Bartending Stories

I had a few jobs in college. Some were good, some were awful and some were strange. While I was making my bones as a part-time, entry-level copywriter, I also pulled a night shift tending bar in a variety of mostly unpleasant places. I got my mixology certification just shortly after turning 21 and I quickly discovered that even holding a state license doesn't trump experience. Bars have a fairly high turnover rate, but most popular or high-end places won't hire someone for anything better than a barback shift if they don't have a year or two of experience slinging suds and rocks glasses somewhere else. For all the newbies, that first job is almost guaranteed to be somewhere shady.

Take my first regular gig, for example. I tended the bar of a hopeless dive in one of Columbus, Ohio's less savory corners. Most of my shifts were weeknights, so there were never that many customers to begin with. Working a job that relies on tips, this kind of setup is bad news. I spent at least a few nights completely alone in that place, not a single customer coming through. On those nights it was just me on a bar stool, drinking cola shot out of a hose connected to a plastic bag in the back room and watching the horrible reality TV shows that seemed to be ubiquitous in the Summer.

Of course, not all nights were quiet. My customers were not high-caliber people, so to speak. The sad fact of tending bar, especially in a dive, is that at least a few of your regular customers are alcoholics. It can get scary being stuck behind the bar, alone but for the 300-pound rummy who does nothing but pick fights with people. A lot of bars have an emergency button that automatically alerts the police, but that's cold comfort. Knowing what kind of damage this guy can do in thirty seconds makes it neigh unbearable to be stuck in a part of town where the police response time has dwindled to over five minutes on average.

One night during the shift change I took over the aforementioned 300-pound rummy's tab from the afternoon bartender. The register tape was as long as my arm and the rummy's eyes had entered that telltale glaze. When he tried to close out, he was so drunk that he forgot about half the drinks he bought for himself, or for other people when he was in his happy stage. Sure, in retrospect it's funny to think of a man slurring, "You shut your mouth when you're talking to me," but at the time nobody was laughing. A week later, I decided I'd had my last day at that bar.

In my relatively brief time as a bartender, I accumulated a substantial volume of stories. These are the real ones, not the funny, crazy, legendary stuff, but the core of what it means to sell America's favorite poison. Check back every now and then, I'll be sure to post some more.