tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-105793552012-01-20T04:15:49.062-05:00airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.comBlogger381100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1162043690115622362006-10-28T09:40:00.000-04:002006-10-28T09:54:50.196-04:00

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,

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1160568970077443062006-10-11T08:03:00.000-04:002006-10-11T08:16:10.140-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1159415574303780202006-09-27T23:50:00.000-04:002006-09-27T23:52:54.323-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1158290230706166632006-09-14T23:01:00.000-04:002006-09-14T23:17:10.756-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1155572258054329752006-08-14T11:26:00.000-04:002006-08-14T12:17:38.173-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1155216515338813772006-08-10T09:22:00.000-04:002006-08-10T09:29:52.656-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1155216031835182892006-08-10T09:02:00.000-04:002006-08-10T09:20:31.923-04:00

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?

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1154669687681834232006-08-04T01:34:00.000-04:002006-08-04T01:34:47.690-04:00

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

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1154059063329025332006-07-27T23:49:00.000-04:002006-07-31T09:56:38.450-04:00

Busy day today. Bad weather everywhere means flight delays means a bar full of people.Three businessfolks, two men and a woman, sat down together, and had some drinks and split a couple orders of wings. I'd never seen them before or anything, but we were expecting a corporate secret shopper to come through, so we were all on our best behavior. It was while they were there that the delays started

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1153537330596040762006-07-21T22:57:00.000-04:002006-07-21T23:02:10.610-04:00

There has been awful weather all week. I mean awful. I mean when I left tonight, at 9:30 pm, 1.5 hours after my shift was supposed to end, I mean the 2:30 to JFK was still sitting at the bar sighing into their beers. I mean it's been awful. And we've been running, nonstop, like idiots. Our uniforms are entirely unsuited to the heat, and the restaurants are air-conditioned to a brisk... eighty

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1153406775463671472006-07-20T10:07:00.000-04:002006-07-20T10:47:05.130-04:00

She and I share a register three times a week, and split the floor of the big restaurant, each of us waiting half of the tables. I haven't seen her in over a week because she had some days off, but it's busy so we don't get a chance to catch up right away.One of the managers makes a joke and she pretends to take offense, something about who's working what unit on my shift. I am puzzled, not

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1153233493163497952006-07-18T09:55:00.000-04:002006-07-18T16:15:19.206-04:00

This FAQ consists of the most frequently asked questions at my place of work. I am answering them rudely here because it takes all I have to answer them politely all day long.1. Q: "Where can I smoke?"A: Outside, just like in all the other bars in this state and many others. Yes, you gotta bring your boarding pass and your ID, and yes, you're gonna have to wait in the line at security again, and

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1153230729291194752006-07-15T09:37:00.000-04:002006-07-18T16:14:22.083-04:00

The bar is nearly empty. The last flight in this section of the airport will board in about 20 minutes, and there are only two people in the bar. I am taking down the bottles, cleaning them, and stacking them on a cart to put into the locking cabinet in back. "Excuse me," he says. The two customers are sitting at a table out in front of the bar. I come and lean over the bar to hear him. "What's

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1153139187487769802006-07-08T08:11:00.000-04:002006-07-18T16:13:28.660-04:00

He is displeased by the quality of the limes. They aren't dried out and gross, but they are three, maybe four days old, and the rinds have faded to yellow. I apologize; we aren't allowed knives, so we can't cut our own, and they cut them for us in the prep kitchen in the basement but don't always remember to bring them to us. So we make do with what we have. "I understand it's not your fault," he

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1152972545039751432006-06-12T09:43:00.000-04:002006-07-18T16:12:42.026-04:00

Good bloggers never die, they just pause sometimes. So yesterday I was serving tables. I got in, put my money in my drawer, caught up a little on the morning staff's chaos. Looked around. Bunch of people, but there's a takeout service and a lot of times (read: half the time) customers go there, get their takeout, and then sit in the restaurant. And then there's no way for the waitresses to tell

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1144250734510969192006-04-05T11:22:00.000-04:002006-04-05T11:25:34.526-04:00

So much as that I update other places.I haven't had very many good AirportBartender moments lately because mostly I serve the tables and when you're running around like an idiot it's harder to have good conversations with people. Also I like people a lot less as I'm in this job longer and longer. Tragic. But I think maintaining a blog where I tell stories like the jerk yesterday who just couldn't

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1125513813454846082005-08-31T14:33:00.000-04:002005-08-31T14:43:33.476-04:00

I am alone in the bar at the end of the airport, down by the Southwest and Continental and Delta flights. It is early on a Monday morning, and nobody is drinking. Behind me the TV is on, pointing out over the room, visible from the hallway. It is tuned to CNN, and they are covering the hurricane, Katrina, which is in the process of making landfall in the Gulf. A lot of people stop at the bar and

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1124636907911250352005-08-21T11:04:00.000-04:002005-08-21T11:08:27.916-04:00

A short note: I haven't been updating much of late because I've been more of a waitress than a bartender of late, due to the configuration of the staff, and waitresses rarely get to have the kind of conversations that bartenders do with their customers. That said, here's one. She's foreign, and I can't identify the accent. A middle-aged woman, probably central European, traveling with an American

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1118630508661860202005-06-12T22:29:00.000-04:002005-06-12T22:41:48.670-04:00

OK, this is deviating from the normal format a little bit, but in the interests of posting something, I'll post it. Lately most of my shifts have been as a cocktail waitress, rather than as a bartender, at the airport bar. (I make better money, but get fewer stories.)Sundays are busy days in airport bars. Especially when there are weather delays. Like today.There was a bit of a rush, and I was

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1117372969695738272005-05-29T09:15:00.000-04:002005-05-29T09:22:49.696-04:00

A question: Why do airline travelers always drink bloody marys? I've never made one outside of the airport.There's a new hire working alongside me, sharing my register (there are two drawers) and cocktail waitressing. She's never waitressed at all before, though she's been bartending about a week. She's flustered and nervous, unused to the location and confused.Someone orders a bloody mary from

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1117372504942246762005-05-29T09:13:00.000-04:002005-05-29T09:15:04.946-04:00

He's sitting at the bar. I'm leaning on the corner of the bar. We're watching TV.Celebrity gossip show informs us that Angelina Jolie is single."Sweet!" I say. "I have a chance!""That's just what my wife said," he answers.

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1116991966075106672005-05-24T23:26:00.000-04:002005-05-24T23:33:00.970-04:00

There were two gentlemen, waiting for the 10:10 JetBlue to JFK. They wanted Ketel One martinis, but I was out of Ketel One. At first one of them was concerned about drinking Grey Goose-- I had assumed because he was a coinoisseur and Grey Goose is made from grapes, unlike most vodkas, but it turns out he was instead concerned that it was unpatriotic to drink French vodka-- but his partner assured

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1110633034107088692005-03-12T08:09:00.000-05:002005-03-12T08:10:34.106-05:00

Her name is Wendy, and she is on standby. She fidgets, plays with her receipt, drinks her third glass of wine. "I'll be right back," gets up, goes to the counter, comes back. (Repeat several times.) Time approaches for plane to leave. She collects all her things. She has not finished her wine. I set it aside and put a napkin on top of it. She gets everything together, and departs for the gate.Ten

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1108562432717932002005-02-16T08:57:00.000-05:002005-02-16T09:00:32.716-05:00

There are four of them. They drink water. They are very young. Three boys and a girl, none more than nineteen. "Where are you folks headed?" I ask cheerfully as I take their order."Chicago," one says. "Navy boot camp," adds another. They are children, shy with me, laughing at the TV, well-mannered, light-hearted. "Best of luck," I say.

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107934310238781932005-02-09T02:28:00.000-05:002005-02-09T02:31:50.236-05:00

Mr. Apple Juice and a Chipotle Wrap lives in San Diego. He is drinking juice for his health, as he is fighting a cold. We fall to talking about cars, he having just received a text message from a friend of his who has borrowed his car in his absence and now complains that it's making funny noises when she goes over bumps. We discuss gas-electric hybrids, most notably the Toyota Prius, as I have

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107934005910169652005-02-09T02:19:00.000-05:002005-02-09T02:26:45.910-05:00

"This was a while ago," Mr. Unsweetened Iced Tea, No Straw said, staring past me at the TV. "I went to the town where I was born, that I'd left when my mom divorced my dad when I was 4. None of the names on the mailboxes were familiar, so I didn't knock on any doors. "So when I got home I wrote my father a letter, and told him I'd been there, but the only thing I'd recognized was the big old

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107933535227438082005-02-09T02:13:00.000-05:002005-02-09T02:18:55.226-05:00

Mr. 2 Bud Drafts & Wings (Medium) is Active Duty Air Force, as I discover when I ID him. (DOB: 1980.) He's been in the Air Force for 5 years, he tells me. Combat support services. "Bartending in the Desert is a pretty sweet gig," he explains, though he himself has never actually been assigned that duty. (The Desert, or The Sand, is always capitalized in the mouths of active duty military

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107667916150923792005-02-06T01:27:00.000-05:002005-02-06T00:31:56.153-05:00

Mr. One Foster's tugs uncomfortably at the collar of the turtleneck he is wearing under his checked flannel shirt. "I'm used to being outside," he said. "It's so hot indoors!" He is a carpenter and site foreman, taking a vacation until spring picks business up again. "Are you on your way someplace warm?" I ask, leaning my hip against the dishwasher as I dry the wineglasses with a paper towel to

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107386755408041022005-02-02T16:49:00.000-05:002005-02-02T18:25:55.406-05:00

Mr. Rum and Coke has never flown before. He is young, and speaks with a soft lisp. He is nervous and sips at his drink. He calls my name (which startles me until I remember that I'm wearing a nametag), and says, "I need help." I am busy, running food to customers at tables, and tell him I will be right there. He calls my name again, and I nod, and run over and leave the food on the table. I come

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107376575504656842005-02-02T16:31:00.000-05:002005-02-02T15:36:15.506-05:00

Mr. Three or Four Diet Cokes recognizes me. He's seen me once a week for the last four weeks. See, he travels a lot. He's spent the last 29 weeks on the road, in fact, he tells me. I point out that he gets to see new places, and he good-naturedly agrees that it's not bad from that point of view, but, "I never get to go anyplace warm." He's a vice president of a company that licenses

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107368179148413622005-02-02T12:46:00.000-05:002005-02-02T13:16:33.096-05:00

Mr. Four Millers starts it. He was sitting at the end of the bar with his laptop on the wireless network when I started my shift, looking up flight schedules online. His travel agent had had him on hold for an hour forty-five. He was trying to get a ticket for the last flight out to O'Hare, because his flight, on another airline, had been cancelled. "I just want to go home," he says to me, as I

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107362187739359162005-02-02T11:32:00.000-05:002005-02-02T11:38:48.356-05:00

Mr. Two Labatt Blue Drafts looks familiar. We try to figure out where I would have seen him before. He has been to this bar many times but not while I was working. He doesn't think I look familiar. I dismiss it: I must be thinking of someone else. He asks where I'm from. We discuss, talk about plans for the future. "I'm divorced," he says, "recently divorced, but I'm still not down on marriage.

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107361437134620242005-02-02T11:20:00.000-05:002005-02-02T11:23:57.136-05:00

Mr. Four Heinekens sits at the bar to eat lunch. He has a hamburger, and then sits and drinks Heinekens which he pours from the bottles into a glass. He spends the entire time on his cellphone with various people, straightening out an apparent confusion over the payment of import duties on a shipment of cosmetics from Japan to Canada to the U.S. He drinks four Heinekens, and pays by credit card.

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107361222835728732005-02-02T11:09:00.000-05:002005-02-02T11:40:17.930-05:00

Two vodka and iced teas has something wrong with his voice, and can only half-whisper in a high-pitched squeaking rasp. From the circular scar on his throat, I can only guess that a tracheotomy caused the damage a long time ago. I have to lean forward to hear him. He pretends to scold me, playfully: "Ah well. I won't raise my voice at you," he says. He shrugs. I note that he never laughs, but

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107360541366252212005-02-02T11:06:00.001-05:002005-02-02T11:25:26.070-05:00

Ms. Labatt Blue Draft and a Salad only had the one beer, and tried the Marinated Chicken Salad because I recommended it. Blond, fortysomething, Canadian, and hard of hearing, she confided that she'd been visiting her son, who had just begun at one of the local universities. "It doesn't much matter what he studies," she sighed. "His father's trust fund will probably see him through." The other son

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107360340320839492005-02-02T11:01:00.000-05:002005-02-02T11:05:40.320-05:00

Mr. Two Labatts, Draft, has seen me before. He came by on my first day in this bar, and he remembers that I didn't know how to unlock the beer taps and was nervous and upset, because the manager had forgotten to give me the proper keys. He was pleased to see I was doing better now. He himself is not doing so well this morning. He is on the way to see President Bush's second inauguration, which

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107360061867551322005-02-02T10:58:00.000-05:002005-02-02T11:01:01.866-05:00

Mr. One Bud Light in the Bottle, a ponytailed older man, told me he was a film producer. He'd done feature films but now mostly worked on documentaries. He was in the middle of a documentary about the Phillippines, at the moment. His flight was on its way out to L.A. and from there he'd be back out in the Pacific later in the week. The movie was going well, but he hated Hong Kong, which is where

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10579355.post-1107359888271446402005-02-02T10:55:00.000-05:002005-02-02T10:58:08.270-05:00

Mrs. Two Grey Goose Cosmos, on her way home to somewhere in New England from spending the last five days staying at her mother's apartment in an assisted living facility, sadly told me that her mother was all right, but "there's no cure for loneliness."

airportbartenderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15276180258184902181noreply@blogger.com0