The Bloggingest Week 7: SHOW US YOUR TITS

(The Bloggingest Week is a week where I have mental diarrhea I’ve got way too much to say and/or I found a ton of cool stuff on the Internets and have to share it every single day.  You’ve been warned.)

Last night at the bar, one of the regulars asked me why I wasn’t in such a good mood more often.  I told him that a crowd of about 50 was expected that night, so the promise of money had done a lot to alleviate my spirits.

This should have been a satisfying answer (it would have been had I asked the question of someone else), but the regular was about 7 hours into an 8 hour night of drinking.

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” he said.  “You seem really self-confident tonight, like you’re happy with yourself.”

“Let me tell you something, George,” I said. “I am always happy with myself.  It’s everyone else that I’ve got a problem with.”

But he still went on about how I’m sometimes in a good mood but never a great mood, and that I’ve never been in as great of a mood as I was last night.  Which may be partially true.  I’ve been at the bar in a foul mood before, but I’ve also been reasonably pleased to be working there.  Last night was great because I had a ton of customers, everyone was polite, and despite a few people who thought it was acceptable to tip in 25- and 50-cent increments, I made money.  That’s really all it takes to make a bartender happy.  Business, business that doesn’t suck, and money.

This is a problem I’ve dealt with since I started bartending.  As a service employee, you’re expected to fit a certain mold.  That mold is set by the people you work with.  If the rest of the bartenders at your bar call people “sweetie” and give out hugs to any mesomorph who shuffles in, the customers are a bit disappointed when you prefer to keep a safe, sane, hygienic distance.  I don’t call customers sweetie because I don’t call anyone sweetie, and I don’t give out hugs because I don’t like to be touched.  This has nothing to do with my ability to make drinks or listen to your problems like I care, so what’s the big deal?

The big deal is perception.  It’s a lot like how a guy will go into a strip club and, mid-lap grind, tell the stripper he can tell she doesn’t really like him, or how he knows she’s just doing this for money.

Well, no shit?

Do you go to your job because you just looooove being there?  Doubtful.  Do you do things at your job you’d rather not do if you weren’t getting paid?  Probably.  When you’re at work, do you hop up on your desk and shout to the heavens that you’re such a lucky guy and you’re so happy you could burst?  With jazz hands?  Fuck no you don’t.  So why should the stripper?  Why should I?

And perception is clouded obliterated by alcohol, of course.  I’m aware that this is a hazard of the occupation, and that if I wanted to surround myself with more lucid types, I should have been smarter and become, I don’t know, a lab technician or something.

So while I was busy being uncharacteristically happy last night, everyone else got shitfaced.  Which of course led to another misperception, which could have been disastrous were the person doing the misperceiving not such a weenie who was too drunk to speak.

Just after last call, one of the regulars walked in.  He’s normally not out that late, but he’s always very nice and I like having him in the bar.  He was walking in as some other semi-regulars were walking out to catch their cab.

When some other regulars saw him walk in, they did the Norm Yell (without saying “Norm,” obviously, because that’s not his name) and one guy yelled, “SHOW US YOUR TITS!”

The regular obliged by pulling his jacket aside.

Somehow, the weenie I mentioned got all screwed up in the brain and started bitching about it when nearly everyone else had left.  According to him, the guy who yelled “SHOW US YOUR TITS” “fucked up big time” because he yelled it at the female member of the semi-regular couple, and she was very “distraught” as she left.

“No, Weenie,” I said.  “If she was distraught, it’s because she was running to catch a cab after drinking a bottle and a half of chardonnay.  It had nothing to do with her tits.”

“No.  He fucked up.  He said what no man should ever say.  I saw it.”

“You saw the short side of a 12-pack.  Now get out, we’re closed.”

Perceive that.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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