What’s Wham!?
Bartenders and whores have many things in common. Most importantly, they are both occupations for the young. I know that aging bartenders move to day shifts or the airport and I’m sure whores aren’t much different. Every once in a while I’m reminded of my age. Yesterday it was merely minutes after I clocked in that my forty-one years started to show. Amanda, who works before me, loves the music channel Rock Show. Now I love classic rock as much as the next senior citizen but I feel that customers may want to hear something more than the same seven songs repeated over and over again. I announced that I would be changing the station, when Gator said, “Great. Now we have to listen to Wham!” Amanda replied, “What’s Wham!?” Just for my own sanity, Dear Reader, please let me know that you know who Wham! is.
After my age affirming co-worker left, a new record was set at my bar: seven black women bellied up. Now records haven’t been kept and we discriminate against no one, except for the homeless and the cheap, but in a night where there may have been nine African-Americans in fourteen hours, seven at once has to be our personal record. They were lovely women from Dallas and Chicago having a cousins reunion. I love the idea of a cousins reunion. I have three: one in Northridge, one in South Pasadena and one in West Hollywood. I see the first one, once or twice a year, the second one, every couple of years, and the third one I refer to as my father’s niece.
My happy hour shift resembled an hour glass. It was busy in the beginning and got super busy at the end. My favorite customers are then ones who show up after happy hour ends and want some special dispensation. We are one of the few bars that have happy hour from when we open until seven p.m. every day. But for some reason, some people can’t make it in that seven hour window. The conversation usually goes like this. Customer: So what’s happy hour? Me: It ended five minutes ago. Customer: So what’s extended happy hour? Me: Extended happy hour is when you either a) get into your time machine and come back six minutes ago, or b) come back in approximately seventeen hours. In either case, the deal we’re quibbling over isn’t all that great a deal.
This brings me to the idea of anchoring. All of our drafts except for two cost seven dollars. The other two: Bud Light and Our namesake’s Amber Ale cost four dollars. I hate that we have these two beers. First of all, they suck. Second of all, it brings down customers’ desire to spend more money, essentially, “anchoring” them to this lower price. Last night our “House” beer caused me undue distress because I get questions like, “Do you have any four dollar draft specials?” I want to say, “How did you guess? I mean of all the numbers you could’ve chosen you picked the exact one.” Kimi brought up a good one last night. When a customer says, “So, uh, your Amber Ale, what is it?” “It’s an Amber fucking Ale! You said it yourself!” But my all time favorite is. “How is your four dollar house beer?” “It’s four dollars.” “I know how much it costs, but how does it taste.” “It’s tastes like a four dollar beer.” When a customer asks a question like that, it’s akin to asking about masturbation. They just want to know how much they can consume before going blind.
Most of our clientele was fine but there definitely was a douche bag of the night. I can’t give him a fake name because his real name seemed fake. Alas, he had a semitic last name. Yes, I believe he was one of my people. I don’t know how non-Jews feel but anytime a Jew does something wrong, I tend to internalize it. I figure some Catholics probably cringe every time they hear of a priest banging some altar boy, but then again, after the Inquisition, you may become inured to scandal. In any case, Cock Breath looked like a Meth head, except for the weight problem. He ordered a Stella Artois and asked to close out. I ran his card and saw that another credit card slip for Cock Breath left no tip. Giving him the benefit of the doubt I stood over him and watched him stiff me. I said, “You don’t tip.” He said, “Not tonight I don’t.” I said, “I really appreciate that.” I then saw Cock Breath talking with a couple of ladies. Knowing that he would ruin his game better than I ever could, I decided to stay back, but future douche bags of the night beware, a bartender can fuck up your game with impunity.
There were many high not low points last night but one of the consistent ones is the quality of our food. I used to hate our shrimp salad because the stench of it could knock a buzzard off shit house from thirty feet away. I used to liken the smell to dead pussy but that’s so crude. Now I liken it to a Marlin shitting out a halibut and leaving it to rot in the sun. Classy. In any case, I talked one person out of the dish when she asked but couldn’t do it when another straight up ordered it. The dish came out and it didn’t smell like anything. Chino informed me that we’re now using fresh shrimp. It’s the little victories that keep me going.
Pic by: antjeverena
