Than To Fade Away
Friday was easy. I got to work at nine forty-five ayem to do the money. I was home by one for a nap. I’m a huge proponent of the nap. It’s a game changer. I went to work. Happy hour was huge. I knew it was gonna be a great night when Rob Cullen came in. A couple weeks ago, he started a tab, only two drinks, later I got a text that night that he was in Hollywood and not coming back. No problem. To rectify his previous tab, which I forgot about, he peeled off three twenties for our tip jar. It’s that kind of generosity that makes our shift. The rest of the night was busy and easy. Saturday was tough.
Saturday morning, I got a text from Adrian asking if I wanted to have brunch at Joe’s on Abbot Kinney. Joe’s is great, but for brunch, you have to like what they have to offer. It’s not the kind of place that you can order an omelet any way you want. Here’s what I had:
Crisp Pork Belly Confit, Sunny Side Up Shaner Farms Eggs, Gem Lettuce, Tomato Jam, Avocado Puree, Toasted Brioche.
It’s basically eggs, toast, and pork. I’m not really sure why they put Gem Lettuce in there, except to separate the eggs and toast from the pork. I’m gonna have to look over our menu. I may have to add parsley to every fucking item. After my third cup of coffee, I went home for a nap. I knew it wouldn’t happen. No matter how hard I furrowed my brow, REM was elusive.
Usually, whatever I’m feeling, I can always get it up for work. Saturday wasn’t the case. Maybe it was seeing the seventeen year-old bar back with his pants sagging. Can somebody explain this to me? I feel that jeans should neither be pulled up to the nipples, nor should they hang at the hamstrings. Maybe I’ve become a hard ass since becoming a manager, but something about seeing an employees boxer briefs while eating doesn’t strike me as too, I don’t know, professional.
I expected another lazy Saturday happy hour, thank God for the Red Sox. When ever I’m asked what team I’m pulling for, I answer, “I root for whoever’s tipping.” I can watch sports, but I don’t seek them out. I don’t get those people who stay our all night, sleep a few hours, then wake up to watch their team lose in a dark, dank bar. But, hey, they’re good for business. With that said, since the Dodgers lost, I’m pulling for the Red Sox to beat Tampa Bay then go seven games in the World Series. Whenever Boston plays, we get a great crowd and yesterday was no exception. It’s nice to hear a bar full of people screaming for the same team.
Unbeknownst to me, a practical joke had been played at Tim and my expense. Kimi came on at eight-thirty and two minutes into the shift she busted out laughing. I saw her pointing to the back bar. I looked up and saw two stuffed animals: a blue whale and orange fish, facing one another, with Garber and Tim written on them, respectively. Beneath it a sign said, Tim ♡ Garber. Tim walked in a few minutes later and noticed it immediately. I don’t know how I worked for over four hours without noticing it. The picture’s up top.
Seeing those fish was probably the last time I laughed that night. I don’t know why it was such a struggle, but the night dragged on forever. It’s not that the customers were so bad. Don’t get me wrong there were some dip shits. My favorite douche bag was a guy named George. He started his tab stating that he was a bartender, never a good sign, and told us he’d tip us in cash. George had an obnoxious way about him. When it was time for him to close out his forty dollar tab, he showed Tim and I that he put a twenty dollar tip in the check presenter. He must’ve assumed we were mathematically retarded because he said, “That’s fifty percent.” Thanks for the help. He then asked if he could get a beer, which after one closes out and does the math for you, means he wants a free beer. No problem. I gave him a Corona, hoping he’d shut the fuck up. When I looked in the check presenter, there was only ten dollars. Now ten on forty is a very good tip, but when you claim to be a bartender, act like a tool, then point out that you’re leaving twenty, you can suck my balls.
Later on that night, I needed a drink. A customer order four mind erasers. I made it five. For the uninitiated, a mind eraser is Kahlua, vodka, fill with soda, then you suck it down as fast as you can. I was never into them until my previous manager introduced them to me. He called them squeaks and I loved to partake with him. But they got kind of gross after a while. In fact, I began to gag every time I did one. I’m guessing it’s a lot like a hot plate. For some it might be a turn on putting saran wrap in front of your face, watching the turd pour out of the brown star, but after a while I figure you realize it’s just shit. That’s a circuitous way of describing how I began to feel about the mind eraser. You can set your minds at ease, this one did the trick.
We ended up having a monster night. It took forever to count my money. I’m guessing it’s because I counted out over two hundred singles from one of the tip jars without any help from someone I won’t name. Let’s just say, maybe Tim doesn’t ♡ Garber. Now that I’m working five days a week, I’ve had some concerns of burn out. It definitely crossed my mind on Saturday night. But in the words of Neil Young, “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.”
