Chicago on the Rocks…with a Twist

Well, you have those days, and then you have THOSE DAYS.  This was definitely one of the latter.

It wasn’t a busy night to say the least, but it should have been my day off from my 9 to 5 job, so I was trying to make the best out of a bad situation.  Needless to say, shots were definitely involved in the grand scheme of things.  Banter with the servers was proving pretty entertaining.  And then my backup bartender showed up and it all went downhill.

Now, I must begin by stating that I typically have a pretty high tolerance for bullshit and stupidity.  Especially in the bar industry.  Even more especially since it has taken a backseat to my day job.  However, I was about to lose my grip, and I didn’t even know what was coming.

Enter Blondie, a corset wearing, blonde hair tossing, giggling, skinny bitch.  And then I find out she’s the FNG (Fucking New Girl).  And then I find out we’re sharing a bar this evening.  This formerly wonderful, quiet evening.

Another thing that must be noted: I have a very high tolerance for new people in addition to all other things.  Everyone was new at one time or another.  You can’t help it if it’s your first day or two and you still are having problems locating the Stoli Razberi or the button for a double upgrade on the computer.  It happens.  And so the evening begins…

Beginning the evening with another person asking me when she was going to get cut for the night is never a good start.  Some people are naturally pessimistic.  I prefer to think positively.  Standing around and bitching about the slowness of the night is not going to make it go by any faster.

This followed by the gum.  Gum behind the bar is never a good idea.  Gum in the service industry is NEVER a good idea.  I can’t say I have always practiced what I am preaching, but it is so tacky to watch a bartender snap, crackle & pop their chewing gum, regardless of the type of bar setting it is.  Now, if it’s annoying to watch that from the other side of the bar, imagine how much it was driving me bonkers on the inside of the bar.  That’s supposed to be my safe haven away from the morons…how’d I get stuck with Malibu Barbie?!?

We discovered we were getting a couple parties throughout the course of the evening.  Nothing terribly huge, but big enough that the first one, of about 30 people or so, was crowded all around our rail.  This is a small bar we were crammed into, maybe six seats at the rail, at the very most, and just enough room for her, me and a couple of speed rails.  So the room was pretty full.

I’m plugging away at service and grabbing all the customers I can when we get a lull.  Because it had been semi-busy, I had been able to avoid Miss Blondie.  And then the text messaging began.  The awful, terrible, text messaging.  Every bartender I know keeps their cell phone behind the bar.  And every bartender I know is guilty of checking their messages when it’s not busy.  This is typically done on the sly.  Homegirl is straight up facing the rail of people, phone in the air text text texting away, all the while just cracking up about whatever messages she’s receiving.

I shook it off.  I was annoyed that yes, I was going to have to split my money with this bleach blonde bimbo, but if I could just get through the night, I would be OK.  Then the dreaded questions flooded in:

“What’s in a lemon drop?”

“How do you make a red headed slut?”

“Where’s the Stoli Razberi?”

OK, that last one would normally have been tolerable, but at this point I was so annoyed all I could really think of doing was grabbing said bottle of Stoli Raz and cracking it over her head, punching her in the face and smashing her face into the bar, a la High Fidelity dream sequence.

The bottle locations can be a bit difficult in a bar that has six separate bars and all of them are a little bit different and you’re fairly new.  HOWEVER, if you are having problems locating the recipe for a lemon drop inside that hollow skull of yours, it probably isn’t your first day at that bar, it’s probably your first day bartending.  EVER.  Hell, even some of my friends who have never bartended know what’s in a lemon drop!

I may as well have been working by myself.

The night finally came to a close and we started to clean.  She looked like she was doing a pretty good job.  And then she was gone.  Literally.  We sat down to count my money (yes, mine; had she worked for it, it could have been ours…yes, I still split it with her), and the sing-song “Oneeeee, Twwoooooooo, Threeeeeeeee, Fouuuuuuuuurrrrrr…” began.  Cue the High Fidelity dream sequence!  I just kept telling myself to count the money and get the hell out of there, have a beer or two-many and go to sleep, but the counting was grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

“What else do we do?” she asked me after all this was said and done.  Had I put my ear on her ear, I think I could have actually heard the ocean.

I told her we still needed to tip out and have one of the managers do a walk-through on the bar.

“OK!”  Now I think I could hear her telling herself, “Blink. Breathe. Blink. Breathe.”

And when I came back with a manager, she was gone.  Mess still on the bar top, quarters she clearly decided she didn’t want spread over the bar, and every little item of hers gone.  I was at the end of my rope by this time, so I just sucked it up and cleaned the bar.

I think it goes without saying that I could have went a million years without ever seeing her face again and lived happily ever after, but there she was the following day, corseted, curled and batting her eyelashes, the pea in her head she calls a brain rattling to and fro.

And then she was gone.  Literally.  She was fired.  Did I have anything to do with it?

I’ll never tellllllllllllllllllllllllllll.

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