Behind The Stick

Your friendly bartender had decided last night to not do a post this week, to take, in a twist of a phrase, a “barman’s holiday”. There wasn’t that much that happened in Barland, I haven’t missed a gig since Christmas, so why not give my two little fingers a rest? (I’m a hunt and pecker who types with his two index fingers.) But lo and behold that game plan changed, something indeed did happen, and it happened late last night so here I am typing. (And quite happy to do so.) For how, as you shall see, could I not share this moment?

See, we’re not what you’d call a celebrity bar but we do get a name now and then, and when we do it always gives a lift to the shift, or a high point to the joint, it’s part of having a bar here in New York City. You might rightly say it goes along with the geography. Stuff just happens here. But you also have to have the right place and treat celebs the right way, meaning not invade their privacy or make a big fuss over them. Sometimes they just want to stop for a drink and be like everyone else, and not be the person or persona that made them famous. At least that’s how I see it and treat them accordingly.

I’ll never forget the time that I had Pierce Brosnan alone at the bar, not one other customer at the time sharing the hardwood with him, but even so I never acknowledged his Pierce-ness. At least not with words. But he knew I knew who he was all right by the obvious expression on my face, l mean he was James fucking Bond and I fucking wasn’t. So he ordered a “Jack on the rocks” that day and because of the way he said it, just like a normal person ordering Jack Daniels, I was sorely tempted to break my non-invasion policy with him. I was tempted to take a poke at the line he’d always used as .007… that “Bond, James Bond” when introducing himself… with, “Don’t you want to say Daniels, Jack Daniels, Pierce?” But of course I didn’t. However, after he bummed a Marlboro Light from the community pack I once kept, and appeared to be as regular as you and me, especially when he snapped the cigarette in two while trying to extract it suavely from the pack with one hand (almost blushing as he did so), I wish I’d said that line for I know he would’ve liked it. That’s how regular he was. But that’s how it is with me when it comes to celebrities. I leave them alone.

Which brings me to last night’s tale on celebrity privacy…

Jimmy Fallon came into the bar and took a seat at a table, with a person who works on his late night show as a writer. And completely unlike last Wednesday night when he’d made his initial visit, unannounced and quietly with some other writer, the place last night was packed to the gills with people… drinkin’ people who might not leave him alone. And that worried me. Because even though he was sitting in the corner, pretty much out of view, the word quickly got around and the room was abuzz.

Uh-oh, I thought, as I watched the word make its way through the gawkers and talkers, whether he wants it or not he’s going to get attention. A whole damn bunch of  it! I just hope he doesn’t mind because it may drive him out of here.

Well guess what happened in a wonderful twist of fate, dear reader?  My worries turned out to be completely unfounded as attention turned out to be exactly what Jimmy Fallon wanted, and I say that respectfully! For after a sip of his gin and tonic he left his cozy, discreet corner, and asked the piano man who’d finished to do another set for him. Which the piano player agreed to. However this time around Mr. Fallon would join in the singing.

“May I have you attention, please,” he shouted, front and center with the mike, “we’re gonna’ have some fun so how ’bout listenin’ up?” And the show was on!

Now I don’t want to comment on the quality of his voice (he won’t make you forget Roy Orbison), but I will make this humble assessment on the quality of his performance… he was absolutely fabulous. For what he had lacked in “do-re-mi” which often came out “do-fa-sol”, he made up for with his showmanship and his soul. He simply knocked the place dizzy. He put on a show for a good forty minutes, along with our brilliant piano man (a guy he said he might now put on his talk show), and everyone there in attendance couldn’t believe what they were seeing. In fact Mr. Fallon said as much during the set.

“You can’t believe this is happening, can you?” he shouted to the rapt audience, “well neither can I so let’s keep this damn joint hoppin’!” And hop it did. In fact at one point he actually stood on the piano bench, pumping his fist as he warbled, rocking the crowd like Mick fucking Jagger at the Garden. And the crowd pumped right back. And when he wrapped things up with a solo performance of Van Morrison’s classic “Moon Dance”, he did hit all the right notes and the place went wild.

He then finished his drink and just like that he was gone. And so was another great moment that went down in Barland.

Now I didn’t get to meet him on either occasion, as I said, he’d sat at a table, but I wish I had as I gladly would’ve shared this history with him. Which I’m sure he would’ve loved. See, back in the nineteen seventies, and long before my tenure, of course, the original cast from Saturday Night Live used to come to our bar to unwind, we were one of the places where they held their after show cast parties. I’m talkin’ John Belushi, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman, Dan Aykroyd and whoever else I’m forgetting… oh yeah, Garret Morris and Al Franken… all in our upstairs dining room blowing off steam. Can you imagine? And boy if those walls could talk upstairs, the words would fill the pages of at least a best seller!

And I know Mr. Fallon would like to have known that now that he’s found our establishment, that he’s now unwittingly extended a longtime tradition. That he’s retied the long ago thread connected to the glory days. Yeah, next time I’ll definitely make the connection, if I do get the chance to meet him, he deserves to know as a worthy alum and successor. And a really nice guy.

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, unless either one of those fingers needs a little resting.

In the job of pouring cocktails for a living and in general running a sideshow, your friendly bartender has certainly witnessed the gamut, especially when it comes to guys and dolls “hooking up”. He’s seen all the moves, he’s heard all the lines (“Is this your first time here, Miss?”), so little at this point surprises as far as “approach” goes. The plot and dialogue don’t change, just simply the players. But there’s one scenario I recently witnessed that veered off the script completely, and one that I might suggest if you want to be different. It’s subtle, it’s cerebral, and all you need is a pen, a brain and a newspaper. Here’s the approach…

I saw this guy who was sitting at the bar working on The New York Times crossword… an act right there precluding any notion he’d spent the previous three hours working on his Ab muscles… a man, it implied, of the mind and not the torso. (Though he he may have jogged to the bar to get all his axons firing.) And as this guy proceeded to tackle his project, taking an occasional sip of his Hendrick’s martini, he caught the eye of a woman who was watching his progress, or at this point his lack of it. For he was stumped, it appeared, by the shy, baffled look on his kisser.

Now before I proceed with this Barland dance, let’s all agree that everyone likes to feel smart, right? Meaning we love to be asked a question to which we know the answer, it just makes us feel great. So our puzzler not unaware of this fact decided to try and make his onlooker feel great… with a question from his puzzle.

“Do you do puzzles?” he asked, breaking the ice.

“Ah, no, not really,” the woman replied, “I’ve tried them in the past but I just don’t have the patience.” Then she took a sip of her wine which was Pinot Noir.

“Oh well,” he said with a sigh, “I was going to ask you a question but never mind then.” Then he sipped his martini.

“Oh no, please ask me,” she said, “not doing puzzles doesn’t mean I won’t know the answer. Please, fire away!”

“Of course it doesn’t,’” he said, “geez, that was stupid of me.”

They were both in their mid to late twenties I would guess, both well dressed straight from work, and both were holding a smile that said this might go somewhere. Even if he stumped her.

“Okay,” proceeded the puzzler, “here’s your question. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” she declared loudly, bigger smile now.

“Okay,” he said, “here goes…” then he asked her the question.

Now I don’t remember what the question was so I’m not going to make one up here, but the woman remembered the answer which was all that mattered. The puzzler had thrown out the line and the hook was set. For from there on out they were bonded together in a feeling of easy good cheer, she feeling proud she had helped him out, coming off smart in the process, him feeling glad he’d created a common ground for them… a premise from which to proceed in getting to know each other. Because after that magical Q & A moment and a couple of laughs about “patience” she said she had lacked, the woman then said (The woman then said), “Do you mind if I slide my drink over there and join you?” And join him she did.

But whether the guy had planned the whole thing I’m really not sure as I type this, maybe he actually did just want her to help him, but I seriously doubt it. You could see when he first had broken the ice there was more on his mind than “Nine Down” (or was it “Fourteen Across”?), he really wanted the answer to, “Who is this woman?”.

And there you have it! A  Barland way of saying hello and maybe a whole lot more… hopefully a future Sunday morning sprawled on a king-sized bed, doing the puzzle together after all night bliss… and all because of a man, a pen and a newspaper. The cerebral approach!

Uh-oh, I just had a devious thought that was most un-cerebral.

See, just as there are cads out there when it comes to those torso-ed beauties… the aforementioned Ab-noxious guys with all the bad bar lines… there’s also got to be a cad out there who does puzzles. There just has to be. And here’s how he’ll show his prowess with the power of the puzzle. (Geez, this is devious, I’m embarrassed I thought of it.)

This cad will bring up The New York Times, early in the morning on-line, then using all the sources available within his radius of reference… the dictionary, Roget’s, the Google network and phone calls as life-lines to friends who are smarter than he is… he’ll complete the puzzle and give it a good, hard look. (A long, good, hard look!) After which, in an outdoor cafe later that day in full view of many alert lovelies, he’ll whip out the actual newspaper version and fly through the thing as if he were George fucking Will! As if he’d never seen it! And no one will be the wiser except for this dumb ass.

Yes, this man is out there, this puzzler with no sense of conscience, if not I’ve just created him as of this writing.

Hmmmm, now if only I could figure out One fucking Down in today’s New York Times enigma… an eight letter answer to the question “pop-up generator”… it’s sunny outside and there’s outdoor dining across the street! Better sign off and see if I can use one of my life lines…

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, after Confession.

“Would you guys like another beer?” I asked, of the two young suits sitting at the end of the bar. It was somewhere around eleven o’clock, they’d only just had the one, so surely a second beer would be in the offing. They apparently just got off work because they looked no worse for the wear, meaning all was well and good in the sobriety department, so these are the people you like to serve at this hour. We get this type a lot in our place, guys on a different work schedule, finance people dealing with overseas time zones. We also get the other types too, those who’d been bouncing in bar zones, who often require a babysitter rather than a pourer. But these guys were absolute aces as you shall see.

“Ah, no, one will do it,” said the one drinking Stella. “It’s late, Sir, and I gotta’ get home to the wife.”

Gotta get home to the wife? Did I just hear that? How quaint, I thought, how refreshing, and I smiled because I hadn’t heard that in years. And probably the last time I heard it was in a movie. So I said so.

“Ya’ know something?” I said, “what you just said is right out of an old movie or something. I like that.”

“Whaddaya’ mean?” said the guy, smiling but confused, with a hint of pride like I’d actually put him in a movie.

“Well, just what I said. You’d often hear that line in an old movie, ‘Gotta get home to the wife,’ and it takes me back. And the reason I mention it here is, you seem to be way too young to take me back there. That’s all.”

They were both in their mid to late thirties, these guys, good guys both you could tell, if from no other clue than the open expressions on their faces. They were wide-eyed, eager, and happy to carry this further.

Which is why the guy drinking Heineken asked this question. “So, bartender, give us some other bar lines you’ve heard in old movies?”

“Well, one I always got a kick out of,” I said, “which could never in a million years happen in real life is, “Give me a damn scotch and leave the bottle!”

“Yeah, right,” said Heineken. “I’ve seen that. I mean first off, how in the hell would you pay for something like that?”

“That you could figure out,” I said, “but I know how the bartender would pay, he’d pay with a headache. Or a fat lip. I mean this customer’s obviously pissed in the first place or depressed beyond all reason, so unless you’re a glutton for punishment here why would you willingly hand this guy a bottle of fuel to pour on either of those fires? But hey, that’s the movies for you.”

“Anything else?” asked Stella, “as far as movie lines?”

“Well, as far as lines like what you said, ‘Gotta’ get home to the wife’… you know, exit lines… I can’t name any of the movies of course and these aren’t exact quotes, but you often heard stuff like this when a guy left a bar… “The little woman’s holding dinner so it’s straight home for me, Joe.’ Or, ‘No more for me, Joe, the ball and chain’s got me on a short leash tonight.’ Or how about this little beauty, ‘The Mrs. is on the warpath so I better get myself home if I want to keep my scalp, Joe.’ (They laughed.) Yeah, that’s how guys often left the bar when they couldn’t have one more drink, and the wife always bore the brunt of those hackneyed exchanges.”

“You know what?” declared Stella, the guy going home to the wife, “let us have another one, what the hell.”

“Okay,” I said, “but if you get in trouble don’t go and blame it on me.”

“Of course I will,” laughed Stella, “because we’re enjoying you.”

“That’s right,” added Heineken, “so tell us some more.”

I felt like an Irish rabbi holding class for a couple of Rabbinical students, but in this case the rabbi’s name was fucking O’Methuselah! I felt ancient.

“More about what?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Heineken, “just stuff. Bar stuff.”

“Okay,” I said, looking down at the cell phone resting on the hardwood, “I got one for ya’. Thanks to that little gadget there bartenders don’t have to lie to your wives any more.”

“What do you mean?” asked Heineken.

“I’ll tell you what I mean. Remember in those old movies when you’d see a bartender take a call, then cover the receiver with his hand and whisper, ‘Are you here, Moe? It’s your wife.’ Well, those days are long gone and thank God they are. Wives don’t call the bar anymore, and neither do office secretaries, they call your cell phones instead and we’re off the hook. No pun intended.”

“Has that ever happened?” asked Stella.

“Well yes, I just told you,” I said.

“No, I mean did you ever personally have to do that?”

“Sadly I did and I have to say I was bad at it. Really bad. In fact, if those phone calls had been auditions, speaking again of the movies, I never would’ve worked a day in my life in films. I was a lousy actor. Actual proof of that is the fact that a wife or two over the years, after hearing my sorry performance, marched in the door and pounced on the guy that I lied for. Some cover, right?”

They liked that.

Then we wandered into a conversation about drinking habits. And how it’s changing out there. How young people seem to be ordering drinks they never ordered in the past… Old Fashioned’s, Tom Collins’, Manhattan’s, Martini’s, Rob Roy’s and Rusty Nail’s… all kinds of drinks that aren’t your lemon drop shooters. And just as I was about to orate on how the TV show Mad Men has been instrumental in that, Stella’s cell phone rang out loudly from the bar top.

“The wife?” I asked, watching him check out the caller.

“No,” he said with a wink, “the ball and chain!”

(See ya’ next Saturday, dear reader, enjoy your week!

The weather had broken in New York City, the sun seemed to do its shining both outside and in, within people’s hearts. Everything felt  alive again with a sense of hope and renewal, winter’s cold, bony grip a thing of the past. A sunny day can do that, ya’ know, especially in New York City, put a bounce in everyone’s step as they go… helping them turn the page to what lies ahead. I know that’s what this young woman was feeling sitting in our bar last week, ready to turn the page to the chapter called “romance”. She was smiling, she was anxious, she was bubbling with anticipation, all of which caught the discerning eye of our waitress.

“I think that woman on table four is waiting for a blind date,” she said to the bartender, “so she just wants a Diet Coke until he arrives. And a squeeze of lemon.” (How prophetic that squeeze of lemon would turn out to be.)

“How do you know,” asked the bartender, the guy who works our day shift, “did she actually tell you she was waiting for a blind date?” He then filled a glass with Diet and squeezed in a lemon.

“Not exactly, but that’s what I’m getting,” said the waitress, picking up the glass, “I think it’s one of those computer hook-up kind of things. I’ll find out.”  Then she took the drink to the table and started a conversation. It was slow on the floor at the time of this event, that lull between lunch and dinner, so the waitress had plenty of time to go play detective. At which she’s an expert.

“Yup,” she said, returning to the bar, “they met through an online dating service and this is going to be their first ever face to face meeting. Isn’t that exciting? She said she’d never done this before so I wished her luck and let her get back to her texting. I think she’s keeping a girlfriend apprised of the progress.”

The date was scheduled for three o’clock sharp, it was now almost three thirty, not what you’d call a good first impression for the guy here. But hey, maybe he’d stopped for a cocktail first to build up a little courage, unlike our lady in waiting who was just having Coke. Speaking of which, her glass was almost empty so the waitress reappeared.

“Would you like another Diet Coke, Miss,” she said as she approached the table, “your friend must’ve gotten hung up or stuck on the subway.”

“Yeah,” said the woman, starting to show some embarrassment. “But maybe this time I’ll switch to a Pinot Grigio.” And off went the waitress.

Now I won’t go into this woman’s appearance with any kind of untoward detail, but from what I gathered from the waitress she wasn’t that attractive. By “typical” standards I mean. She was a bit overweight, the waitress had said, her face was kinda “Plain Jane”, and her overall look was what you might call just average. Not a looker. But that shouldn’t have been a problem in this case, they’d already met online, and you usually exchange photos before the next level. Am I right? These aren’t what you’d call actual blind blind dates.

So finally, at three forty five her fella showed up (no great shakes himself according to the waitress), and he started to make his way down the four outside stairs. See, we’re one of those walk-down New York bars where the place is below sidewalk level, and as you make your way down the stairs you can see the whole room. A fronting of old paned windows affords you that luxury. So when this guy hit the bottom stair of the four where he stopped to survey the proceedings, a room where only one customer occupied a table, he saw his potential mate which stopped him in his tracks. He then stared at the woman for what seemed an eternity, deciding what he should do, then the bastard turned on his heels and ran up the stairs. He left her cold. And there sat this poor, young woman to take all that in. It was beyond unbelievable.

In fact, this was so fucking bad on so many levels my anger prevents me from trying to make any sense of it, except to say this. No matter this man’s initial reaction he at least could’ve come in the bar and had a conversation with this woman. This human being with feelings, a mind and a heart! Because maybe he then would’ve soared beyond whatever was lacking in her looks (her looks to his way of thinking, of course), and found in this person something that is far more valuable. Something like intelligence, charm, warmth and wit… qualities heretofore not on his faulty radar. Then, if the chemistry still wasn’t there after that, after he’d actually met her, he could at least have the chance to escort this woman out the door. That way he’d not only preserve her dignity rather than grind it to bits, but get to act like a man instead of a louse. For to cause this woman such stark humiliation in front of the whole staff, not to mention her having to share this with the friend she’d been texting, is beyond any kind of heartlessness I’ve seen yet in Barland. It was just plain rotten.

And I swear to God as I type these words, not to sound like some shining knight but merely a fellow human being with a freaking heart, if I’d been working the bar at the time and it was clear she knew I’d seen that entire scenario… but only then…  I’d've walked right over to her table and said, “Thank God that idiot left, miss, you obviously deserve all that that bastard is lacking. Which is class and decency. Now come up to the bar and let me buy you a drink.” It’s the least I could’ve done, for God sakes, as this woman will live with that moment for the rest of her life. And it’s just not right.

Yeah, spring had arrived in New York City with one big burst of glory, but for the woman on table four winter had returned. In one cold blast

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, with I hope better news…

Let me take a swig first for some courage…. {gulp}… Ahhh!

Okay, now I’ll say it, I’ll dare to state the unthinkable…  St. Patrick’s Day is the worst freaking day of the year. And I’m Irish!!!

Now of course I’m not referring to all those positive things to enjoy… the parade, the poetry readings, the story tellings, the music revues, the art displays and walking tours, all of which make one proud to be from the old sod… it’s that other thing that drives me up a wall. Or up against it! That insane, pressing, ethnic obligation for people to drink til they drop and get carried out the door. That thing! To start the day with the wearin’ o’ the green, in some cases painted on faces, and end the day by spewing the green on the sidewalk. It’s just another version of New Year’s Eve, that other outing for amateurs, but instead of paper hats it’s knitted tams. And instead of a tux and champagne it’s sweaters and whiskey. For the end result is still the same no matter what clothes you put on it… drink til you speak in tongues and flirt with a coma!

Now obviously I speak as a bartender here… one who is forced to aid and abet this  folly… so I clearly view these proceedings from a different vantage point. From behind the stick. From a place where I almost want to carry a stick! You don’t believe me? Try this on…

Try being bar number 53 on the list of a day-long pub crawl,  and in crawl 27 people to make your day. Just to say they’ve been there. Oh, there’s crawlin’ goin’ on all right, it’s you up the side of the wall and out through the transom! {sip-sip} And as an Irish person myself over here (at least two thirds with English and German thrown in) I all the more want to put…

Woops, excuse me a second… my glass is empty, back in a sec!

Okay, where was I? {sip} Oh yeah... as an Irish person myself over here, I all the more want to put this folly in perspective. To discuss the sheer irony of it. Because if it’s always been the knock on the Irish, and one that gets our backs up, that we’re nothing but a bunch of drunks who like to brawl (“God created whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world”), or bawl (just start singing “Danny Boy” and watch what happens!) then how can we justify its opposite when this is how we act? On our only holiday. When our one day of celebration singing the praises of who we are, is a thousand ways to get drunk and where to do it! St. Pat? Hah, forget it! He’s just the holy hood ornament on our booze-mobile. The one careening through town in search of a bar spot. I mean no one puts together “Saint” and “Pat” and says them in the same sentence with any kind of reverence, unless a guy named Pat buys them a cocktail. “Why thank you there, Paddy, you’re a bleedin’ saint you are!!!”

Damn, I just knocked my glass over, you’ll have to excuse me again… be right back! Ouch!!! Now I banged my knee on the fucking desk leg!!! What the hell’s going on here?

Okay, I’m back.

Hmmm, I’ve lost my place again? Oh well, not important, {sip} I guess what I’m really trying to say is, we shouldn’t overdo the sauce on our one day to shine. That’s all. Because, because… Jesus!… why can’t I stay on track here?

Ya’ know, as a Jack Daniels guy I have to say this Bushmill’s stuff isn’t bad. {sip} It has a nice nose to it. Hah! That’s funny, a nice nose… it also has a cute set of fucking ears! Ha-ha-ha! Now that’s really funny. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!! A cute set of ears on a bottle of whiskey!

Okay, I’m starting to get silly so back to the point here. {sip-gulp} And that is…

Sorry, one more refill, then I promise I’ll wrap this damn thing up. Be right back!

{Sip… sip} Ahh, here we go, back at the keyboard!

And so the point is, dear reader, {gulp} to make life easy on your friendly bartender wherever you go this Thgursday… Thersday… this day after Wednesday… and to shine a positive light on your Irish heritage, try and show a little restraint when you… Hee-hee-hee, why the fuck is Bushmill’s with ears funny to me? I cant stop thinking about that… anyway, ummmm,  oh yeah, try and show restrangge when you (hic-cup!) imblibe. I mean imbibe. I know that’s what I always do whenever the “spirits” move me, I (hic!) try and slow things down and reflect. Reflect on what matters in life. Things like family, friends, you out there in Barland who visit every week, and … hold on a sec I’m starting to tear up, let me get a Kleenex... (sniff- sniff!)

Look, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this any more… I seem to have hit a cryin’ jag I can’t shake. (Sniff-sniff!) And if you think that’s being a wussy out there, I’ll fight the first fucking man who even thinks it!  You got that, you bastard!

{Sip} Ahhh! Damn, that’s good whiskey. Ya’ know, I have to say, (sniff-sniff) this is the funnest, funnest post I’ve ever rotten! I mean written!

And so, ummmm, oh yeah… have a nice St. Patrick’s Day, wherever you are in Barland, your friendly bartender wouldn’t have it any other way! (Sniff! Honk!!!!)

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, Erin go bragh!

Since things have been getting heavy around here, to wit: last week’s post which ended on a sad note, your friendly bartender has decided to go sweet this week. Literally, “sweet this week”, as in Capra-esque. Here we go…

A former colleague of mine with whom I’d worked when I first started out, a guy I’ll call Tony for purposes of this story, decided one day to finally hang up his apron. Just like that. A job he’d been doing for almost his entire adult life. Like over twenty years of it. He said he was tired of slinging the drinks and slinging the bullshit as well, he simply wanted to enjoy his life for a while. (Like for two years of it!) For that’s how long he went on the lam doing absolutely nothing  (how fucking much did he have under his mattress???), after which time he decided to go be a dog walker. Just like that also! He liked to walk Central Park as it was, he did so almost daily, so why not take some dogs along and make cash for it. Tax free!

“I really do like this dog walking stuff,” he told me one day when I saw him leashed to a wire hair. “First off the walking keeps me in shape, I happen to love dogs anyway, and I’m easily knocking my rent down with room to spare. It’s a win-win-win!”  And it really was a win-win-win, especially “win” number three, for he’d inherited his mother’s rent controlled apartment after moving in to care for her before she died, and was only paying a paltry four hundred a month. Nice rent if you can get it!

But after two long years of being “dog’s best friend”, walking and scooping through life on the streets of Manhattan, the job, just like tending bar, started to get old for him. And cold! The freezing temperatures that came in the winter, not to mention the driving rains at winter’s end, eventually put “lose-lose” in that “win-win-win”. And that was just part of it. Some walks demanded a six a.m. start while others would pull him to task at eight o’clock at night. Or even later! Yeah, a leash was involved in the job all right but Tony was starting to feel like he was being tethered. To a clock! So just like with tending bar he suddenly chucked it.  No more pooch pay.

However, unlike after his bartending days his mattress wasn’t as lumpy, his bills were starting to mount and he needed to work. Find a real job. A job where his name was actually on the books, where he’d dutifully pay his taxes, and maybe receive this thing that they now call health care. Which to him shouted, “Doorman!”

Yes, that’s what I’ll do, he eureka’d, the moment that thought came to mind, it’s just like tending bar in a way…  you’re serving the public but in this case the people are sober! (Except for maybe that salesman in 4-B!)

So he retraced his steps from his dog walking days and dropped off several resumes with all the supers he’d met, and in other buildings with doorman he’d gotten to know. And after a couple of months of beating the pavement and himself up for not getting into this stuff much sooner (his legendary stash was really starting to wane now), he finally got a call to go and fill in somewhere. To do some temp work. Someone had taken a leave of absence which might turn out to be permanent, and this was a chance to see if they liked our boy Tony. Which thankfully they did. For he not only did every shift they requested, some on short notice while others took place on holidays, but he did it with a spotless record and always with class. Now I know we’re not talking brain surgeon here… opening doors for people, hailing taxis when needed, receiving packages and smiling at all who walk by you… but you actually can fuck this up and Tony didn’t. He became a real doorman.

Or so he thought.

When their co-op board had a meeting last week to discuss its various concerns, one of which was what to do about a doorman (a permanent doorman as the other guy wasn’t coming back), Tony’s name was mentioned as the obvious replacement. He’d been with the building for over two months, performed without a complaint, and based on the board’s discussion he seemed a lock.

Except for this guy…

“Whoa, wait a minute,” he shouted, after all had agreed that Tony was indeed their guy, “wait just a damn minute and let’s talk about this. Wasn’t this guy like a dog walker or something before this?” Several people nodded when he asked that question. “Well then c’mon now,” he continued, “can’t we do better than hiring a dog walker? My God!” And he said it as though he were talking about some dope dealer. This wasn’t just elitism, this was prickery!

So the very next day the super of the building who’d been in attendnace and witness to this witless evaluation, pulled my friend aside and said the following. “I’m sorry, Tony, I’ve got some bad news for you. One of the guys on the board said, ‘Can’t we do better than hiring a dog walker?’ He seemed to have a problem with that and after the meeting was over they told me to fire you. I’m sorry, I really am ’cause you did a good job for us. But those are my orders.” And to make matters worse he added, “But could you stay on a coupla’ days and train the new guy?” (Talk about balls!) But my friend, a pro to the end, did as he was asked.

Now here’s where the good part comes in and that Capra-esque finish I promised. Think “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington”, the final scene.

Yesterday morning my friend called me up and told me he’d gotten a call from a lady at the union hall. And the woman was ecstatic. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook,” she had gushed,” from the people who live in that building, and every call a request for you to get your job back. I’m serious! The new guy you trained is not working out (I told you you could fuck up that job) they overruled the board and they want you back. They absolutely love you! Now come down here and sign yourself up, I’m putting you in the union.”

Sweet, huh? For it’s proof that old dogs can learn new tricks, and so can old dog walkers, no to mention old bartenders if given half a chance. And from now on whenever I see my friend framed in that huge picture window, the one that fronts the lobby of his brand new workplace, I’ll realize “the Capra ending” is not just for movies. Stuff like that happens!

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, unless I switch careers and go into botany!

Let’s start with this… a seat at the bar on a busy night is considered valuable real estate, it’s there for you to spend money not just your time. It’s not a park bench. And few things make your friendly bartender gradually more un-friendly, than having someone sit at the bar and park. For hours! Meaning, not have a drink beyond the first, just sit and sip and sit til the cows come home. For it’s not unlike a book store customer knocking out “War and Peace”, or reading a stack of his favorite “mags” without the slightest intention of making a purchase. Browsing is fine if it leads to a sale and so is sipping if it leads to a second drink. Or a meal. Or some thing! But to pitch a tent and nurse one drink for half of my fucking shift….well… you get the picture…

So I had this woman a few weeks back who took up a seat at the bar, pounced on the seat is more like it (like a panther down from a tree on a hapless prey), barely letting the exiting woman exit. Zoom! Bang! “Excuse me, I’ll take that seat!” she declared. Once installed, this woman I would gauge in her early fifties, blond and well dressed, she plopped her purse on the bar with a thud… of a size, by the way, to house a family from Utah… then proceeded to send me on a verbal journey of our Reds. What we we “pour”. At journey’s end, perhaps because of  my limited knowledge of which I freely admit (I’m not what you’d call an oenophile on wheels) she asked me then what’s popular and what people like. And though all of our wines get a good review I said to her “Cotes du Rhone” and gave it a pour. She sipped, she smiled, she nodded and off I went to go sell whiskey. Mission accomplished!

But a good half hour later while chatting up this guy who was sitting next to her, and I do mean chatting up as he was just listening, she called me over to complain about the wine. The wine that is now half gone and perfectly fine.

Scrunching up her nose she said, “You picked the wrong one, I can’t drink this.”

“What’s wrong with it ?” I asked, knowing this was bullshit. I’d just served the same to someone who loved it.

“I just don’t like it,” she replied, not making her case.

“That’s it? You just don’t like it after drinking half of it?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, with a smile you normally see after one sucks a lemon. So I poured her a glass of Cab and walked away.

Then two and a half hours after that… let me repeat that… two and a half hours after that, during which time she’d often disappeared for God knows what crazy reasons, for fifteen minutes at a clip sometimes, her jacket on the back of the stool her claim to the space, she called me over to pay for her one glass of wine.  And given the fact that she had staked that claim for seemingly half my shift, I wanted to charge her for rent instead of her intake. Like fifty dollars!

“That’ll be nine dollars,” I said, charging her the more expensive Cotes du Rhone price. The wine she didn’t finish. See I don’t ever charge for a drink sent back if the reason is at least valid, but in this case I figured I’d make her pay the higher price. By one whole dollar.

“Nine dollars?,” she shrieked, truly feeling put upon. “That’s outrageous! For that price I can drink at the St. Regis.”

In spite of the fact that was also bullshit, you’d probably pay nine dollars for a Coke in the King Cole Room, I said, “Then maybe that’s your stop the next time you’re thirsty. Have a nice night, lady?” So she paid the nine dollars, slid a buck under her glass, then hauled her purse and her ass out the front fucking door. End of sitting number one.

For there’s now yet a second woman, dear reader, who likes to sit and sip, to whom, unlike the first, my heart goes out. And who I don’t mind serving now. Why? Well first off, the major difference between “Sitter” number two and Two-and-a-half-hour-Tilly, is not just the fact she’s polite and nice but she also knows that what she’s doing is frowned upon. She’s not oblivious. You could sense it in the way she always responded to me.

“Can I get you something else, Miss?” I’d say when I saw her glass almost down to empty. In not the warmest of tones, I might add, in the beginning. She would look almost embarrassed.

“Uh, I’m okay for now, Sir, but thank you. Maybe in a little while, okay?”

She was also in her early fifties, dark haired and just as attractive as “Tilly”, or unattractive depending on how one viewed it. I know that sounds chauvinistic and crass, my bringing looks into play, but sadly that’s the measuring stick and often the reason some people drink alone. Very sadly.

“Sure, miss,” I would say, watching her fairly blush, “just give me a holler whenever you think you’re ready.” Knowing of course she wasn’t ever going to be ready. It was always only one glass of wine, unless, of course, some guy would buy her a second. Which sometimes happened.

Now, did I like this? Hell no, as I said before my job is about selling drinks.  But reluctantly somehow I bit the bullet and would let this woman sit, until one night I damn near swallowed the bullet. Here’s what happened.

I wandered into Elaine’s one night, my usual Friday night stop after I get off, and lo and behold there was Sitter number two. Alone. And it was late. I’m talking maybe two thirty, three in the morning. Yet there this woman was, tragically, acting out a sequel, down at the end of the bar and nursing a wine. One which I bet was only her second of the night. And my heart went out to her.

How terribly sad this must be, I thought, if this is how a woman hopes to meet someone. A woman this age. How fruitless, I thought, how heartless, how absolutely cruelly this game can play out. For even if she did happen to meet a guy at this ungodly hour, what’s his potential of being any kind of gem? Not much. He’d probably be drunk or well on his way and not what you’d call a find, just out for a roll in the hay at best not a girlfriend. Yes, this whole scene kind of hit me hard and gave me a new perspective, a new perspective on people sitting and sipping. Especially this woman. Because when she turned and noticed me sitting at the bar, staring at her from afar, based on what her reaction was it was almost as if she read my sorry thoughts. For at first she started to nod and acknowledge, then quickly looked away, then downed the dregs of her wine as if she were just leaving. She called for the check, paid her bill and then left. Alone again. And I was sorry (damn it!) she caught me staring.

So there you have it, dear reader, an unlikely tale of two sittings… one from hell and one from limbo, the latter of which can sip any time she wants to. At least in my place. Because now that I see how important it is for her to still play this game, to sit and sip and wait til she no longer has to, a few extra bucks in my cup have very little meaning.

See ya’ next week-end!

Often when someone orders from the bar then takes his drink to a table, without saying anything, it makes for an unpleasant moment for your most friendly bartender. Just a moment. Especially on nights when he’s busy as hell and suddenly notices an empty stool where he’s poured. Where did Captain and Coke go? he wonders. Did the bum just hit and run without paying me? And the same applies for the reverse of this move… ordering a drink from the waiter then going to the bar… it’s just bad form. For just like anything else in life it’s simply a matter of courtesy, as it was with this person who stopped in the bar this week…

“I ordered this wine from the waiter,” she said, “but is it okay if I drink it here at the bar? I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Of course it is,” I said, then I slid a bev nap under her glass of Malbec. She was somewhere in her mid twenties, very attractive and very sweet, and obviously very polite for asking that question. It was what she asked me next that threw me for a loop.

“Are you Scribbler?” she said, rather coyly.

“Why?” I answered, just as coyly, wondering how the hell she knew about my blog name. Oh, I’ve told a few of my friends over time and maybe a handful of regulars I’ve sworn to secrecy (I believe cement shoes were mentioned at the bargaining table), but that in no way explained this new addition. This addition to “the chosen”.

“Do you remember a little over a year ago,” she said, “when you hosted that drink demonstration thing in this bar? About classic cocktails? It was on a Saturday afternoon, we were the only ones allowed in, and after we tasted your drinks our group was given a tour on the history of this place. Does that ring a bell?”

“Oh wow, that does ring a bell, a big one. I not only remember that day I remember you, Miss! I really do. And I told you about my blog because of the Wolcott thing, right?”

“Yes,” she said, “you did.”

And now as that scene comes back to me, I think I told almost everyone I was Scribbler that day. That’s because (and I don’t mean to brag) James Wolcott had just discovered my blog and gave it a plug on his web site, his “Vanity Fair” web site, which needless to say was freaking huge for yours truly. Actually it was more than huge, it was out of this world. So much so that I’ve often said, regarding him mentioning any new blogger on his web site, it’s not unlike the old Tonight Show when Johnny would invite a new comedian to come and sit on the couch after his monologue. That kind of huge! So the day this woman was recalling for me, her last visit to our bar, was fresh on the heels of my Carson moment so I myself was breaking my blogger’s Omerta. I couldn’t stop talking about it.

“And you actually remembered Scribbler after all this time?” I said.

“How could I not, I read your blog every single week. I love it!”

“You’re kidding me. Every single week since that day?” I could see the threads on my vest buttons start to tauten.

“Every week,”  she said, “every single week.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, “you’ve not only made my day you’ve made my week, Miss. I really appreciate that.” And I meant it. No bigger compliment to a writer than a regular reader, right? And given the fact she’s about to receive her doctorate in neuroscience, which I later found out, adds some extra cachet to the fact that she reads me. We’re not talkin’ chopped liver here in the brains department.

Her friend later joined her, a PR person from San Francisco who works in the publishing business…  just as sweet and friendly… whose ear I needless to say bent about writing. Especially my own. But she didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact neither of them did, and the woman turned out to be helpful regarding a project of mine.

So after just a Manhattan each, and a very long conversation between the three of us, they were off to go have dinner someplace else. Which was already planned. The only reason they’d come in the first place wasn’t so Grad Girl could reconnect with the Scribbler, far from it (I just happened to be there and she remembered me), they came because PR Girl wanted to see the place.  See her father had told her to visit our bar whenever she got to New York, he’d been a customer in the 60′s, and she wanted to see for herself what her pop had been raving about. So she contacted Grad Girl after she got here, Grad Girl said she knew the place, and the two of them came, they saw, and then they conferenced. (Sorry, Caesar!) And our bar, as her father had predicted, didn’t disappoint.

As they readied themselves to leave, we all exchanged e-mail addresses with the promise to keep in touch, which I already did the very next day after meeting them.  Having no shame (as many of you know), I sent them each a copy of one of my short stories. What can I tell ya’?

And now something from the “In Case You were Wondering Department”…

As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, I’m late this week in posting… it’s Monday for crying out loud and I post on Saturdays. Well the reason is I didn’t have anything to say this week. That’s it, plain and simple. And when I sat down Saturday morning to see if something would come about, which sometimes happens, the beginnings of a cold and its attendant malaise  told me to walk away and give it a pass. Sayo-freaking-nara! But this morning something did come about and that was Grad Girl’s words regarding my web site. The part where she said, “I read you every week.” And so… to not disappoint on the very next week after our friendly encounter, I decided to not only tell of our meeting to serve as this week’s story, but contrive a reason and purpose for the post in general. Which is this week’s lesson.

If you’re going to leave the bar or a table after you’ve ordered your drink, for whatever reason your little heart desires, have the courtesy to inform your server of the move. Okay? It not only makes life easier for all, it’s simply the right thing to do, exactly the way {trumpet blare} Grad Girl did it!

Later, gang!

PS: If you’re new around here and are interested, (here’s the post) I wrote after the James Wolcott mention. I was through the roof that week and I think it’s pretty funny.

This is one of the welcome things that sometimes occurs in Barland, something your friendly bartender likes to write about… a tender moment! Oh, he still likes to pound the gavel mind you (lest you think he’s gone soft), giving what for to those who simply ask for it, but this being Valentine’s weekend and all he thought you might enjoy this… well… tender moment.

It happened this past Tuesday night when this couple walked into the bar, this couple visiting from Connecticut, who in age outdistanced the room by at least thirty years. They pulled up two stools at the bar and the gentleman ordered.

“We’ll have a bottle of Cab,” he said, “then the wife and I are going to have a little food tonight.”  So I grabbed a bottle of McManis, our house Cabernet.

“This okay with you, my friend?” I said, showing him the label as I held it aloft. (He never asks for a wine list so I knew it would be.)

“Why that will be just fine,” he said, “yes, that will be just lovely.” Then he laid out his usual praise for our fine establishment. “Sorry we don’t get to come here more often, as you know we live out of town, but three times a year when we make our trip we always make it a point to pay you a visit. We just love it here!” His delivery was almost wooden, almost as if he were reading it, but varnished into that wood was the gleam of sincerity. He reminded me of one of those interviewees you see in those fifties newsreels, in black and white, where an innocence seems to shine through along with a politeness. Which I’ll take any day of the week, by the way, over cool!

Well, situated around the piano at this time was a group of some ten or twelve people, comprising that “thirty years” younger group, screaming out song requests and singing along with them. Singing along badly. But they weren’t doing anything wrong they were just having fun. Having fun loudly! For as soon as a song would come to an end followed by the obligatory, “Woooooooo, woooooooo, woooooooo,” which now replaces applause in live entertainment (thank you, fucking comedy clubs, for that one!), they’d shout out a brand new artist to keep the ball rolling. “Billy Joel”, “Elton John”, “Van Morrison,” etc. could be heard, even “Frank Sinatra” by a guy feeling extra “Shoobey-doobey-do” and wearing a fedora, along with “Neil Diamond” and of course “Don McLean”. In fact it was after “American Pie” that the moment occurred.

So enduring all of this noise with smiles, the “Woo, woo, wooing” all over the place, the elderly couple knife and forked through their dinner. Without complaint. They were having too good a time and just happy to be there.

After I cleared their plates from the bar and poured them two glasses of water which they had requested, the gentleman rose to make a request for a song. (Again, at the precise moment “American Pie” ended.)

Uh-oh, I thought, I hope he doesn’t get booed for whatever he requests here! Because just like Neil Diamond’s enduring “Sweet Caroline”, played earlier in the evening, “American Pie” defies one not to sing along with it. Which this group had just done, full throatedly. And now they were in a lather for more, not one song of which was likely to be this man’s request. Whistles, applause, and of course  “woo, woo”, could be heard from three miles away, as Connecticut walked through the noise and approached the piano man.

He leaned in and whispered something in his ear, dropped some bills in the bowl, then returned to the bar to retrieve his wife for a slow dance. Talk about a show stopper!

“All right gang,” said the piano man, “we’re going to have a little change of pace at this time. Here’s a song your parents might be familiar with.” Then he started to sing that beautiful love song, “Make Believe” from Show Boat, bringing the room and the hoots to a screeching halt. Except of course for the boy and girl from Connecticut.  It was time to “make believe” they were both young again.

Now I should point out this sorry fact and one about which I’m not bragging… the one where I seem to worry about other people’s feelings. Too much. And it’s not because I’m a good guy at all it’s just the way it is… as Bill Clinton would say, “I feel their pain.” It can be a real pain sometimes. And so now I feared I would feel that pain because not only had that song silenced the room as I’ve mentioned, killing the mood, but the couple doing the dancing wasn’t very good at it. And I thought they’d be laughed at. They were terribly out of step with the song, doing I think the “two step”, twirling and sometimes colliding rather than meshing. And as I watched them rock back and forth as they moved, their shoulders the motion of metronomes, they reminded me of little kids you see dancing at a weddings. It was just all off.

Ahh, but now I’ll point out another fact and one that is equally sorry, the one where I don’t give people nearly enough credit. For what I feared would occur as this song rolled along… snickers, pointing and whispering regarding this (slow?) dance… never came within those same three miles of occurring. The blissful looks on the dancers’ faces, the woman rarely opening her eyes, him with a faraway look in his as if staring into the past, trumped whatever was lacking in their two-step endeavor. Yes, appearances indeed be damned because in their minds they were a carbon of Fred and Ginger! And I’m sure that’s what the room saw too because after the song had ended, and after a cue from the piano man who said, “How about couple number one???”, a huge applause rocked the room and that moment. That tender moment. And just as the couple turned and bowed your friendly bartender gave out a sigh of relief. For he felt no pain.

So now these four days later as I ponder that night and that moment, I wish them both a Happy Valentine all the way to Connecticut, and I wish the same to you wherever you are. Happy Valentine’s Day!

See ya’ next week-end when things probably won’t be so tender…

It wasn’t the fact that she said it three times right out of the blocks, those two most wonderful words, “thank” and “you”, it’s the fact that she kept on saying it all night long. That’s what got me. For if there’s one thing I can count on when it comes to someone overdoing the politeness game, it’s the fact that that person is throwing up some kind of smoke screen. Overcompensating. Either they’ve already had too much or, having been in this place before, they have a bad track record. And this woman I’m about to tell you about… let’s just call her Barbie because she was not only blond and cute, but just like a doll she talked like someone pulled a string in her back… hit me with enough sweet “thank you’s” to warrant a dentist appointment! So what was up? For what was little miss Barbie overcompensating?

“What would you like to drink?” I asked, as she wiggled onto her stool and beamed full of sunshine.

“Oh, nothing at the moment, Sir,” she said, “I’ll just wait for my friend, he stopped in the men’s room first. But thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you very much.”

“Your welcome,” I said, as I started to walk away.

“Oh, but could I please have a menu to look at while I’m waiting, Sir? Please?”

“Of course,” I said and I handed her a menu.

“Thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you very much!”

“You’re welcome,” I said, “you’re welcome very much.”

Hmmmm, what’s wrong with this picture? I think I see smoke!

Her friend soon joined her, he ordered a Sierra Nevada, while Barbie asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio. (With a “please” first and of course two “thank you’s'” after.)

“And did you want anything from the menu, Miss, while I’m here?” I asked.

“No, not right now, Sir, thank you.”

Okay, dear reader, so I don’t drive you quite as nuts as she almost drove me, I won’t keep saying her “thank you’s” here as I tell this. At least not all of them. Just know that she threw out enough to make Emily Post look like a fucking Hun. Okay?

One Pinot Grigio later Barbie got my attention again, but this time to order a Manhattan instead of a wine. “I just love Manhattan’s, don’t you?” she said to her friend. And before the guy could answer she said, “Make that two Manhattan’s, bartender, please!”

So I made the two Manhattan’s but my antennae now were definitely starting to crackle. Like sparklers on The Fourth! Something definitely wasn’t right with this woman but I couldn’t put my finger on it, something was giving me a weird deja vu feeling. Had she been in before? (Sparkle, crackle!)

“Oh bartender,” she shouted, about a half hour later.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Let us have a double order of French fries, would you please?”

“Geez, miss, I’m sorry, the kitchen closes at eleven, it’s almost eleven thirty.”

“But they’re having fries,” she said, pouting and pointing to a table where she saw a plate of them.

“They ordered before eleven, what can I tell you?”

“Oh, okay, then let us have two more Manhattan’s, please?”

“Whoa,” said her friend, “not for me, this one’ll do me.”

I little while later,  midway through her second Manhattan, Barbie started to flirt with two guys at a table. Flirt blatantly. (Which meant Sierra Nevada wasn’t her boyfriend.) And as she readied herself to approach these guys, her drink still half full, Barbie turned and ordered a third Manhattan. (Now my sparklers are launching tiny little rockets.) For if there is another thing I can count when it comes to predicting trouble perhaps down the road, it’s someone ordering another when their drink is half full. It’s like they can’t get drunk fast enough or they want to beat you to the punch before they’re cut off. But in this case, at least so far, Barbie seemed fine. So I made the damn drink.

“And I’ll also have a double order of French fries,” she said.

“Miss, I told you, the kitchen closed almost forty five minutes ago. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” she said, cute as a button. “Thank you, Sir, thank you very much.” Then holding the two Manhattan’s, a full one and one half full, she and her friend got up and joined the two guys. The two guys who, by the way, couldn’t believe their good fortune. I mean here they were just sitting there drinking, two guys in from Chicago, and along comes cute little Barbie to put the moves on them. Chicago may be toddlin’ but New York rocks!

Then it hit me! Damn, I have seen this act before, I had this girl at my bar a couple of years ago. I knew I had a funny feeling when she entered!

See any bartender will tell you this, you really do get a vibe sometimes when someone walks into the bar, good or bad, even though you can’t remember ever meeting them. It’s just there. And then somewhere in the middle of their second drink the previous visit comes thundering back into memory. It’s like…  Oh yeah, I remember this prick, he was the guy who…” but by then it’s way too late ’cause you’ve already served him. Twice! And in this case it was also too late because Barbie was already three drinks into her Ken doll. But what started to tax my brain was, what did she do the last time that gave me this feeling? This bad feeling? Why is she overcompensating now, killing me with all this kindness? I mean she hasn’t done anything wrong so far, outside of acute cute-itis, she’s really given no reason for me to 86 her. She isn’t slurring her words, her gait is runway perfect, and other than being a pain in the ass she’s fine. Still good to go.

“Bartender, Sir,” asked Barbie, leaving Ken for a moment and returning to the bar. “Can we get an order of French fries over at that table please?” (Huh???)

“Miss, what is it with you and these French fries? Are you trying to break my chops here or what?”

“What do you mean?” she said, with a look that exuded nothing but pure honesty.

“I’ve been telling you since eleven thirty the kitchen’s closed!!! What part don’t you get?”

“Oh, okay then, thank you, thank you very much.” And with that she gracefully crossed the room to the table. But I had my crack in the ice now, I had my reason to cut her off if need be… her memory was shot. And no sooner had I gotten that thought in my head, my reason to send Miss Barbie back to Toyland, she and her new-found Ken returned to the bar.

“Sir,” said Ken, “could we please have two Manhattan’s when you get a chance?” He was sober, a gentleman and walking on air.

“For who?” I said, not in the best of tones.

“Well, for me and the young lady here if I could.”

“With all due respect, I think the young lady has already had too much. I’d rather not serve her.” And as the light went out of his eyes as though I’d just thrown cold water on his hot future, the light in Barbie’s eyes brightened inversely. Her veneer was impenetrable.

“I’m fine,” she said, “honest, bartender, I’m fine.” With that million dollar smile!

“Miss, please… you look fine, you’re talking fine, I know you think you’re fine but I have to say no. I’m sorry. It’s my job.”

Ken then gave me a pleading look like a kid who was staring at his dad after watching a Disney World commercial. “Sir, please,” he said, “I’ll take care of her, let us have one more drink and I promise we’ll leave. Believe me she’s fine.”

So there I was the heavy in front of these love birds. And though my instincts told me to stick to my guns and definitely not serve this woman, another part of my brain came up with this notion. Since she wasn’t in any way showing drunk in speech or in her movements, and no one was driving a car, they’d all be in taxis, maybe one more drink won’t sink the Titanic. Let the kids have some fun, what the hey? So, much to Chicago’s delight, I said, “Sure.” And just as I started to chill the glasses and fill the tumblers with ice, Barbie said, “And could we also have some French fries?”

“That’s it!” I shouted, not to Chicago’s delight, “Yer’ outta here!!!

And believe it or not when I gave her the bill she acted like nothing had happened, just smiled and said, “Thank you, thank you very much.” Like someone had pulled that string again in her back. It was unbelievable.

So why did I share this story, dear reader, other than to do some venting and blow off some stream here? Simply to say this. That incident marks the first time in my long (illustrious?) career, a career that has seen a lot, believe you me, that I’ve had to cut someone off for fucking French fries. Go figure!!!

Until next week, my friends, thank you so much for reading this, thank you very much!