Twelve Hours

New Years Eve is by far the busiest shift of the year at my bar. I have worked this night for the last ten years in a row and have a very good understanding of the mayhem that is going to be unleashed during my eleventh tour of duty. The first three hours are relatively harmless…around 9:00 the pressure starts to build…by 10:00 we are starting to sink…around 10:15 we are getting absolutely crushed…at which point I conveniently take off my name tag as not to hear my name being screamed by a hundred thirsty people simultaneously…from that moment on it’s absolute insanity…chaos is an understatement. The rock band stops playing at 2:00 and we do last call at 3:00. Another three hours to clean, re-stock, do the inventory and paperwork, balance the tips, and we will be walking out around 6:00…with newly formed webbed toes, aching backs, ringing ears, palpitating hearts due to Red Bull abuse, and a substantial payoff for half a days work. It’s my favorite shift of the year. I love the blasting music, the heightened energy of the bar, and the anything goes attitude necessary to survive the evening. Some of the staff are understandably pre-stressing in anticipation of the stampeding drunken onslaught headed our way. My philosophy is that if you are going to get hit by an unavoidable shitstorm…there is no point in worrying until it actually arrives at your doorstep…9:59…that’s when I am going to acknowledge the ensuing madness. So in a couple of nights…when we are all neck-deep in the shit…Tales From A Bar wishes every busboy, bar back, dishwasher, food-runner, cook, chef, server, cocktail waitress, bouncer, support staff, and bartender…the best of luck on keeping your heads above it…and…Happy Fucking New Year!