Notes on a Cocktail Napkin

It was song 153 on the jukebox at the Market Cafe.  You got eleven plays for a buck and Night Moves by Bob Seger was always the first and last song I picked.  I’ve always had an affinity for that song and would get excited every time The Ruse would play it, which, wasn’t as often as I would like because no one knew the lyrics.  I always threatened to print them up and get on stage with them.  Well, last night I forgot to print, but I did get on stage.

Saturdays are tough.  Somehow with three days off, the ten hour shift on Friday throws my everything out of whack.  The farthest I journey is to the mail box to see what Netflix hath sent.  I got tired of hanging out in my cave so I went in to work early to get some food.  It looked a little busy so I jumped behind the bar to help out Stevie.  The first guy I pointed at said, “Newcastle.”  He said it a bit too loud and sounded like Corky from “Life Goes On.”  I served him his beer and immediately regretted it.  For the next forty-five minutes I watched as he hugged his friend in that drunk way.  You know the way.  As in, the only way he could get oxygen was through human contact.  Gator commented, “Why do drunk people always want to hug and touch you?”  I had no answer.  Lucky for me, Corky left before I started.  I try and read people or events early in the shift and thought this boded poorly for me.  I was wrong.

I was told there would be a pub crawl at 4:30.  They showed up two minutes later.  I told them that they were the most punctual pub crawl I had ever seen.  They drank beer but a couple had cocktails.  Most of them were one and done which usually annoys me, but there were all so nice and well mannered.  They delayed there next stop and ended up staying for the game , and, eventually, ordering food.  It wasn’t too busy until about 6:45, when a stream of people walked in.  One group was a for a twenty-one year old’s birthday, massive tab.  Another was for a birthday party of eight, another massive tab.  It was an epic shift until someone asked for a channel changed.  I did as they asked and every TV froze up in the eighth inning.  It’s a good thing nothing exciting happened while the TVs went down, oh, except that Uribe hit a home run to break the tie.  Normally, when things like this happen, my sphincter constricts to half a micron in diameter, but it kind of made me laugh.  Hey, t’s only baseball.  I felt bad for our Philly customers.  At least, they still have the Eagles and cheesesteaks.

In stark contrast to Friday night, I returned from dinner to a busy bar.  It was also strangely populated by adults.  Our bar has a bit of a frat house reputation.  When people ask what kind of crowd we get, I answer, “Younger.”  I say that only because most customers end their order with “Thanks, Gramps.”  If someone walked in at eleven last night, they would’ve seen a much older crowd, a mature, polite, good tipping older crowd.  I relish these nights.  They tend to choose cocktails over car bombs but it makes the place, oh, so civilized.  Alas, it all came to a screeching halt after midnight.  Tim and I discussed if it’s better to start busy or end busy.  Turns out it all depends on how busy is busy.

I just finished serving a cocktail when I heard it.  ”A little too tall, could’ve used a few pounds.”  Yes, Night Moves was calling me.  I ran back to hear them skip the second verse and everything after that.  In fact, they just kind of sang two words, “Night Moves.”  I was gonna leave out the back door when the singer said, “Hey, Mr. Bartender come on up and sing.”  Since I didn’t know where the lyrics were going I quietly demurred.  But he kept asking and I thought, “Maybe I could bang a groupie”; even though, I would settle for a hand job from a roadie.  I got up and sang the only two words that the band was singing, “Night Moves.”  It was all really overwhelming up there.  The lights were super bright and the crowd was screaming.  I had my fifteen minutes and it was a blast.

It picked up again and no night would be complete without a featured douche bag.  He was probably late thirties, early forties.  He asked, “How much for a tequila shot?”  His accent reeked of a family history of carpet sales.  ”Seven dollars,” I responded.  ”Do you do discounts for large orders?” he asked.  I told him no.   Then asked what he did and if he gave discounts at his job, like if someone wanted to buy a really big carpet or a large quantity of camels.  The line of the night, “I am a student,” he said.  Look, I’m sure Methuselah took some Learning Annex courses when he got up in his 800s, but in no way was this guy a student of anything.  I humored him and asked how many he wanted to buy.  He responded, “10 or 12.”  Truth is it would’ve been a good idea to comp him one if he bought ten, but I’m not a haggler.  The most I’ve ever haggled is when I bought my bed and asked for it without tax.  In general, I see how much something costs and I buy it or I don’t.  After working nine hours, I’m not gonna engage in a round of The Price is Right and I could tell this guy was looking for a deep discount.

After we counted our money we were surprised that we didn’t make more.  The night prior we did better than I expected.  I guess it just goes to show that expectations suck.  I wish it could’ve stayed busy all night.  When you’re behind the bar, you never know what how it’s all gonna work out.  Ain’t it funny how the night moves.

pic by Affendaddy

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