The last several preceding nights at the bar have remained eerily smooth. However, when you interact with as many intoxicated people as I do a shift…five to six nights a week…you are bound to hit a few speed bumps on your road to making a living. I had one guy call me dick and accuse me of trying to get rid of him, simply because I politely asked if he needed his tab. Another…a hotel manager from Las Vegas…whoopdeefuckingdo…told me I lacked enthusiasm and an entertaining personality. I think he was upset that I wasn’t visibly impressed with his stature in the service industry. And finally…a man in his late forties…threw a childish temper tantrum while his idiotic wife giggled in support…because I didn’t hook him up like the bartender did the night before. He informed me that customer service was more important than pouring the correct amount of an expensive port. I thought about cutting him off just on the basis of being such an asshole. Instead, I told him to come back when the other bartender was working because my job was more important than his ludicrous idea of customer service. So tonight…the road was freshly paved as if for an upcoming Nascar race…no potholes…no speed bumps. Free of the socially abrasive insecure drunk, the scrutinizing egotistical manager, and the ridiculous couple who were so fucking stagnant in life that they dramatized the lack of a quarter ounce into a wonderfully agonizing scene…I savored my profession as a bartender. The guests were great…they were happily enjoying themselves and the tips were rolling in at an alarmingly fast rate. It was the kind of shift where at the end of the evening you find yourself asking the bar gods why every night can’t be that easy. The customers had a positive experience…and symbiotically…so did I. Everybody was in good spirits. This was the essence of bartending. A perfect night. 86 assholes.
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