now you know

We have a newish manager, a young enthusiastic sort of fellow who Knows Everything and is serious about Shaking Things Up and Turning Things Around and the such. None of us can really stand him, but at least he's not lazy, I guess.

His new thing is that all new supervisors should be trained in all positions so that they understand the issues each set of employees face. (We have bartenders, cashiers, cooks, food prep workers, and maintenance people all running around all day, and the supervisors are the sort of front-line managerial staff, while the managers are nominally more important, although the distinction is largely academic.)

So the other day they stuck this new kid in the bar, a new supervisor, and said, "Train him to be a bartender."

It was busy. We didn't really have time. The bartender took him for an hour, and taught him about pouring beers and the like. The metered pouring system we use is rather difficult; as I passed by, he had held a bottle up for too long and it had clicked twice. "You have to fill out a form," the bartender said patiently.
"But nothing came out!" the supervisor said, astonished.
"It doesn't matter," the bartender said. "The electronic system just recorded a pour. You have to write it down. Here's the form."
"Wow," the supervisor said.
"Well," the bartender said, "Now you know, and when you and the others doing the reports at the end of the night and saying, 'How can those bartenders have so many extra clicks?', you know it's because the pouring system is hard to use."
"I guess," he said.

A little later, it was crushingly busy. A woman standing in the service area was gesturing impatiently. "The bartender will be with you shortly," I said automatically, as I wriggled past her to wait on my tables. I deal with that a lot. Look, if you're in a ridiculously busy bar, you can't take it personally if it takes a few minutes to get a drink. And at that point, it counted as ridiculously busy.
"Take her order," the other cocktail waitress instructed our young trainee.
"Ok," he said. "What can I get for you, ma'am?"
"I'll have a double grey goose and cranberry," she snapped. "With a lime."
"Ok," he said. He turned to me. "How do I make that?"
"You pour two shots of grey goose and some cranberry juice into a glass," I said, a bit impatiently, "and you give it to her."
"OK," he said, and went and did so. He brought her drink over to her.
"I didn't want ice in my drink," she huffed.
"But you didn't say that," he said. He turned to the other waitress, bewildered.
"You take a strainer," the other waitress said, "and you pour it into another glass."
He did so, but the woman had walked away. "She walked away!" he yelped, still holding the drink.
"Go give her her drink and tell her it'll be $10," the waitress said, unperturbed.
He obeyed. We didn't hear what was said. He came back, still holding the drink. "She said she didn't want it!" he said, nearly bursting with indignation. "She never told me she didn't want ice, and now she says she doesn't want it and she isn't paying and she doesn't care who we tell or what we do!!"
The waitress shrugged. "You have to fill out a form," she said, "and you have to notify a manager immediately that you've had a walk-off." (That's a new rule. The managerial staff recently decided that we're not handling walk-offs properly and now, instead of attempting to deal with the problem ourselves, we are to spend the requisite 20 minutes on the phone to locate one of them to deal with the problem. Which has effectively ended us tracking down offenders at their gates and extracting payment, but, it just goes to show you how well Management understands our issues.)

"But I didn't do anything wrong," he said, furious but bewildered. "She never said she didn't want ice."
The waitress shrugged. "Now you know," she said. "Now you know. When you're looking at the paperwork with the other managers, and saying, 'There's no reason for someone not to pay,' now you know. There isn't any reason but it still happens."

"I hate this," he said.
"Not everyone can do this job," the waitress agreed, with a tiny little smile. It's true. Not everyone can do the job. People forget that. It's nice to sometimes be reminded of it.

Brave man

The other day I was waiting on three men at a table, when one of their friends joined them. (I assume they were business acquaintances.) He had purchased his food at the takeout counter, including his soft drink. He asked me for a refill on the soft drink that he had purchased from not-me.
Now, we just had an employee fired for giving someone drinks, collecting the money for them, and then not ringing them up on the cash register, so we are all a little sensitive about pouring drinks we're not going to be able to produce a receipt for. So I hesitated, a little dumbfounded. (If it is not immediately obvious how fucking rude it is to buy takeout food and then go sit in a sit-down restaurant, and then demand service from the waitress you didn't buy from and thus aren't tipping, I never know how to point it out.) I told him I didn't really have anything to do with the takeout service that had sold him the drink, and wasn't really supposed to involve myself with them, but I supposed I could bring him another Coke. So I do so, and make a special trip over to the table to bring him said Coke. (Which, of course, I poured in a real glass, like we're supposed to use with our customers, who are supposed to sit down in the restaurant, unlike the takeout customers, who, well, I really don't know how it's supposed to work. Obviously Management doesn't either.)
So I bring over the Coke, and set it down, and resume waiting on the other three guys, who are actually my customers. After I have walked away, from across the room, the takeout guy flags me down. I come over. "This Coke doesn't taste right," he says. "It tastes like root beer."
We don't even have root beer. I am incredulous. I just gave this asshole a free drink and now he's complaining? It's probably Diet Coke or something. I hesitate again, deeply regretting not sending him over to the takeout counter. I always, always, always regret it when I say fine I'll just help this person. It always bites me in the ass somehow. "Very well, sir," I say, "I'll get you another."
So I bring over another one, and set it down. But I am feeling very odd about the whole thing, and I know that video camera is on me. (Their Big Secret Video Camera To Watch Us is sort of not secret anymore, after the whole Firing Incident.) "I am very sorry about that, sir," I say as I set the drink down, "but if you have any more problems it would be best if you went back to where you made your purchase for further assistance." The place is filling up and I have a lot of other customers to wait on.
He gives me an offended look. "Charge me for it if you want," he says. "You don't have to be such a jerk about it!"

I stare at him, dumbfounded, for a moment, and then look back down at the second free drink I just gave him. You know, you don't usually get service this good in a takeout joint, I started to say, but instead I merely turned around and walked away.

Of course I told the bartender and the other waitress about it, and we all snickered about what kind of jerk feels the need to apply the label proactively to someone else, but in the ensuing crush of customers, it all fell by the wayside.

Until, nearly two hours later, the guy orders a beer from me. He's moved tables but, uh, he's still the redheaded asshole with the beard and the ridiculous cyberpunk bluetooth cellphone earpiece. It's not like I'm not going to recognize a dude who called me a jerk for getting him two free drinks.

I come back behind the bar. "This glass," I say to the bartender, "is for a Sam Adams for the guy who called me a jerk."
She stares at me, and then breaks out in a shrill cackle.
"What shall I do to it?" I ask.
"It's entirely up to you," she says graciously. "Whatever you feel is right."
The cocktail waitress makes a face like the dude from Kiss. "Lick it," she says.
I peer into the glass exaggeratedly. "Hmmm," I say.

In the end I didn't do anything, but I made sure to give him an extra-wide smile as I set the beer down on the table. What a brave man he was, to have such faith in humanity.

a long rant on stealing

This is a long one. Does it make up for how infrequently I post nowadays? It's been a rough summer, folks.

It also doesn't have a tidy punchline. Except maybe that we should try to be the people we mean to be, even when we're busy doing something else?


A coworker with whom I work often was fired yesterday My feelings on the subject are mixed. I hated working with her: she was always hyper, and always made it seem like the bar was very busy. As a result she was always behind on her chores-- glasses never washed, napkin holders never filled, bar never quite cleaned, fruit bowls never refilled. She could not do anything quickly, and often took a very long time to wait on customers. Throughout, she would always be chattering-- either socializing with customers, which is fine except when the things she is saying to them are about coworkers who are present and in earshot-- she was a consummate master of sarcastic backhanded compliments-- or loudly declaiming and hand-waving about how hard her job was and how she couldn't keep up. She was very defensive about being slow, as well.
But she was a nice woman, intelligent and funny, and our conversations were often very interesting and illuminating. I socialize with her outside of work, and she is always a tremendous amount of fun. She knows how to party, and the hyperactivity that makes her such a chore to work with actually is exceedingly entertaining in any other context.

So, the story:
Rumors have abounded for longer than I've been with the company that this woman would steal money. This is common enough, in any position where cash is handled-- it is relatively easy for any quick-witted cashier or bartender to pocket money if the customer does not wait for their change and receipt, especially if things are either very busy or very quiet.
And it has been known to happen to the best of us-- just Friday night, the Senior Cocktail Waitress and I were out drinking, and she confessed that one day, at the end of her shift, she found a $20 bill in the pocket of her uniform vest. Obviously a customer had given it to her while she was out on the floor, to pay his/her tab. But for the life of her, she could not remember what he'd had. She'd probably poured a round of beers, and brought them out, only to have the customer hand her the money right away-- usually, people sit, and wait for the check to be brought, often after several rounds. So she didn't have it rung up yet, and probably promised to bring him his change and receipt, and then went on to do the million other things a busy cocktail waitress will do.
So she pondered this $20 bill for a little while, and finally at the end of her shift when nobody came back to say, "Hey, did I give you a twenty? I never got my change," she shrugged, and stuck it in her tip cup.
I've occasionally found a five or a ten and done the same thing, usually after stuffing it in my apron. People say, "I don't need change," and I say, "thanks!", pocket the money, and take it off my Urgent To-Do list.
Which is why we are not allowed to put money in our pockets, I might mention. And I rarely do.
Anyhow. Everybody said, this woman steals money. There were a few cashiers rumored to be stealing as well. The company put in secret cameras. They caught a cashier or two. They couldn't ever catch this woman, because they had an idea of "how she was doing it" and wouldn't listen to anyone else's ideas of how it was being done. They could see that her sales were lower than other people's, but were convinced that she was doing something which she was perfectly innocent of. (Apparently twenty years ago bartenders would "ring up" purchases by putting money into the drawer, then taking particular coins and setting them aside in that extra coin cup at the edge of the money drawer to remind themselves of how much of the money in the drawer they hadn't actually rung sales up for, and then give "change", and at the end of the shift they'd count the coins (a penny for a dollar, a nickel for a five, a dime for a ten, a quarter for a twenty) and take out the money they'd put in without ringing up drinks for. So all the managers were doing was watching her coin drawer to see for this telltale sign. But nobody does things that way anymore. Interestingly, this does provide us with an explanation for why they recently suddenly made us unable to open our drawers without ringing up a sale.)
What happens a lot is, people come up to the bar, from the tables, and say, Oh I just want a beer. (Technically, customers at tables are supposed to be waited on by the cocktail waitresses. Big flashing arrow toward me: I am a cocktail waitress. When people get their drinks at the bar to "save me the trouble" that means I am not earning any money and they are taking up my tables preventing people who would buy from (and tip!) ME from sitting down. So I resent this. Professionally. But. It happens. It just happened worse with this particular woman, who was known to call out to customers sitting at tables waiting for me to come take their order that she could get them a drink. So. Yes. Another annoyance.)
She pours them the beer, tells them the price. They give her a round dollar amount just above the price, take the beer, and leave, intending to leave her the change-- usually around twenty to seventy cents depending on the beer.
They never get their change or receipt, and never ask for it. Most bartenders periodically have to make a sweep of the bar to pick up all the receipts and quarters. Funny enough, this particular woman almost never did.
She was usually too busy-- as I've mentioned above, she was always running around even if there weren't many people in the bar. There was always something she had to do, someone she had to talk to, some crisis she had to wave her hands over.
She'd leave the six dollars or whatever lying there on the bar, and after a while she'd pick up all the money the table customers had left on the bar, and she'd go over to her register and ring them in, and just throw out the receipts and drop the change into her tip jar. Reasonable enough. We'd all do that, if it got super busy. Back in the day, on Sundays, when I was bartender and they only gave me one server and the managers never came by, me and the other girl would just collect open checks that didn't need change and throw them into the neat check folders meant to be used for check presentation, and when it finally died down and we weren't so busy, we'd go through and ring them all out. One night we made a paper chain of all the interconnected receipts we'd printed out, and it was as long as the bar. Things get hectic, you gotta do the most urgent things first, and the most urgent things are taking orders, giving back change to them that needs it, bringing out hot food, and pouring drinks, in that order. Putting money in your tip cup comes down near the bottom of the list just above doing dirty dishes. (Money is important and needs to be taken care of. There should never be money just lying around, in a tidy bar. But you don't snatch up tips while customers are still drinking, either. And you don't play with your register while somebody's waiting for service.)
Anyhow.
So this woman.
Monday night, this older couple come up to the bar. They want two Miller Lite drafts. She pours them. The guy hands her eleven dollars (2 Millers comes to $10.57 including tax), and takes the beers over to his wife, who's sitting at a table in the cocktail waitress's section. The bartender's holding the money in her hand, ten on top and one underneath. She takes another order. Talks briefly to the cocktail waitress (who is the one who related all these details to me). IDs a new customer, takes her drink order, offers her a glass of water. Pours her the glass of wine, pours her a glass of water. The wine bottle is empty. "Oh, I have to write this off," she says, and brings it over to her register, where the adjustment sheet where we record empty bottles is. She writes down the empty bottle. Then looks at the ten and the one in her hand, blinks, shrugs, and throws it into her tip jar.
If you were watching this, where would you see the problem?
You probably wouldn't. Particularly in a bar, where the average attention span is usually under a minute. (Behind the bar, anyway.)
But the manager happened to come in, and the cocktail waitress had gone for a smoke break. The couple was sitting at the table, paging through the menu. "Oh," he said, knowing there was no waitress, "did you need anything at all?"
"No, no," they said, "we were just looking."
"Did you get everything you needed?"
"Oh yes," they said. "Just a couple Millers."
"I'm the manager," the manager explains, "and we're always interested in hearing how things are going. Who waited on you and how was the service?"
"Oh," they said, "the woman there, behind the bar, she sold us the beers. She was very nice, very pleasant."
Now the cashiers' registers all have little signs on them: If there's no receipt your purchase is free! The company's really pushing the use of receipts. "Did she give you your receipt?" the manager asked.
The couple looks at one another. "Well, no," they say.
"She's supposed to give a receipt," the manager says, brow furrowed. "Did she put it on the bar and you just didn't take it?"
The couple shrugs. Right at this moment the manager is suddenly getting a clue. He has told certain employees how he thinks this woman is stealing, and a few of us have corrected him, but he has not listened. However, there is a slim chance he is not quite as stupid as he has led us to believe. And now is the time when he begins to prove it.
"What did you have, again?"
"We had two Millers," the man says. "They're nice and cold."
"Good," the manager says, and goes back to the office. He runs a quick report on the computer. What sales has the bartender rung up in the last hour?
There is no record of any transaction of just two Millers. In fact, there is no record of any transaction that is just two draft beers. Almost no transactions of just one draft beer, either. All the draft beers she's rung up have been in combination with some food, or other purchase.
Strange, passing strange, given how many people in that bar are drinking just a draft beer or two, and don't have receipts in front of them.
A sordid tale. I would defend this woman-- these things happen! We all get confused, flustered, distracted! Except that one day, a couple of Italians sat at the bar right next to my station while I was making drinks for my customers out at the tables. They spoke no English. They made clear their desire for a couple of beers. I referred them to the bartender. The woman, shaking her head at their ignorance (except she speaks Italian! I know she does!), pours them two beers. They hand her a twenty.
She never comes back. They sit there. I am there, pouring drinks. I watch them for a while. They grow irritated, shake their heads, watch the bartender.
She never brings them their change.
Twenty dollars. They had nine dollars coming back to them. I watched the whole thing. I was too sick to say anything about it. It's not like it was so busy she forgot. Not like that. Nobody's that forgetful. I'm not going to forget a twenty from a customer who annoyed me. There's just no way.
Even if she did ring up the two beers and only pocketed the change, that's still criminal, and wrong, and bad. And I have disapproved of her ever since, even though I like her outside of work. I've traveled enough abroad to have been ripped off a couple of times, and it stings when someone is so truly evil as that to take advantage of you when you don't speak the language. It's evil.
And the number of times I've had a bar customer say, "The bartender never brought my change. I have two dollars coming to me. She's not paying any attention to me and I've tried to get her attention. Can you tell her to bring my change back? I need the receipt." Oh hell no. I have done that a total of one time ever in my career, and when the guy signaled to me I immediately said, "Oh geez! Your change!" and gave him his thirty cents or whatever. Don't fuck with that shit. It's wrong, and it's dumb, because half the time, they were going to leave it for you anyway-- but it's not a tip if they don't leave it by choice. Tipping only feels good if it's not automatic.
This woman is a devout Christian and speaks about her love for Jesus all the time, her belief in Karma, her love of righteousness. Not that she won't give another girl a lapdance in a bar, or tell a filthy story: she's a fun person and has a great sense of humor. But she is very religious.
I am going, for the sake of argument, to be Christian myself (of the variety that is actually described in Jesus's ostensible Biblical words, the kind that reserves judgement and turns the other cheek and loves its neighbors), and say that her getting fired is Jesus interceding on her behalf. Surely he is a merciful God. (ed note: I don't actually believe that God micromanages like that, but I'm not discounting the balancing forces of a perhaps-divinely-guided karma.) The job was too much temptation for a woman burdened as she was-- divorced with no pension, alone, caring for her aged father, and so on-- and she was not strong enough to resist the temptation to augment her income. I know she was putting it all toward her retirement-- she spoke often of how much she had to save every month because she was in her late fifties and had insufficient savings.
God has interceded by removing the temptation. What she'll do now, I don't know, but I hope it's something she's good at that doesn't put such temptation in her path.

No!! Eat your wings first!

Bad day today. Bad day like, the woman sharing my register has cramps so bad she's broken out in a cold sweat and hanging off the edge of the counter staring glassily at the micros screen. "[Airportbartender]," she says hoarsely, "I'm dying."

It's a bad day. We've got delays all over-- ground delays at JFK, one bar patron says, but I can see the gate for Chicago and it's got D..E..L..A...Y..E...D scrolling across the display. I mean, durr, the place is packed; people are standing in the aisles ordering beers as the waitresses squeeze through.

People are also rude. I was taking an old man's order and this woman came up and tapped me on the shoulder and started placing an order with me while I'm still asking the guy if he wants fries with that. I gave her a frosty glare and said, "Have a seat and I will be with you when it is your turn, Ma'am."
I had just been by that fucking table and they'd said they were "ok for now", so I'm not real sympathetic. Also nobody has ever died from having to wait an extra thirty goddamn seconds for their fifth Long Island Iced Tea.

"I gotta go home," my coworker says, but she's laughing. "I'm getting too mean. I gotta go home."
"What now?" I ask.
"Those guys," she says, gesturing to a table full of people. "They ordered a bunch of beers. I said, 'Anything else?', looked around, you know, they're all like, 'No,'. But of course I come back with the beers and the one guy who said he didn't want anything is all, 'I want a Corona.'"
"Great," I say.

I here pause for a public service announcement: Don't do that shit. You got someone waiting on your table, if you want something, you SAY SO. You don't wait until she's gone and gotten everyone else something, and comes back, before you speak up. If you think you're going to need another whatever in a couple of minutes, SAY SO NOW. It's not like it's going to go bad if you're not quite ready for it right this second. And she's probably got something else to do besides only run back and forth to your table four thousand times.
And if you're that inconsiderate an asshole, you're certainly not going to tip well enough for it to be worth her while.
I am warning you of this for your own good. I promise you.

"Right," she says. "So I go and I get his beer, and then the guy says, 'Can I order some wings?' And I look at him, and I say, 'No, you can wait until after I take their orders and have already asked if anyone else needs anything, so that I can make just a special trip over here again just
to take your order, because servers love that more than anything.'"
"You didn't," I say.
She nods, almost helpless with laughter. "It just came out," she said. "I couldn't stop it."
"So what happened?"
"I brought him his wings," she says. "And he says, 'Can I pay my check?' And I say, 'NO! Eat your wings first!' I wasn't making another damn trip just to bring his damn check. He can wait until I come by again."

Asshole was delayed anyway. Not like he was going to miss the plane or something.

The rest of the people at the table thought it was funny, so their tips kinda made up for his shitty one. And not having to walk that far was priceless, my coworker assured me.

Get Your Ass Kicked For Fun And Profit

So these new security things are sheer hell. I have to take my sneakers off to go through security-- the same damn sneakers I've been wearing five days a week for eight or nine months now. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT SMELLS LIKE? You do NOT ask a waitress to remove her work shoes! Good Lord. It's been terrible. I've caused a great deal of human suffering this week, and it's not fair.

Quite apart from the chemical warfare I have had to unleash, we've had record numbers of people just showing up two to four hours early "just in case".
The average amount of time it takes people to get through security has increased by a total of... about a minute.
Everyone's heard about the new guidelines by now, and so everyone's gotten rid of the tubes and bottles and the such that they bring by habit already. So they're all clean, and there's nothing extra for TSA to deal with.

So they get through security and have two hours to kill.

So they go to the bar.

Jesus.

Add in a number of flight delays, and you wind up with a severely overburdened set of restaurants. All the restaurants in the airport are run by the same company, and so the same staff has to deal with the crowds. If one unit runs out of something, it will take from the others; in moderate traffic, this is not a problem, but with continued and sustained demand at this unusually high levels, that just means that pretty soon, we all run out of whatever it is. By closing last night, our seven-item menu was down to four. We were short one member of the bar staff, and so all of the units had to forego their breaks. I ate a potato salad standing up, while in the middle of making a large drink order. (I figured it would take me so long to make the drinks that it didn't really matter if it took me slightly longer.) Other than that, over the eight hours, I did not take one moment to myself. (Not even to pee, I might mention.)

But unlike all week, people were actually nice on Sunday. I don't know why. All week we've had completely unusual levels of assholery in the bar, including, Saturday night, a customer who actually stole tips off the bar to pay her tab, and left, as a tip, a half-empty tin of Altoids gum, which we promptly threw out because she was obviously on drugs and we couldn't be sure what the hell was in that tin. (We discovered the theft after she left and another customer informed us of what had happened.)

Sunday, apart from a few impatient people and one snide bitch who said, "I would like a drink but before I order anything I want to know how long it will take." (I glanced around the packed room and laughed right in her face; she wanted a frozen margarita with a floater of Grand Marnier on it, and a Cosmo for her friend, and "waters all around" which of course none of them touched), mostly we had a chill crowd. Many travelers react well to delays; they come in and sit down and say, "You know, when you get a minute," and MEAN it (half the time people say "whenever" sarcastically without being aware of the sarcasm). Sunday was a great deal of the former, thankfully. Thankfully, because it was a total crush in there, people waiting in lines for tables, me unable to walk out on the floor without taking four or five new orders. Most Sundays it'll get like that for about an hour, and then it'll let up, and we take turns taking breaks and getting something to eat before it happens again. This week, it just did that nonstop from noon to 7:00ish, at a speed where I'd be getting orders four or five tables at a time and no sooner would I bring out a check than someone would be standing by the table: "are you leaving? Can I place an order here?" Fuck, at least let me pick up the glasses and wash them, because oh yes, we're out of clean glasses.

Among this crowd was a certain fellow, who I didn't recognize, but who had been the headlining act at a local music event. He had just been in the studio with one Willie Nelson, and told me so. I responded with enthusiasm: I like Mr. Nelson's music okay, not a particular fan but I do listen to it sometimes-- but am a real admirer of the dude's attitude and general approach to life. Willie Nelson is pretty much the awesomest guy ever.
So this fellow is feeling pretty happy, to have been able to record with Willie Nelson, and so he buys all his buddies drinks, and something to eat. I make the drinks strong, as I can sense that this gentleman is on a bit of a cloud and wants to be a high-roller. I haven't got time to make him feel real special, but I do what I can. I don't like the idea of giving preferential service-- don't like to let small tabs slide to lavish attention on the big spenders-- but everyone does it, and it's impossible not to, from the sheer perspective that it takes longer to take, let alone make, big orders. So I do what I can, and am friendly and chatty (albeit speedy) with them. I do not make a fuss when one of them partially blocks the aisle with his power wheelchair, and simply sidestep it four thousand times with a polite "excuse me" and a painful twist of the spine. (Had it been a baby carriage I would've torn someone a new one, but come on. It's a power chair. Dude's got, like, crazy birth defects. Not saying a word. He's probably a genius of some sort. Hey, I've seen a movie or two. That's always how it is. Also he's polite and that goes a long way toward alleviating aggravation.)

"What's the best tip you've ever gotten?" the man who has been ordering the drinks asks. He is obviously the one in charge of the party.
I tell the story of the woman with my mother's name, focusing more on the weird coincidence of names than on the amount of the money, though I mention it. (I don't like talking about money: it feels mercenary. Waitressing is not like being a stripper or a prostitute. It shouldn't be all about the money. I am there to make people feel good, and to make sure they have a good meal and a good time, but there is a crucial and yet squeamishly subtle difference about the money, which I prefer to avoid rather than address. Intellectual laziness is easier when you're super busy.) He asks if my mother's alive. "Yes, alive and well," I answer, "but far away." They think the story's funny.
"Well," he says, "I'll outdo her."
I answer, politely cheerful, "I'm sure you'll do what's right." People who brag about being good tippers, in my extensive experience, rarely are. I don't want to harsh the mellow, so I don't really react. I just keep making strong drinks.


By this point I have been running nonstop for fiveish hours. My cohorts and I are realizing that it is not going to let up, and none of us will get a break, and it is unlikely that any of us will get out on time. We are tired, tired tired, and all three in increasing amounts of pain, but we are all also focused enough and in the zone that none of us has lost it yet and nobody's been making any mistakes. For the most part we work individually: the setup is such that we all make our own drinks, and carry our own orders. The food comes in paper trays, so it is possible to carry a large order yourself. We collaborate on things like washing the glasses and keeping the work areas tidy and stocked, but mostly we are running past each other exchanging knowing looks. We are all in this together, but separately.

In the midst of this the other waitress gets a comment card. (We have these cards, from our corporate headquarters. Customers can fill in their comments and drop them in the mail.) The customer has filled it out and left it for us to mail, saying that the waitress was "great and Fast!!!" But in the blank that says, "Server name (if known)", he has written, "Brunette (good-looking)", and then in the margin, has added her name with an arrow.
We laugh about that for a good, say, ten seconds, before resuming our frantic pace.

My high rollers are ready to pay their tab. The leader gives me his credit card. I surreptitiously write down his name: for some reason I like to remember the names of customers that make impressions on me. I want to remember this fellow, and also look him up because I don't know offhand what band he's in.
I deliver the credit slips, cheerfully say that he can sign and return either copy, and thank them sincerely, telling them to have a good trip and come back sometime.

I clean off the table after they leave. The last round of drinks are not even half-finished. One person had left two half-empty drinks and one nearly untouched. I open the check folder to look, with some trepidation, at the signed charge slip.

$100. He left a $100 tip on a $125 tab.

All in all, in eight hours yesterday I made more than I used to make in 40 hours as a software help systems writer in a big city.

Today I sort of can't walk, and both my wrists are bandaged so I can type (glasses and trays get heavy after a week of this sort of thing), and I only have one day off before I do five more 8-hour days just like this last week's, but... you know, it isn't about the money, but it kind of is.

younger women

While I'm here I should tell this story. It was told to me by a coworker.
This coworker is a slim brunette of about 20, who has kind of a breathy way of speaking and isn't really terribly good at dealing with people but is working as a bartender to help pay for college.
"So after you left last night it was just me here, right, and I was getting ready to close because the last flight was at, like, eight? And there were only like, three or four people at the bar. One of them was this old guy, like fifty or something? And he asks me, like, 'Are there any good hotels around here?'
So I'm thinking like maybe he's stranded here, but he says he's not, he just wants to know. But like I don't know, I live here, so why would I need a hotel? So I'm like, telling him about the various hotels I know are right around here, and the one over by [university]. And then I remember another one, and I tell him, 'There's [name of joint]'s, over on [street], that's supposed to be a really nice one, but I think it's more for, you know, like couples.'
And he gets this really weird look on his face, like he's all offended, and he says, 'I don't date younger women!' And he gets up and leaves!
I really didn't know what to say! He must have thought I was flirting with him! But I wasn't! Cuz I don't date older guys!
It was really awkward cuz all the other customers were looking at me like, 'what did she say?'"

$(#()!@&% terrorists!!

So apparently nobody's allowed to have liquids on airplanes anymore, as innocuous liquids such as beverages, lotions, and hair care products are indistinguishable from some kind of liquid explosives that a bunch of extremely impolite British people were planning to use to kill massive numbers of tourists. (I want to smack all of their mothers: why didn't they teach their sons some manners? Killing people en masse, particularly when they're innocent people, is rude in the extreme. Everyone knows that!)

Being as my job largely entails selling beverages in an airport, I am exceedingly curious as to what this means to me. Presumably, something which is sealed and is purchased once beyond security would not be mistaken for an explosive?? Or, to the contrary, do they just not want to see any liquids at all regardless of where you got them? Am I going to show up at work in a couple hours only to find my whole cooler emptied out? Are we going to have to resort to installing water fountains at all the tables?

I'm going to have to remove the tube of lotion from my purse. That's inhumane. I'm a bartender. We wash dishes all day. My goddamn hands are going to fall off.



The one up side to this is that it's likely to put a lid on the number of people who come up to the bar and order their alcoholic beverages "to go". (Which is illegal, in this state, anyway.)
Now we don't have to invoke merely the liquor law, we can also invoke terrorist plots. IT IS AL QAEDA'S FAULT THAT YOU CANNOT BRING YOUR BLOODY MARY WITH YOU. My hands are tied.



ARGH. I have the weirdest job stresses.

random

I made a stranger deeply uncomfortable today as I came through security. My nametag had rung in the metal detector again-- I was dumb and forgot I had it on. "My career ambition," I said, fishing it out of the plastic tray, "is to have a job where I don't wear a nametag."
The guy, a business type waiting for his expensive leather shoes, laptop, and huge PDA, had absolutely no idea what to say to me.