Low Expectations
The day after Thanksgiving tends to be a let down in the bar business. I guess since the day before is one of the busiest and the day of most people consume more food and alcohol than many sub-Saharan cities do in a month. My Dad asked if I wanted to get back to work and the answer was “no.” After the peace and quiet and gluttony of Palm Springs, I just wasn’t feeling it and didn’t expect to make much money. But one thing life has taught me: if you’re expectations are low enough, you will often be surprised.
Dad and I spent Thanksgiving at Copley’s. It’s a spectacular restaurant which I recommend to anyone. Wednesday and Thursday were much the same. We went to the movies in the afternoon and Copley’s at night. Wednesday we saw Four Christmases, which was really funny and far better than I expected after the drubbing it took from the critics, and I ate scallops and shrimp over creamed corn to start and parsley and lavender scented lamb chops with white bean ratatouille and baby spinach. It was decadent and delicious. Thursday we saw the House Bunny at a second run theater for two bucks; and, unfortunately, it was pretty lame. I was surprised how many times I found myself saying (in my brain, not aloud), “That should’ve been funny.” It mostly fell flat. For dinner, I started with the Hawaiian Ahi Tacos Tartar in a sesame miso shell and a double cut pork chop over pumpkin and goat cheese polenta and broccolini. News flash: It didn’t suck. Since I had to be at work Friday at four-thirty, I drove home after dinner. I expected there to be no traffic and was wrong. Traffic wasn’t too bad but where the fuck was everyone going?
I got up Friday, went to the gym, then did what every red-blooded American who wasn’t trampling a Haitian, temporary, Wal-Mart employee was doing. (Bad Joke. I apologize. By the way, the fact that someone got trampled by people trying to buy low cost goods from China disgusts me. What I don’t get is why they couldn’t wait a few minutes instead of busting down the doors? It’s not like there were people getting in the side door early.) I shopped. I went to the Sunglass Hut where I was greeted by three employees: an Asian, Caucasian, and African-American. The first words out of my mouth: “BLACK FRIDAY! Where’s the deals?” I’m sure the African-American employee looked at me and heard, “Get me some shades, slave.” I thought about overcompensating and saying, “Dude, black refers to profit so it’s like a compliment.” Instead, I bought a pair of shades at full retail price, tipped sixty percent, and ran out, forgetting my purchase.
Since not many people work the day after Thanksgiving and Main Street shoppers aren’t the biggest drinkers, I expected to spend Happy Hour waiting for the Laker game to start. I was surprised when Andrew, a bond trader, who moved to Boston, came in and opened a tab. He organized a get together which brought a nice crowd. The Masters of the Universe have gotten a bad rap lately with the whole leading us into the new and improved Great Depression, but I must say, they are great tippers. He left me a hundred on two-thirty. It may have been a drop in the bucket to him, but it meant the world to me. And after wiping his cum off my chin, I thanked him profusely. Looking back on it, thanking him “profusely” may have come off as kind of gay.
I was working the second half of my shift with Kevin and Aoife, our only two Irish employees, and in true Irish fashion, Aoife slept in and came in late. When Aoife got to work, she acknowledged what a slow night it would be and offered to leave. I checked the sales from last year and bid her adieu. She figured three of us and can make a little or two of us can make a lot. So Aoife took off and it was still really dead. I was afraid that two of us would only make a little. The Automatics were our band for the night and they play the entire “Tommy” album by The Who and I must say it’s unbelievable. I love hearing it, but I was bummed there weren’t many people there to experience it. I got a text from Aoife saying it was busy at Finn’s. I thought she was rubbing it in, but the quiet was merely the calm before the storm.
At about eleven-fifteen, it picked up and a twenty minutes later it was busy. It’s a long bar for only two bartenders when it’s slammed; and, although, I love it when it’s busy, it was tough going, but we made due. I had Gator jump behind the bar to help get us out the weeds. He was a big help and earned himself a large satchel of my cookies. Towards the end of the night, I was making a drink when some dude yelled, “Yo! Where’s the bathroom?” I shouted back, “Yo! In the back.” He apologized for being a douche. Kevin, who never suffers fools, overheard the exchange and said, “I’ve taught you well.” He has.
The best part of the night happened when we were counting our money. This one guy, who ran into the back to fawn over the Automatics, raved to Kevin and I about the band. He was blown away by how accurate their version of the “Tommy” album was. He said, “Kevin Moon, Robert Daltrey, Pete Townsend….” I don’t know what defines a fan, but in regards to bands, knowing the members’ first names is a step in the right direction. It turned out to be a lucrative night for me, which was due in large part to Andrew. But it was an even greater night, because of my low expectations.
