THE BARTENDER KNOWS #16
ALCOHOL IS THE BEST THING EVER (PART ONE).
I remember the first time it touched my lips. It was at a Thanksgiving dinner in the late 1980’s. Family and friends had gathered together in the common room for the holiday downstairs. As I’ve explained before, I have three sisters (one of true blood, two others from marriage). Even more bizarre, I have (or had) six aunts and three uncles. That’s a big family. Then most of those people had kids, and then they had kids, and some of them, yes, had more kids. My mother, an exemplary host herself (if not in the Ms. Dalloway model), always invited friends over for our holiday parties. So on this special day, the party downstairs, complete with the scent of turkey gravy and buttered mashed potatoes, gathered and began to cheers their champagne glasses together. Of course, as a young Bartender Knows, I wanted nothing to do with such festivities. Unfortunately, by the age of 12, I was already suspect about groups of people. But I heard the shrill call from my mother below: “Matthew. Come down now, please!”
Translation: “You’re embarrassing me by being the only member of our friends and family that’s trying to avoid this gathering.”
She was not wrong. (NOTE: I am only comfortable solo or in one and one situations. I love people, I really do. Just only at a distance. Hence the bar. That’s a good three feet of auburn wood between me and the rest of the populace).
Back to the scene. I came down the stairs reluctantly. The sisters all kept their eyes on me (women were always way more observant, at least, in my family). My mother and step-father poured everyone at the table a touch of the Prosecco (I will guarantee it wasn’t legit Champagne — we weren’t rich). The whole table (I think there were at least 17 at this particular party) cheered together. Of course, the adults took the booze well. But I saw something that confounded me. My sisters didn’t touch any of it. In fact, they found the taste disgusting.
Now, here’s where I have to ask the higher power if I was a born hustler. Even at that young age, I saw an opportunity. I remember going to each sister and telling them to pour their meager amounts into my glass. They did (God bless them).
I then smuggled this one glass of the bubbly gorgeousness up back to my room. My mother, being psychic, knew I was up to no good. I heard her yelling at the bottom of the stairwell. “Matthew, where are you? Come downstairs right now!”
Ain’t parents grand? Either way, I ignored her demands. I made sure that my 5'2" mother had relented back to being a host. I felt my moment. I took a deep breath and drank it all down.
Something happened. I had never read Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, or Ernest Hemingway by then (I think I was just weaning myself off Agatha Christie novels and Choose Your Own Adventure books). I knew nothing about alcohol, drugs, crime, day time television…nothing. That’s when it hit me. I felt something totally new. It was euphoria. It was devirginizing. It was amazing. The booze went right to my head, literally (I was a kid, for Christ’s Sake).
What was that feeling, specifically? Good question. I just felt…okay. No worries. No nervousness. No concern about having to go face the big crowd downstairs. I remember falling back on the carpeted upstairs staircase and feeling like my body could rise up from the floor straight into the sky. I heard my mother’s scream again, but it didn’t matter by then. I had made a new friend.
Fast forward — I’m working for the Place of the Dead (read column #13) on a very lazy Sunday afternoon in 2014. I just opened up the doors. Shit, I had just woken up. As I said, bartending is an odd profession. The bar wasn’t officially open just yet, but a very large and intimidating man walked in anyways. His voice boomed like thunder.
“Yo, man, I’m here. What’s up?”
I had never seen this man in my life. So no, I didn’t know what was up.
He walked right up to the curve of the bar where I was counting the money for the day. I stopped counting that cash really quick. Unfortunately, the way the copper bar was constructed, the register was located exactly where the bartender could walk in and out. Not the best place to keep all of the money for the establishment. He saw me slam the drawer closed. He noticed me noticing him noticing.
“I just lost my dog, man,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But we’re not even open yet, bud.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “That don’t mean nothing to me.”
Warning One. A good, cold rush crept up my body. No one was coming to my rescue. I had a bad vibe from the moment this gentleman (hah) had walked in. A voice said inside of me: “This was going to go one way or another.”
The man (hah) repeated. “Yeah. My dog. He’s a real son of a bitch. Real dangerous. Bitin’ type. He just got off the leash.”
I said out loud, not thinking: “Jeez. Well, maybe you should be out there looking for the dog?”
“Of course I’m worried,” he yelled. It was the only echo in the bar. Rich kids passed by on Bedford Avenue without a care in the world. There was no recourse for me. This was bad. He looked back down to the register and leaned in a little closer.
“Well, you gotta go,” I said, “we’re not open yet.”
“Oh yeah?” A creepy smile crossed his face. “What are you going to do?” His eyes left the register for a moment to size me up. I’m a betting man. I thought: In 30 seconds, something was about to happen.
A million things went through my mind. Call the police. Whoops. The Place of the Dead had no landline. Ask him to leave. Ok. He had a good four feet and 50 pounds on me. Grab the baseball bat just under the bar. Well, that would escalate things quickly. What I said next just came out of nowhere.
“You’re going to drink.”
“Huh?”
“You’re going to drink.” I said. I realized I might just have been blessed with the silliness of the Angels.
“What?”
This genuinely confused him. With hummingbird speed, I put down a large glass of very bad whiskey for the man. I then poured the exact amount and quality for myself. If the police, the rich kids and the higher powers weren’t going to help me in this most obvious example of potential theft, then so be it. I’m going to do what I’VE learned to do over the years to protect myself.
We put down the drinks. It didn’t bother him. The drink didn’t bother me either.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “I’ll keep pouring this until you can’t drink anymore. And then, at that point, you have to leave. And if I can’t drink anymore, then you can do whatever you want.”
Two triple shots were poured. Two triple shots were drunk.
“My dog,” he muttered. “It’s a problem.”
I felt some weird strength grow within me. There was no time to consider it. I just harnessed it.
“I think you really need to worry about your dog right now.”
His eyes widened with anger. I poured another triple shot. He drank his. I drank mine. That’s when I saw it. The Haze. He was weakening. He slipped his fat ass off the barstool and waddled to the bathroom. “Motherfucker…” I heard him stutter over his wet lips. He came back out 20 seconds later. Now he had a real slink to his walk.
“Think you’re smart, huh?” he asked, eyes crossing.
“Nope. I just think it’s time for you to go find your dog.”
I knew all he wanted to do was hit me. I knew all he wanted to do was to intimidate. He saw a lanky white boy in Williamsburg as an easy mark. I saw exactly what he wanted. I knew exactly the type of character he was. The only difference?
I drank his punk ass under the table.
I think he tried to say another thing or two, but he couldn’t. Hell, the guy couldn’t even see straight. I watched him zig-zag his way to the door and leave the bar.
My whole body let go in one gushing wave. I put my head down on the cool copper bar. All I could think was: That could have gone so many different ways. But it didn’t. It didn’t. Not today. The only problem was, now I was fucking trashed. I had a whole night shift to work.
No rest for the wicked.
That’s when my boss walked in. In three seconds, she clocked something was wrong.
“You okay, Matthew?”
“Yeah, I just…well…just um, just sort of had a long, bad night.”
She paused, eyebrows furrowed. “You need some coffee or something?”
I have to hand it to my boss. She could have acted all kinds of ways too. But she was cool. She was a bartender herself and a good one at that. She didn’t ask too many questions. I didn’t think about telling her that I had to outdrink a potential robber to save her establishment. It’s not the sort of thing you share with your employer at that time. It’s the kind of story you want to save for later. Yeah, I made it through my shift that night. Yeah, my money was on point.
In this business — you do what you have to do to keep things moving. You have to leave your problems at the door. It’s really all about experience.
Sometimes the things you learn when you’re young come in handy.
Hell, Thanksgiving is still one of my favorite holidays to this day.
