Slow Weekends
I have an amazing memory. I remind people of things they said or did years ago. I remember many of my failures with a shudder. But for some reason, I forget how slow the bar can be after the holidays. With New Year’s Eve only two days prior and people still licking their wounds, I didn’t expect it to rain money. It just makes it that much harder to deal with douche bags; and, yes, there were a few.
Friday’s douche bag award goes to the bar golf losers. For the uninitiated, bar golf is where a bunch of dip shits dress up in golf attire and do a pub crawl. What differentiates this from an ordinary pub crawl is that these serial date rapists keep score of their alcohol consumption. For instance, if a person can chug a beer, their score is one stroke, while if one takes two tries, that’s scored as two strokes, and so on. I didn’t have the pleasure of serving these jerk-offs, that luxury fell to Kimi. Aside from being loud and obnoxious, they didn’t tip. For those unaware, three dollars is not a sufficient tip for eight pints of Guinness. Of course, cheapness does not warrant the douche bag of the night award. What sealed the deal was that they broke several glasses during their douche off.
Saturday’s douche bag award went to a new comer. How could I tell? Because after he plucked a cherry from the fruit tray (one of the seven mortal bar sins), he told me he was new to town. He ordered two vodka and red bull. I asked if he wanted to start a tab. No, he wanted me to close him out. After a couple of minutes, I picked up the check presenter. The credit card was removed but the check wasn’t signed. I said, “Could you please sign the credit card slip?” “Sure,” he replied. A couple minutes had passed and Aoife was asking him where the slip had gone. Instead of signing and returning it, he must’ve crumpled it up. We reprinted the credit card slip and he signed it, no tip. Aoife and I alerted Tim not to serve the bald cunt in the green shirt. It’s really amazing how in one meeting a person can come off as such an asshole. In one transaction, he ate from the fruit tray, got rid of his credit card slip, and then stiffed us. He later came up to Tim to ask a question. Tim walked away saying, “You’re getting nothing from me.” Turns out he just wanted a “To-Go” cup. Nothing like trying to violate our liquor license just to take away the drink he refused to tip on.
Believe me, it wasn’t all bad. There were far more stars than turds. First of all, my sister set a record for a non-United Kingdom resident spending her vacation at O’ Brien’s, eleven days. It was a blast having her in. Last Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday Lindy burned the midnight oil with me and woke up Sunday feeling under the weather. I want to make her a t-shirt, “I spent my winter vacation at my brother’s bar and I all got was the flu.” Hey, it beats the chlamydia most women get. The two biggest stars were Martha Bane and Jamie Dailey. They came in Saturday happy hour and were unbelievably generous. In fact, they made my night. Some people wonder why I work happy hour after three years and it’s because it can be the difference between a great night and a mediocre one.
We’ve been on a four-month tear and as the saying goes, “This too shall pass.” As most people, over ate, over drank, and over spent for the holidays, they tend to make resolutions which will most likely keep them out of the bar. I even made two resolutions: 1) stop eating wheat (done), and 2) stop smoking (not yet.) In any case, these are the lean times. If the economy doesn’t implode, we should be back on track mid-February. This is the first of, hopefully, not too many slow weekends.
