Free T-Shirt? How about a JOB?

So it's finally officially final. I start working at Finn's in a couple of weeks doing hotwings and working the door. I've done both a few times before while covering for Henry (my sister's boyfriend at the time) and all I got out of the deal was an open tab. As I was discussing my schedule with Brad, the owner of the bar, a nearby regular cussed up a storm and demanded to know why he wasn't asked to come aboard.
"You have a job," Brad told him.
"I told you I'd quit it."
"Man, you wanna know why I'm hiring Wes?"
I stood amicably, stirring my whiskey and coke. I kinda wanted to know too. It's not common you get a compliment from Brad, I thought.
"Cuz he's one of the boys? You guys and your fucking club," the regular sputtered. He was, I imagine, referring to the group of guys that spent the majority of the evening playing pool in the back half of the bar. Teams are formed early on, and if you get there late, you simply have to put your quarters down and wait your turn. It is a bit of a good ole boys club. When a couple of jokers show up and put quarters up, with money on the game, we revel in the chance to flex our pool muscles against someone besides each other. Victory is always so certain that when wagered against, it's like getting paid to play. It really is the GOB (good ole boys) because fights have been fought and won, and none of us ever wondered what it was that we were fighting about. I suppose we all trust that there's a good reason. Mostly it's someone who claims that they are up for a game, when they are really not. It's appalling how angry people will get over a game that costs four quarters to play. But of course, you know, it's not the quarters, it's the principle.
"No, you big baby. It's because Wes asked me before, and when I told him no, he didn't act like a little bitch about it."

I twisted my lips and shrugged. Pretty much true. All I did was ask for a t-shirt, which Brad had been giving away like candy. He said that for a shirt, I'd have to be an employee. So I said, "So let me work here, then." (as a joke)

Three months later, after all those nights of helping close up the store in exchange for a blank tab, I guess I proved myself as a person of value. Buck, one of the veteran bartenders, actually told me I should get a free tab AND be paid just for doing so well with the closing duties. So after doing that for god knows how long, I'm very happy to be an 'official' Finn's employee. Not like those other guys who just think they work there.

Sometimes, other people stay and help close up too. They are almost always doing it to get on the bartender's good side... but one thing I can say is, if you're not willing to get dirty, then just get out of the way. Then there are people who flip out when they see the men's bathroom sink is clogged and full of puke. Shit happens! Clean it up!

And... of course... there are the people who hover around the barwell and chat it up with the bartender the entire time because they like to pretend that they are the bartenders' very own secret service. They believe that just by standing there and sneering at patrons, they are doing an invaluable service to all employees. The worst is when a bartender is chewing out someone who has an attitude, and a big ole boy thinks its his cue to play Mr. Bouncer. If I can offer any piece of advice, it's this: do not ever interrupt a bartender. When it is time for that person to leave, the appropriate people will step forward and take care of it.

Bartenders are moody people. They are alcoholics with a people problem. A happy bartender is one that just scored a $40 tip.
He or she deals with drunk assholes, girls trying to schmooze their way into free drinks, the loud bitch at the end who is about to lose her legs and the circle of frat boys chanting at two very drunk women as if it were mardi gras. There's always the bitter 25 year old girl who honestly believes she knows everything, and the just-turned-21 hippie/indie/partycat who considers it amusing to talk about this really hot guy she met while shooting coke at a friend's house. There's always the 19 year old coke fiend that drives a beamer, who everyone really wants to throw out, but for some reason, nobody does. By the way, you can bet that the bitter 25 year old chick always ends up making out with this guy, but tells everyone afterwards that he was creepy.

I love it. Every bit of it. I love playing pool, watching people fall on their ass--whether it be making a pass or trying to pass by, smoking indoors, hot women who don't realize that you aren't rich, stupid women who think you are rich, and smart women who are glad you aren't rich. It's my own personal theater, and I can go any time I want.