THE BARTENDER KNOWS #7
BAR FIGHTS (PT. 1)
It doesn’t hurt as much as you think. Wait, what a start…Ouch. How about we go in a different direction?
I walked into a bar the other day (and no…this isn’t the beginning of a joke) and sat at the furthest stool from the front door. I liked it there. Maybe I read one too many Frank Herbert novels, but I learned early that if you are a worthy protagonist that you might have worthy antagonists. The last place you wanted to sit is with your back to the door.
There were two very young and ‘visiting’ New York girls there in their cups. I raised my glass to their party. The lady next to me proclaimed: “It’s her birthday!” pointing to her friend. I raised my glass of Guinness to her friend.
Two men meandered over to these lady drinkers at the bar.
“It’s her birthday!”, the friend expressed, in the same tone and pitch. The men encircled us (and when I say ‘us’, it is loosely). They feigned a glassy face and repeated: “It’s her birthday!” The men proceeded to buy the girls double shots.
The bartender, adopting a look you would share with someone who is dying unfairly of an incurable disease, agreed with glee: “It’s her birthday!” Even watching this working class person demean themselves hit me a little. He’s working for tips. Today, I’m not. Of course, the men buy the BDay-Girl a shot, or three, for that matter.
It was only five minutes from that event that somehow I was involved. The BDay-Girl turned her sullen, jowled face towards me. I watched in slow motion. Her voice was slurred and, as she spoke, her lower neck skin rippled. I thought I was having an Acid flashback or watching a Richard Nixon speech on C-Span off You Tube.
“It’s MY Birthday…”
Obviously, I knew this. I nodded and smiled, raising my glass. Her eyes grew dark, as if her own language was no longer being understood. She then repeated, jowls trembling: “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY”.
I nodded, again agreeing to her announcement. I didn’t move.
“So where’s my birthday shot?”
Yeah. That happened. That just happened. Post Trump. Post Covid-19. Post The Ukraine Invasion. Post Unemployment Figures. Post Inflation. Yep. That happened last week. And now this Triumph of Humanity sat, like a French King, insinuating she needed her cake. I raised my glass again.
“Happy Birthday,” I said, too tired to care. Ten years ago, I would have railed about her privilege. Now, pushing middle death, I aimed for saving my soul.
“Aren’t you going to buy me my birthday shot?” she somehow drawled through her thick cheeks.
I had to take a moment of pause. I even heard the Little Bartender Knows talk to me in secret.
No, Big Bartender Knows, this isn’t the time and the place to cause a scene. Don’t YOU remember those racy days when you were just a Young Bartender Knows lost in your own bullshit? Maybe this simian lady was there too?
Enough of this silly person (although, I know there are plenty of women who are reading this column who wouldn’t mind slapping some sense into this lady. I can only imagine my Riot GRRR friends in the good ole fashioned 90’s era that would admit that this kind of behavior had been setting the feminist movement back another decade, but I digress).
Ouch. Ow. Whizz. Bang. Boom. Nobody likes to be hit in the face. But it doesn’t hurt as bad as you would think. How many out there have been hit in the face? Raise your hands! Ugh. I’m not super man, I’m just your bartender.
But bar fights happen. Like, a lot. And as I titled this fine column this, I may as well address it.
Let’s talk about old gay men for a moment. I worked at a really cool bar once that regarded itself as an ‘everybody bar’. Not a ‘gay’ bar, but an ‘everybody bar.’ Yeah, this was before gay marriage and when everybody hung out rainbow flags like they were flying Aladdin carpets.
I was, admittedly, new to the game. I could bartend. I just didn’t know the bar I was working at. I got hired (like most new bartenders) for the day shift. But this was no day shift I had ever seen.
At the front bar, two young ladies were making out with each other, chain wallets a-clankin’. I looked over to the other side — two grandfathers were slipping serious geriatric tongues into each others mouths. I looked further back into the shadows of the windowless spot and a drugged up boy and girl were grabbing at each others crotch feverishly by the photo machine. It was 3pm in the afternoon on a Monday.
Welcome to NYC. This was new to me (I was in my early twenties and from a small, conservative town), but it didn’t bother me one bit. I was proud to finally bartend at a real dive bar in Williamsburg. I remembered the rules my boss told me clearly. There weren’t many:
1. Make the money right, always.
2. Never be late to a shift.
3. Don’t serve people booze when they are TOO fucked up.
Got it. I did my job. Everybody liked me. It was cool. These Monday shifts were working out just fine. No one had discovered that Williamsburg was cool yet, and the rents were still low enough that actual artists could live and thrive here.
The door opened. The light shined in from the Autumn sun. A slim, jerky man stumbled in. I checked my phone. It was 330pm on a Monday. At one side of the bar, two ladies stared drunkenly into each others eyes. The grandfathers were still fondling each other under the bar. Certainly the couple were already doing blow off each other in the photo booth.
This shaky silhouette rolled up to the bar. I had that new bartender sheen still on me. I smiled: “Hi! What can I get you?”
It only took seconds to realize the dude couldn’t even stand up. He leaned not just on the bar, but into it. I said, fresh as a daisy: “Hey bud. I don’t know if I can serve you.”
The thin man locked his two wild eyes on me. “What do you mean, boy? I run the art galleries around here…I do whatever the fuck I want.”
Me, still with that new car smell, said: “I just was told not to serve anyone who was obviously intoxicated. But I can gladly get you a drink later…maybe after you sleep…”
And there it was. Those same snake black eyes drunks always give when you say no to them. I didn’t know. I looked around for some assistance. The two lesbians didn’t care — they were still staring at each other like they were going to draw knives against one another. The couple in the back had their own heads in their hands — way too high on whatever drug 2009 said to do.
But the two grandfather gay men took notice, slumping away from fondling each other.
“Yeah, so…”
Before I finished this sentence, there it was. Slam. A hard, closed fisted punch right to my face. I fell back against the newly entrusted liquor I was just hired to protect. The sting was weird. It went in slow motion, like when that lady asked me for a birthday shot for herself the other day. It hurt. But only for a second. Mr. Jerky grinned happily.
I looked up, confused. The lesbians didn’t give a shit — I don’t even think they took their eyes away from each other. The straight folks by the pool table had already started fucking. But it was the two old, gay men that straightened up.
The lanky asshole stepped back, like he was proud he had finally stood up for something, shuffling in triumph with his spaghetti arms.
The two old men stared at me. “What do I do?” I asked them, still groggy.
The Polish one said in a deep growl: “Throw that bitch out of this bar right now with your goddamn bare hands.”
Mr. Herky Jerky didn’t know what hit him. I grabbed his drunk ass, chicken-winged him and tossed him onto the sidewalk. I didn’t know I had it in me. Who knew there’d be 50 more just like this as the years piled on? There’s no better feeling than slamming a drunk, violent asshole into a door and opening it with his forehead.
I bled that day — but it was worth it defending our right to drink in peace. Thank you, unnamed Polish gay man for teaching me what to do in times of danger.
So yeah. It doesn’t hurt as bad as you think. Well, maybe until a couple days later when the liquor runs out.
