I work at a nice restaurant and bar at a certain train station. The fact that we're located at a train station does well to bring in some very interesting customers. Some great, some are incredible assholes. I won't get into the good regulars yet. The bad ones are just so much more interesting. Jon, a deaf man of about 60, is a complete asshole. I know, he's deaf, I must be nice. But what deaf person would get angry with a bartender for handing him a piece of paper and pen? I don't understand your moaning and hand gesturing. You jackass. Don't get impatient with me when I'm showing the utmost patience to you. And then don't run up a $50 tab and leave me with a .50 tip... seriously, 50 cents. No one leaves a 50 cent tip unless they are intentionally insulting you. It is not my fault that my ears work and yours don't. Marty, a big-shot lawyer from Philadelphia, is a lonely, royal pain in the ass. 4th wife died on him before he had the chance to screw things up with her. His son doesn't talk to him much. He doesn't talk much about it anymore, since he quit drinking. Yet he comes back to the bar, drinks all of my club soda and obnoxiously barges in on everybody's conversation. Greg is a pretentious freelance sportswriter. He wrote a positive review of one of the owner's other restaurants, and expects me to compensate him for that. I give him free refills on his coca-cola and a few extra meatballs in his pasta and he thinks he's a made man. Mike and Steve are an interesting pair. Mike usually comes in first, orders his burger, and has a glass of water. He's fat and lazy. You can see it in his face. Late 30's. His cheeks sag at each side and make a permanent frown. He's balding. He always wears the same blue shirt with the phrase "Alice in Chains" across the chest, and below, a picture of Alice from The Brady Bunch, bound and gagged and terrified. Steve arrives about 15 minutes after Mike, about just the time when Mike receives his burger for the first time. He always sends it back. The bun is always burnt. I tell him, the bun is grilled. It's not burnt. The butter on the bun hardens and crystallizes. He doesn't like it, but he wants it grilled. Just not burnt. It comes out the second time. Still burnt, but he'll eat it anyway. Reluctantly, of course. Steve looks quite a bit like Mike. Same relative age. A bit shorter, still has his hair, and always unshaven and greasy as if he hasn't showered in a day or so. At least he drinks beer. Mike and Steve sit quietly, watching the television and don't talk much. They leave together. No wedding rings on their hands.
All these people I have to be fake with. I have to pretend I am their friend, and I'm on their side. Everyone has their problems. But I don't get paid enough to be the stress ball. New and interesting people every day, new and awfully ignorant and pathetic people every day, new and completely depressed, suicidal people every day. I've seen it all. A 60 year old woman exposed her breasts to me. Another 60 year old woman had a heart attack in front of my eyes. She died. I met a man with terminal cancer who got a clear bill of health just 30 minutes before. In the bar for some of the best chicken tenders he's ever had in his life. I've made love-less love to 21 year old (I think) girls, all the way up to 40 year old divorcees. In the cafe, the kitchen, the basement, the restroom, the manager's office. I'm not kidding. And I'm not fired. I work with my boss. He's the other bartender. He's a retired cop. He's a coke-head and a sex-addict. He's a hell of a good time. I can do pretty much anything I want at that bar, that is if it's after-hours, and it's okay because Dan (my boss) has my back. He's been there and way beyond. Slept with a midget. Stole security tapes of himself with a few unlucky ladies. He once double-teamed a girl on the roof of a club. She tripped and fell down the trash chute, he grabbed his friend and they disappeared. His friend got married and moved on, all of his friends got married. They are not allowed to talk to Dan anymore. He has no friends, he is desperately lonely, and he has me on Saturday nights. We have a hell of a time. And I'm tired of it. He's 42, I'm 23, and I'm tired of it.
You need to tell me where you work. I might have to film the mayhem.
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