I ever found myself in that position I would take the opportunity to live out a dream of mine:  pouring my drink over someone’s head in a public place and storming out.  The conversation was painful to hear.  And then, it got worse.

Enter the lying sack of shit husband.**  So just to be clear, we now have the husband, his wife, and the woman that the husband has been sleeping with behind the wife’s back.  And me.  Alone.  At the end of the bar with wine and disbelief.

The conversation then devolved into the weirdest thing I have ever witnessed.  And it went on and on and on.  And then on some more.  The husband, Brad, called Allison a crazy bitch, accused her of raping him, accused her of slitting her wrists and then pulling her sleeves up to show Morgan the scars.  There were none.  Apparently, or according to Allison anyway, this had all happened in the middle of a drug-related melt down on the part of Brad.  Morgan spent most of the time laughing nervously while Allison kept saying “this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, why are you laughing?!”  Morgan then talked about the number of people she was sleeping with at the same time she was sleeping with Brad which then sent Allison into a rage about whether or not they used protection which Morgan “wasn’t sure about” but Brad assured her they were.  I am fairly certain Allison got tested for everything today.  I know I would have.  I kid you not, this went on for 2 hours.  Two fucking hours.  I was sitting at the far end of the bar, staring at a full glass of wine with my hood up, whispering to myself in a lame attempt to cover up the awkwardness.  Brad noticed and yelled down the bar “to” me in a bullshit attempt to acknowledge the horrible scene I was witnessing.

Brad:  Ugh, she’s wearing a hood!

Me:  I am trying to block everything out.  Just pretend I’m not here.

Brad:  No, you should hear this.  It’s hilarious.

Me: (silence…scowl) Um, yea.  Not so much funny from where I’m sitting.  I think I’ll get some fresh air.

I only lasted outside in the cold for like 3 minutes. I came back in.  It was still going on.  Eventually, Allison stormed out but only after she had paid for all of their drinks.  Brad then turned to me and said

Brad:  Well, she should pay for them, she’s been pulling all the money out of my checking account.  $40,000 this week!

Me:  I do not feel bad for you.

The adulterous couple then stayed for another bit, rehashing the evening with Morgan claiming that she wasn’t really sleeping with a million other people, including an Australian for those who care, and Brad making sure that his crazy bitch of a wife hadn’t ruined his awesome new relationship.  At 5 minutes to 2 I finally kicked them out.  I was secretly wishing they would ask me for my opinion so that I could look at them dead in the eyes and say “I think you two are possibly the worst human beings I have ever had the misfortune of sharing a space with” but they never did.  Assholes.  And they were lousy tippers.

Also, this experience was SO MUCH WORSE than I could ever capture here.  There was so much more awkwardness.  So much more horrible.  Oh, like when Morgan decided to tell Allison that on her and Brad’s 15th anniversary when Brad said he was working late he was actually screwing her.  Oh, and also when Morgan recounted a dream she had about Allison and how she had given Allison a hug and then they were friends and it was great and can’t they be friends in real life too?  And also the time Brad told Allison he married the wrong woman and she poisoned everything she touched.  And when Morgan assured Allison she would be fine because “she’s still young and attractive and has nice clothes.”  Nice clothes.  Seriously.  Okay, I’m done.

*You see, non-bartender readers, I have to spend a lot of time at the dish washing sink because I have to spend a lot of time washing dishes.  Even if there are only 3 people in the bar I somehow manage to rack up dozens of dirty glasses.  I think we have a poltergeist.  This means that if there is an annoying person or an incident of some kind in front of my dish washing sink, there is no way for me to avoid it.  I have to stare at it all will I dip my hands into scalding hot chemical water.

**When he walked into the bar I literally almost yelled “this guy?  All this hubbub over this guy?!” but I restrained myself.

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When is it safe to be outspoken?

16 Jul

I.

This past weekend I had one of those experiences that goes into the negative column of my pluses and minuses analysis of being a bartender in New York City.  It was my second night working until 4am in a row and, if you know me, you know I am not at my best on little sleep.  Around 9:30pm, about 1.5 hours into my 8 hour shift, these two guys walk in.  One of them orders a vodka soda, the other an orange juice.  I serve them and go about my business.  Every time I look over, the one with the alcoholic beverage is looking at me expectantly, despite the fact that his drink is almost full.  I walk over to see what he wants (a glass of water, perhaps?) and he looks me up and down and says, in a thick Russian accent while simultaneously miming squeezing someone’s ass cheeks,

Those shorts look nice but they could be tighter.

Cue Rebekah’s Blind Rage.  I do a few quick deep-breathing exercises, turn to the asshole sitting across the bar from me and say

Yea, this isn’t going to go like that.  Mind your manners or leave.

I continue doing my job, hoping that the many shades of anger have drained from my cheeks.  Whenever I look up, however, the man is still staring and I vaguely hear him asking me questions.  Do I work out?  What’s my name?  Where do I hang out?  Okay, that is it. I grab the man’s credit card from where I had placed it behind me, run it through the machine, and slap his card and receipt down in front of him.  He gently takes it, signs it, and pushes it back towards me.  Good, I think, he got it.  But that would be too easy.

Can I get another drink?

No.  There are plenty of other bars around here that you can go to but, just a word to the wise… keep your opinions about your bartender’s wardrobe to yourself if you want to be welcome anywhere for more than 5 minutes.

And then the fun really begins.  He stares across the bar at me with this awful little smirk on his face, arms folded in front of him while his friend looks on with knowing silence.  Clearly this wasn’t his first rodeo.  I stand there, staring back, blood pressure rising.  I tell him to leave, he seems to think his comment was completely acceptable.  I get more and more annoyed.  He isn’t going anywhere and I’ve decided neither am I.  I am fully aware that as long as I am standing in front of him, he is going to try and stay in control of the situation but I just can’t allow it to happen.  I have to prove a point, even though I know the point will be completely drowned in his misogyny.  He tells me I am harassing him.  Clearly he needs a dictionary.  Finally, I’ve had it and I say, calmly with my arm pointing towards the exit,

Get the fuck out of my bar.

And, all hell breaks loose.

What did you say to me?  You wouldn’t say that to me on the street, bitch!

I absolutely would, actually.

You whore!  I will kill you!  When I see you out of here I will fucking kill you!  I will knock you down and spill your blood on the street!*

At this point, standing up to achieve the highest possible level of intimidation and still yelling his head off, his accent getting thicker with each spat threat, he reaches a pointed finger across the bar and, unintentionally I think, pokes me violently in the bottom lip.  His face registers just the tiniest bit of shock and he turns on his heel and walks out of the bar, friend silently following behind.  My anger goes through the roof.  I storm down the length of the bar, and out the front door, screaming at him as he retreats down the street.  Some friends and regulars of the bar, looking an even mixture of confused and concerned, pursue the man down the street and I retreat to the office to catch my breath, leaving the fate of the bar to my bar back who was of relatively little help during the whole altercation.  My boss and I check the business name on the card, a garbage and carting business.  Great.  As usual I get into it with the wrong guy.

*This is not a word-for-word quotation but I’m pretty sure I got all the key phrases down.

II.

There was, of course, the inevitable moment when I retraced the build-up to the blow-out, thought about all the things I did and what I could have done differently.  Did I overreact?  Should I have just ignored him?  Could the whole thing have been completely avoided?  Could I have calmed this man down rather than riling him up?  The list of questions amassed, relating to ways that I, the victim of sexism, verbal abuse and assault had actually been the instigator.  How classic.  This then led me, the next day, to a downward-thought spiral about what it means to be female.  It means that, to many, my body is public property there to be ogled, critiqued and touched.  It means I have to think about when it is safe for me to stand up for myself and when it is best to put my head down and walk faster.  It means that, as much as I disagree with this, I feel compelled to contemplate my outfit before I leave the house lest it lead to additional attention that I don’t want, am not looking for, did not ask for.  I know that me calling this man out on his behavior was not the most productive use of my time, anger, righteousness, but behind the bar, for the most part, I am safe and, for once, powerful.  I have something that he wants and cannot just take.

On the other side, though, his over-sized reaction got me thinking about issues of power, powerlessness and safety.  I know what my capacity for violence and reaction is.  I can assume where that line lies for most of the people I come across but there are some, mostly male, oftentimes white, who have never had their privilege questioned by someone they see as lesser than they whose actions I cannot predict.  It was at that moment when I realized I was not safe.  As a woman, I am not safe.  The power dynamic between genders that flourishes, oftentimes unchallenged, in everyday life is one that puts me at an express disadvantage.  I am worth less, I have less ownership of my body and because of these things it is my responsibility to pick my battles wisely because, in asserting my own equality, in demanding respect, my body can easily become the battleground and that is a battle that, sadly, I would lose.

I do not regret what I did and, if placed in the same situation tomorrow, I would handle it the same way.  But I will take the experience as a teaching moment in which I got a glimpse into the depth of violent anger possessed by, and uncontrolled by, someone else.  It’s a scary thing to face.  I was (relatively) safe where I stood and I had plenty of people there to back me up.  But if I came up against that guy on the street, alone, and hurled my favorite choice words in response to his degrading comments, I might not have been so lucky.  It’s an unfortunate reality.  What we as women face is not only violent language, it’s violent actions and in the latter case we are largely disadvantaged, we will oftentimes lose.  It’s something to keep in mind.  For me, for all of us.

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A Simple Request

1 Jun

Working in a bar has made me learn a lot about people.  It has made me realize that, on the whole and when combined with alcohol and a certain lack of respect for service professionals, people are poorly behaved and quite stupid. In the past, I have written a a few times about the poorly behaved subset, but today I wish to regale you with a tale, a short tale, of stupidity.

My bar, for those of you who have had the pleasure of drinking there, is a bar, strictly that.  We have weekly food specials — wings on Mondays, cheese and crackers on Wednesdays, bagels on Sundays — but we lack a kitchen.  All the foodstuffs are brought in from outside and are free.  Sometimes, this leads to some confusion.  People come in on non-food days thinking that there will be food out.  People take a seat at the bar and place an order for wings when the goods are located directly behind them in a heating tray.  People sit down and order a beer and ask to see the menu.  All these different misconceptions about the services we provide, or don’t provide, are completely understandable.  The conversation I had last night, however, was not understandable at all.

A group of four people came in and found a table.  The representative of the group, a tall guy in plaid, then came up, ordered the decided-upon drinks, and asked to see the food menu.  I responded the way I always do.

“Sorry, we don’t have a kitchen but you’re more than welcome to bring food in if you’d like.  I also have this big book of menus if you want to order something.”

He nodded at me vigorously.

“Would you like the book of menus?”

More nodding.  I handed him the book, which is actually a huge binder full of little laminated folders packed with tons of menus from local restaurants (mostly Asian Fusion, it seems) and went along doing my job.  About 45 minutes later, a thin girl in a green dress (a t-shirt, maybe?) comes shuffling, and I mean shuffling, up to the bar, holding the binder open on her extended forearms.  She slides the binder down onto the bar in front of where I was doing dishes and looks up at me, doe eyed.  She then looks down at the open menu laying across the binder, looks up at me again and then cocks her head to the side.  At this point, I was pretty sure I knew what was about to happen but I didn’t want to believe it.  I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Me:  “Yes?”

Simple Girl:  “We would like to order take-out off this menu,” tapping her finger on the menu for a local Middle Eastern restaurant.

Me:  “That’s great.  Call them.”

Simple Girl:  “Oh, we have to call?”

Me, exasperated:  “Yes.”

She then picked up the book of menus and once again laid it over her forearms and headed back to the table where the rest of her party awaited her.  I looked in disbelief at two of my other customers who had overheard the entire interaction.  They looked equally as amused.  I shook my head and continued on washing glasses, chuckling about the stupidity of the request.  Then, it occurred to me, it wasn’t just this one stupid girl.  There were 4 people.  There were 4 people sitting at a table, deciding where to order from, and they all came to the consensus that the reasonable thing to do at that juncture was not to order directly from the restaurant that clearly had no association with the establishment in which they were currently sitting.  No.  The reasonable thing to do was to send someone up to the bar with the menus to request that the bartender order their dinner for them. I stopped being amused and got a little sad.  People.  So stupid.

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Don’t Be An Asshole

3 May

Last Thursday night I was, as I am every Thursday night, behind the stick of the bar in which I work.  It had been one of those days.  Specifically, it had been the day that I was harassed by someone in, and on my way home from, The Home Depot near where I live.  I was not in the mood.  But, in an effort at being professional, I tried to put my day’s anger out of my mind.  After all, it wasn’t the fault of my customers that some asshat in an SUV had stalked me through a hardware store and then tried to give me a ride home.  The night went along more or less without a hitch…until about 3:15.  We have this customer who comes in after his restaurant closes most nights of the week. I find him incredibly annoying.  Also, weird.  Annoying and weird.  But as long as I ask him how his night went, give him the 5 tastes of beer he wants and then the actual pint he decides upon, everything is more or less okay.  I try not to talk to him much but to be pleasant when do.  Generally he only stays for one or two, generally he is gone by 12:30 or so.  This past week was different.

He, I’ll call him Daniel, came in at the usual time with a few of his coworkers.  They were celebrating the return of one of the other employees of the restaurant who had been injured the week before.  We were all happy he was back at work and smiling.  Daniel had his customary two beers and then the third.  After the third beer, about 2 1/2 hours after he originally showed up, he decided to go home.  I was happy.  Then, 15 minutes later, he was back.  That is never a good sign.  Generally I find that people who come in late night looking for that one last drink are the most problematic of them all.  Sometimes you don’t know how much they have had and that last one puts them over the edge.  Sometimes you know how much they’ve had but, since they have been there for awhile and you know them, you feel a little bad cutting them off even though you know you should.  You don’t cut them off and you always, every single time, regret it and swear next time that happens you’ll do it.  But then it happens again and you don’t.  Vicious cycle.  Anyway, I have no idea of what this guy’s tolerance is whatsoever.  I only ever see him have one or two.  But I knew when he walked back in the door that this was the drink that was going to do it.  He ordered a Guinness.  With a 4.2% ABV, I figured this was a safe and smart order.  He started asking my coworker a question.  She said she didn’t want to talk about it.  Then he did the thing which I find that men often do:  he asked her again.  Again and again and again.  He phrased it differently.  Tried to guess the answer.  Over and over and over.  Finally she, and I, had had enough.  It was my bar – she was barbacking – so I decided to step in and ask him to drop it.  As I see it, as a bartender, it is my job to make sure that my clients and coworkers feel comfortable and safe and not annoyed.  He argued with me, told me he wasn’t talking to me, that I interrupted.  She fled to the bathroom, I walked away to the other side of our very long bar, leaving him alone.  A few moments later a song came on that sounded more appropriate at a funeral than in a bar, so I walked down the other end, past Daniel, to skip to the next one.  He started up with me again.  I ignored him.  And then, again.  Clearly this is a man who doesn’t take no, or drop it for that matter, for an answer. Finally, after another pointless back-and-forth, I got so annoyed by his condescension and accusatory tone that I asked him to finish his beer and go.  He said he could go somewhere else.  So I said fine, and I took his beer and pulled it in front of me, a sign that it was no longer his to drink.  He looked at me and said,

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” I responded, “but I’m fairly certain you are.  I’m working.  This is me doing my job.”

And then he said it, “go fuck yourself,” and he stormed off.

Now I have been a person far longer than I have been a bartender, but 95% of the times I have been told off in one way or another have been when I have been behind the bar.  And 95% of those times have been by men.  It’s something that I never get used to and something I completely don’t understand.  Being called a bitch.  Told I am “disrespectful.”  Informed that if a girl at my bar has a tattoo on her lower back that is exposed it is someone’s “right to take a photo of it,” that if she didn’t want it looked at she wouldn’t have gotten a tattoo there.  Being instructed to “smile, it’s not so bad.”  Having dollar bills hurled at me over a bar as if I were a piece of trash.  I am told by friends not to let it bother me, and it’s not as if it diminishes my feelings of self-worth or anything, but it still doesn’t feel good.  All I am doing is trying to create an environment that is safe and enjoyable to the majority of people in it.  If you are the one that is standing in the way of the obtainment of that environment, then I am going to ask you to stop and, if you don’t, to leave.  And your meager tips aren’t going to stand in the way of me holding you accountable.  I don’t need the money that badly and I don’t need you to come back.  I find that the people I stand up for, the people I step in for, make much more loyal customers than the drunken idiot I tolerate.  That’s the way it is.  That is my job. Don’t blame me for the fact that you misbehaved, blame yourself.  Go home and think about it.  Figure out why it is that you are not able to act like a normal person in the world. Alcohol is not an excuse and it’s not a license to do, and say, whatever you want, even though a lot of people think it is.  All you have to do is abide by one simple rule:  don’t be an asshole.  Now is that so hard?

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