Glasses
For being lazy and shiftless, stoners can be pretty industrious. Give a dope smoker weed and fire and they’ll find a way to smoke it. Whether it’s coring an apple at right angles, rolling up aluminum foil, or punching holes in a soda can, pot heads will find a vehicle to support their addiction. Unfortunately, the bar business isn’t the same way. You can have a fully stocked bar, but without glasses, you’re screwed. You can’t just pour booze into a customer’s mouth, no matter how much they beg.
Yesterday started off great. My buddy Steve did a good lunch business, which fed into my happy hour. An attractive woman, Liz, came in and asked if we sold cigarettes. We don’t, so I told her where I just bought my pack. (I can’t believe I’m smoking again, either.) She asked if she could bum one. No problem, less for me. She orders a Stella and I give her a smoke. I join her outside. We flirt. Turns out she’s staying at the hotel behind me my apartment. She writes her cell phone number on her card and tells me to call her when I’m off. In three years of bartending, this is a first. To be honest, it’s super flattering, but I don’t expect much from it. I figure if she’s giving me her number at six p.m. knowing I finish work at three a.m., any number of things could happen. Finding another bartender who leaves work before two is at the top of my list of why this tryst won’t take place. Happy hour turned out great. By eight o’ clock, most of the tables were full and there were quite a few people at the bar. This is just the kind of thing we needed after being shut down two weeks prior. Around nine, the bar hits a transition time. It’s usually super slow for a couple of hours, as the happy hour crowd leaves and the drink your face off people are still home getting ready. It was actually steadier than I expected. We got a small pop around eleven and that’s when it happened.
I can’t remember what beer the customer had asked for. It was probably a Stella Artois. When I looked around for an imperial pint glass, there were none. Now this does happen now and again and I invariably turn to Tim and say, “Remember when we used to have glasses? I miss those days.” The Guinness glasses we use are really fragile and break easily, especially in my jittery paws. But we usually run out when we are, how do I say this, busy. And busy we were not. Since my boss was let go, certain jobs may have fallen through the cracks. Ordering glasses could be one of them. I accept this. But what shocked me was when we ran out of rocks (cocktail) glasses. I have no idea how this came about. It’s a long weekend and I know we’ll be slammed Sunday. I don’t know if we can get glasses by then, I’m hoping.
The night worked out great. Although it wasn’t super busy, customers were extremely generous. At about two forty-five I sat down with a cocktail and texted Liz. This may come as a surprise, but she didn’t get back to me. As my manager said, if you’re on the other side of the bar at last call, you’ve got a pretty good chance of taking someone home. If you’re on my side of the bar, you have a better chance of meeting someone, but that one hour is a long time when your quarry is about to pass out in her own vomit. Oh, well. At the end of the day, it is a job. I do it for money. Taking home a woman is merely a benefit, kind of like health insurance or a 401k. I’m going back to work in two hours. I need to take a nap. I’m sure I’ll dream of my bar filled with glasses.
