The Glow of a Neon Martini, Part V

< Read Part IV

5:00 A.M.

You are still sitting on The Sooker’s patio with your friends, sharing stories of Jimmy Lester and other odd characters that you have all known.

“You guys remember the Flintstones?” asks TomTom. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

The Flintstones are a married couple in their late 30’s or early 40’s who can be found at any given local bar on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Of course, you have no idea what their real last name is, but it's most certainly not “Flintstone”. Plus, they share no resemblance to the cartoon characters, Fred and Wilma. Regular customers are often referred to by nicknames among food and beverage staff members, and you aren’t sure where most of them come from. Sure, there are people like “Leather Face”, “Greasy Guy”, “Stinky Guy”, “Loud Lady”, and “Big Ears” who have names that make sense. But there are others like “Kitty Kat”, “Zoom Zoom”, “Screwy Dewie”, and “the Flintstones”. You have no idea why someone decided to start calling them by those names. The only thing you are sure of is that these nicknames are not terms of endearment, and they should never be used in the presence of the people to whom you are referring.

"Why the fuck do teachers always have to make a point to tell you that they are teachers?" TomTom says. "What, do they think they're doing god's work?"

"It's so you know that you're about to get a shitty tip," you respond.

Everyone laughs.

“Have you guys heard about Ryan’s pepper grinder incident?” asks The Sooker.

Of course we have all heard the story. But, just like turning on the TV at any point during the movie Caddyshack, you enjoy it over and over again. It’s not just Ryan’s tale either. You and all of your friends have at least one doosie that never gets old.

“Common, Ryan,” urged The Sooker. “Tell us the story.”

“Alright,” says Ryan quietly. “But I’ve told this story a million times.”

Ryan pauses for a moment, finishes his Gin and Tonic, takes a long drag from his cigarette and starts in.

“I was working the opening shift and had only one table. It was a four-top with two old couples. I mean, they were really old. Shit, this happened three or four years ago, so they’re probably all dead by now. Any how, I brought out their salads and was carrying the peppermill under my left arm. I set down all four plates and asked them if they would like freshly ground pepper.”

“They always do,” TomTom interjects. “Why the fuck do they think ‘freshly ground pepper’ is so fucking up-scale?”

“Yea,” adds Ten Pen. “And fucking dinner rolls. They act like you cannot buy fucking dinner rolls in a fucking grocery store. Like it’s some sort of fucking delicacy or something.”

“So,” Ryan continues, “as I swung the grinder from under my arm the ball thing at the top, you know, the part you twist? Well, anyway it flew off and hit one of the old women in the jaw.”

You start to laugh. Not so much because it’s a funny ending to the story, but because you know what’s coming next.

“Then,” Ryan said, pausing to light a new cigarette. “The old lady’s husband grabbed me by the arm and told me that I could have killed his wife and that I should learn to be ‘professional’. Of course I agreed and apologized and told them that dinner was on me.

The thing is, I couldn’t figure out how the hell that thing flew off. Apparently, the little chrome nut that holds the ball on had fallen off. And I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere too.

Well, the other old lady put a big old fork full of salad in her mouth and started chewing and immediately busted her denture on the fucking chrome nut. I mean, the fake tooth actually broke and fell out of her mouth and landed on her bread plate. I thought I was going to get my ass kicked by a couple of hundred-year-old dudes. And one of the busboys thought he should call 911 because I started laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

You all start laughing like it is the first time you have ever heard the story. You are howling so loud that Joey opens his eyes and sits up. “Pistyoresme. Yea,” is all he says before going back to sleep.

***** 

5:45 A.M.

As the sun begins to appear over the Sierra Nevada mountain range, and starts to bathe the great San Joaquin Valley in an orange-red glow, you, like the owl, the ocelot, the raccoon, and the vampire, begin to seek darkness. Within moments, everyone has retreated to the living room. Even there, you realize that there will be no way to escape the light. So you resolve there is no solution but to leave The Sooker’s house. You glance at Ryan and know that he’s ready to leave as well.

You and your friend say your goodbyes and leave. The plan is simple. Ryan will drive you back to the Moonlight to retrieve your car, and you will head home, do a load or two of laundry, get to bed at a reasonable hour and be back at Giuseppe’s for your 5:00 Saturday evening shift.

You ride in silence and are struck by how quiet the streets are at 6:00 A.M. on a Sunday.

As Ryan pulls into the parking lot of the Highlander Village shopping center, you breathe a sigh of relief to see that your car is still there. Fresno is the automobile theft capitol of California.

Ryan pulls up alongside your car but there are no farewells exchanged. Instead, you both look at the Moonlight Lounge and realize that the bar is open. Without saying a word, you know the question. “Okay,” you answer, “just one and then I got go home.”

You make your way to the middle of the bar and are not surprised to see there are already three other regular customers sipping cocktails over the Sunday morning paper. Are they starting the day, or continuing the night? Either way, these are the kind of guys who will tell you “you can’t drink all day if you don’t start first thing in the morning.”

The bartender is Jerry “Sam” Samuelian, the 60-year-old son of an Armenian immigrant and part owner of two gas stations, a motel, a restaurant, and the Moonlight Lounge. He’s also a notorious drinker who regularly disappears for weeks at a time while he locks himself inside one of his motel rooms and goes on a bender. During these times, he has liquor, food, and hookers sent to his room. But he never leaves. This has been going on for years and you are always genuinely surprised when you see that he’s actually at work. But on this morning, you and Ryan both immediately recognize that Sam is plastered.

Ryan orders a Gin and Tonic and you order a Rum and Coke and you both sit and watch Sam’s hands tremble as he works hard to construct the two simple drinks. It takes him at least three minutes, but he manages to slide a little black cocktail straw into each glass, pick both glasses up, and head to the middle of the bar to deliver them to you and your friend. Then he stops and looks directly at you and you can see some sort of light go on in Sam’s eyes. “Hey, you boys work at Giuseppe’s. Right?” You both smile and nod. “How’s the food over there” he asks, “I’ve been meaning to get over there for a while. I like a good ravioli. How’s the ravioli over there?”

Sam continues a monologue about northern Italian food, and red sauce, and leather booths, and cloth napkins, and about ten other things, all while still holding your drinks.

“Yea,” he continues, “I do think I should get over to that Giuseppe’s place sometime. I might just enjoy the ravioli. You say you got some ravioli, right?”

Then, Sam quit talking. Great. You are about to get your drink. Finally. But instead, Sam lifts Ryan’s Gin and Tonic to his lips and takes a sip. “SHIT!” he exclaims, “That’s Gin,” and spits on the floor. In the same motion, he raises your Rum and Coke to his lips and takes a big drink. “Much better. What can I get you boys?”

“Goddammit Sam,” one of the regulars yells down the bar. “You’re too fucked up to be here. Go sit down.” Then the regular stands up slightly and looks directly at you. “You’re a bartender. Right?” You nod. “Then you don’t mind if this is a serve yourself kinda place until we can get another employee in here to take over. Right?”

For the next hour, you and Ryan and Sam and the three regulars sit and drink in the comfortable darkness of the Moonlight Lounge. Finally, at around 7:30 AM, Herb shows up to take over.

Herb usually works the opening shift during the week, but is regularly called in on Saturdays and Sundays when Sam is too drunk to work - or when Sam doesn’t show up at all. He’s a likable overweight widower who retired from his job as a cop several years ago, but got bored and started bartending about six months after leaving the Police Department. He doesn’t mind getting called in to work on his day off. As he puts it, “What else am I gonna do? Sit home and slowly die?”

It doesn’t take long for you and Ryan to regain the comfortable buzz that wore off with the rising sun. So you decide to put off laundry for another day and, instead, to have a few more drinks.

*****

You wake up to the bright afternoon sun shining through the smoke-stained slats of your shitty window blinds. It’s 3:45 and there is only a vague recollection of details from the night before. But the details aren’t important; it will be the same tonight as it was last night.

The Glow of a Neon Martini, Part IV

< Read Part III

2:00 A.M.

You and nine other drunks are bathed in the glow of a giant neon martini glass. You are all standing on the sidewalk in front of the Moonlight Lounge. A geeky college kid is doing an embarrassingly poor job trying to convince a girl, whom he met at the bar, to come back to his apartment; three hipsters with ironic facial hair are trying to figure out where they can get some more beer; a fat Asian girl is on her cell phone trying to get a taxi cab to pick her up; a couple in their mid-twenties are sitting on the curb sharing a cigarette; and you and Ryan are trying to decide where to have breakfast.

“Wanna go to Denny’s?” Ryan asks

“No, they’re always packed.”

“What about the Chicken and Waffle house?”

“No, they’ll be packed too.”

“Oh, I know,” Ryan says as if he just remembered where some treasure was buried, “Unico!”

“Unico,” you repeat with an impish grin. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

Tacos el Unico, which roughly translates to “The Only Taco,” is a food truck which you and Ryan agree serves the best tasting grilled beef antojitos ever made. The only problem is its location. It can be found every Friday and Saturday night, parked in an empty lot in a terrible area of town. The lot is next to Pancho's Night Flight, a Chicano nightclub known for illegal drug trafficking, gang activity, and frequent stabbings. Most victims of the latter offence received the sharp end of a knife for simply looking at someone the wrong way. Regardless, the operators of Taco's El Unico serve the best food available after 2:00 A.M. and you both believe the risk is worth the reward.

There is no doubt in your mind that you are too drunk to drive, so you don't argue when Ryan says "Come on, leave your car here and we'll come back for it later." Funny thing about it, Ryan must be as drunk as you, but you go along with the plan.

Fifteen minutes later, you are both standing in a crowd of drunk strangers waiting to order tacos through the little food truck window.

You silently marvel at the costume-like outfits worn by the patrons of Pancho's Night Flight. The girls are wearing insanely high heeled shoes and very tight - and very short - dresses which sparkle in the lights of the passing cars. Most of the girls are not built to wear these dresses, but their novios and sanchos don't seem to notice. All of the men wear one of three uniforms: There are the guys with outdated leisure suits; the ones wearing the jeans with lots of metal sequins on the back pockets and an untucked long sleeved shirt with some sort of eagle, or dragon, or lion printed across the back; and the guys with the 1940's-era zoot suits, with the long jackets, high-waisted and wide-legged pants with tight cuffs, black and white shoes, and the three-foot pocket watch chain hanging from somewhere under the coat. And here you are with your buddy Ryan. You are out of place. However, it's after closing time and you are at the best taco truck in town. You have this earnest understanding that Unico is the great equalizer. You are certain that, somehow, this place is immune to the kind of violence you read about in the morning papers. However, just in case this theory is driven by your blood alcohol content, you limit your eye contact with the other customers.

You spend the next fifteen minutes standing around, watching the cultural freak show, and eating delicious Carne Asada tacos off little paper plates.

3:10 A.M.

You find yourself in a very nice garage, which is attached to a very nice house. And you are making drinks for about twenty or thirty other bartenders, waiters, busboys, hostesses, and cooks.

Ron “The Sooker” Sukiewicz is a colorful 30-year-old character who you both know from the Moonlight Lounge. He’s not a bartender or waiter. As a matter of fact he doesn’t work at all. He’s a trust fund drunk with at least two Bachelors degrees and no desire to put them to use. As far as you know, he’s not really good at anything except throwing parties. And all of his friends are people who either serve him drinks, or people with whom he drinks.

The Sooker’s house is a 2,500 square foot mid-century bachelor pad, complete with framed lobby cards for late 50’s and early 60’s movies, a coffee table crafted from the deck of a sail boat, and harvest gold appliances. He’s got a terrific patio with a big pool, and he’s converted his two-car garage into a lounge. The bar is actually an old repurposed upright piano. The place where the keys should be has been turned into a speed well and the part that used to slide open to access the strings now opens to reveal a well-stocked supply of booze.

And here you are standing behind the bar mixing drinks.

When you and Ryan showed up, someone honked one of those aerosol air horns and the small crowd cheered. You know the drill. When any bartender shows up, they must tend bar until another bartender shows up. So you are making drinks for anyone who needs one. But, for the most part, you are simply standing around in the garage drinking with the rest of your friends.

You look around and realize that there are at least eight bartenders that are part of the $100 Tip Club.

When you are a bartender, you tend to get to know lots of other bartenders. And you tend to have bartender friends come in to your bar to drink. The unwritten rule is that you never charge them, and they leave you a one hundred dollar bill as a tip. But it’s nothing to get excited over because you will end up leaving that very same one hundred dollar bill for one of them. That bill makes its journey from bar to bar and back again. You often think that each “tipper” should sign the bill, or put a date on it, or at least some sort of mark. But why start now? This tradition dates back to before you were in the business and it will be around long after you are gone.

So you continue making drinks until TomTom shows up. Someone blows the air horn, everyone cheers, TomTom takes over at the bar and you head inside the house to see what’s going on.

3:45 A.M.

 

For the past five minutes, you’ve been sitting on a uncomfortable dark brown leather sofa, under a

giant poster for the 1958 B-movie Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. The Sooker is standing at the open sliding glass door, looking out at the handful of guests sitting with their feet in his pool. You wonder if anyone is actually having fun, or if there is simply nothing else for bartenders to do at 3:45. You are not sure that you are having fun either. But you are there, drinking someone else’s liquor, and you are surrounded by about two dozen people with whom you have one thing in common: you all share an odd lifestyle.

From where you sit, you hear the aerosol air horn blow, and a small crowd cheering from the garage. You wonder who showed up. A few moments later, TomTom and Ryan appear in the living room, both taking up the rest of the space on the sofa.

“Joey’s here,” says Ryan.

“Is he loaded?” you ask.

“Yep,” says TomTom. “He showed up with Ten Pin Tom.”

TomTom turns to The Sooker. “Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, “Ten Pin is handling the bar.”

Right on cue, Joey staggers into the house. “Pistyoresme. Pistyoresme. Pistyoresme,” he says as he sloppily shakes hands with the rest of the guests.

Joey Greenly works at the Captain’s Brig and is kind of a legend among the bartenders in town. Not so much because he’s a great bartender, or a particularly great guy on any level. But more because of his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. When he’s undrunk, Joey’s a quiet, introspective, mild-mannered guy. He’s a good bartender and is one of the best marketers for any bar in which he works. He keeps phone numbers for all of his regular customers and often texts or calls them, casting invitations to come drink at his bar. But Joey is a black-out drunk. Once he starts drinking he doesn’t know what he’s doing, where he’s at, or how to speak English. For some reason, he thinks it’s clever to say “Pleased to meet me” as a greeting when he shakes hands with friends and strangers. But the more he drinks, the more he starts speaking what you and your friends call “Greenlese.” By the time “Pleased to meet me” turns into “Pistyoresme,” you all know that Joey is trashed. To top it off, Joey has realized a look that sets him apart from most other people in the local food and beverage industry. He wears his sideburns long and his hair carefully coiffed into a pompadour. Although you are pretty sure he thinks of himself as resembling Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats, he more closely resembles David Spade’s title character from Joe Dirt.

About a year ago, Little Tom let Joey move into his house, a roommate situation which lasted less than six weeks. According to Little Tom, Joey was fine for the first couple of weeks, but then started going on extended benders. Cabinet doors became broken, carpets became stained, appliances became dented, and curtains became ripped. The final straw – or perhaps straws – came on the same night. The story is that Little Tom came home from working a late shift and found Joey passed out on the sofa with a cigarette slowly burning a hole into the couch cushion. Rightfully, Little Tom yelled for Joey to wake up, then snatched the cushion from beneath him and quickly took it into the bathroom, where he promptly threw it into the shower stall and turned on the water. When he returned to the living room, he found Joey standing in the kitchen, in front of the open refrigerator, pissing on the floor.

As Joey makes his way into the living room, you turn to see The Sooker’s reaction. He looks undisturbed and calm. Your host and the rest of the guests know that if you can get Joey out to the patio, and into a chaise lounge, he will pass out and all will be well for the next few hours.

4:15 A.M.

Joey was officially passed out. Yet, The Sooker, TomTom, Ryan, and you remained on the patio. You all sat in expensive patio furniture and nursed your cocktails in silence. Within a few minutes, you were joined by Ten Pin Tom.

“Is he asleep?” asked Ten Pin.

Yep. He’s out,” answered TomTom in a hushed voice. “Jesus, he’s a mess tonight.”

The rest of the members of your small group nodded, and grunted in agreement.

“Well,” said Ten Pin, “He deserves a pass tonight. He had a hell of an evening. Jimmy Lester was killed tonight.”

Jimmy Lester was a name you and your friends knew well. He was a notoriously mean drunk who made his way around the bar scene and left a trail of being unwelcome in most of the bars you know. He was about 55-years old but, with the exception of a full thick head of dark wavy hair, looked at least 70. You aren’t sure if Jimmy had a job, or a family, or a car. You really didn’t know much about him except that you had to ask him to leave Guiseppe’s on two different occasions. One time was because he fell asleep with his head on the bar. The other time was because he showed up shit housed drunk and started yelling “I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU” when you refused to serve him. Then, he turned to a pair of young ladies who were trying to enjoy a quiet girls-night-out, and called them “cunts”. Then, he picked up an empty shot glass from in front of them and threw it across the bar. Strangely, the glass didn’t hit anyone, didn’t damage anything, and didn’t even break. However, you immediately rushed to his side to “assist” him out the door. But by the time you reached him, he was already heading for the exit on his own. You considered yourself lucky; Jimmy was notorious for putting up a pretty good fight when he was in the process of getting 86ed. As a matter of fact, Big Tom has a similar story about Jimmy, but his tale ends with Big Tom getting his nose broken.

Ten Pin Tom explained how Jimmy Lester met his end.

“Jimmy started drinking at the Captain’s Brig at around seven. Joey said he was already pretty shitty when he showed up. After a couple hours, Jimmy pissed on the floor without even bothering to leave his barstool, so Joey kicked him out.

Apparently, he walked to the Firehouse Pub and tried to order more drinks. Tommy took a look at him and said ‘no fucking way, Jimmy. You aren’t supposed to be in here.’ So Jimmy said ‘FUCK YOU’ and left without starting any other shit. Then, I guess he decided to take a shortcut home, or to go to another bar or something, and decided to walk across the freeway.”

“Wait,” said Ryan, “he tried crossing 41?”

California State Route 41 is a 185-mile, six-lane freeway which connects Yosemite National Park with Pismo Beach and runs through town. Its approximate mid-point happens to be located right behind the Firehouse Pub.

“Yep,” Ten Pin continued, “he must have hopped the fence and tried running across all six lanes. He almost made it too. I guess a truck hit him right before he got to the last lane. Fuck.”

“Holy shit” was the only reply you could think of.

“Joey’s pretty shook up,” said Ten Pin. “He’s a little upset that Jimmy got killed, and a little worried that he’s going to get some shit for over-serving the poor son-of-a-bitch.”

There was a long silent pause.

“Here’s to Jimmy Fucking Lester,” announced Ryan as he poured a little bit of his Gin and Tonic on the concrete patio floor.

You and The Sooker and Ten Pin Tom and TomTom all laughed a little and poured some of your drinks out too.

"Here's to Jimmy Fucking Lester."


Read Part V >

The Glow of a Neon Martini, Part III

< Read Part II


It's about eleven thirty when you walk through the doors of the Moonlight Lounge. As soon as your eyes adjust to the smoky darkness, you see twenty or so people who you know by name or face. They are all wearing white tuxedo shirts and black slacks. Some are still wearing their black bow ties, and some are still wearing aprons. Every bartender and waiter in Fresno knows this is their place.

The bartender sees you and reaches across the bar. “How was your night, Steve?”

“Decent,” you answer as you shake hands with Dan, “better than last night for sure.”

“Whatcha havin'?” asked Dan.

“I’ll take a Captain Coke and let me get a G&T for Ryan. He’s a few minutes behind me."

The crowd is loud with war stories of a night dealing with picky eaters and bad drunks. The tales are told and retold as a steady stream of restaurant workers continue to file into the bar. Laughter rolls through the room like the wave in the stands of a football game.

At the end of the room, where the bar turns and meets the wall under an outdated 27-inch Panasonic
television set, sits The Pope. He's the only customer in the place who doesn't work in the food and beverage industry. He's a Yugoslavian immigrant who has been operating A-1 Tuxedo and Men's Wear since he came to America 30 years ago. The story is that he was the first tenant in Highlander Village, the strip mall where the Moonlight Lounge is located. His real name is Gero, or something like that, but his customers call him George. Years ago, the regulars at the bar started calling him "The Pope of Highlander Village." He works late altering suits, and making custom tuxedos, and then spends the later hours of the night drinking vodka and holding court the bar. He's easily old enough to be the father or grandfather of every one of the late-night customers, but he is respected and held in high regard by every one with whom he shares the rail. He always has a new joke to tell, is always ready for a game of dice - as long as a drink is on the line, and is always gracious when he wins and gracious when he loses. He calls you and the other food service regulars his "puppies" and treats all of you well.

Some time ago, The Pope had an apprentice named Nick who worked at his shop. But nobody really liked him. Nick was a know-it-all who told bullshit stories, was a name-dropper, and claimed to know many famous people. He just got under your skin and rubbed everyone else the wrong way too.

One night a year or so earlier, you and another drinking buddy decided that it would be funny to throw an entire pitcher of beer in Nick's face. So you made drunken plans for a week. "Next time Nick comes in," your friend said, "we'll wait for him to start talking shit and I'll calmly douse him with a pitcher of Coors Light." It seemed like a reasonable plan.

Finally, the night came. Nick had come into the Moonlight Lounge after a late night at the shop. The Pope wasn't there that night and Nick sat at the end of the bar, in The Pope's regular spot. Within minutes, Nick started in on a tale of growing up in Brooklyn, and how his mother learned to make spaghetti from Cora Rizzuto, wife of famed Yankee announcer Phil Rizzuto. "She had just arrived in New York and lived in a Bushwick apartment building two doors down from the Rizzuto's," he explained. "Mom taught Cora how to make Cevapcici and it became one of Phil's favorites. In return, Cora taught mom how to make Spaghetti..."

You looked over at your buddy as he finished paying for a pitcher of Coors light. Patiently, he stood
next to Nick and listened to the yarn grow longer and longer. "...Cora started making her meatballs with a combination of lamb, beef and pork, just like the Cevapcici," Nick continued, "and it became the secret ingredient." That seemed to be the perfect moment. Your buddy raised the plastic pitcher over Nick's head and turned it over, soaking him with all 48 ounces of beer.

Nick was surprised at first. But just when you expected the punches to start flying, he stood up. For the first time since meeting him, Nick was silent. He should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead, he looked hurt as he calmly and quietly walked out of the bar.

You were drunk. Your buddy was drunk. Everyone at the bar was drunk. So you all hooped and hollered and laughed.

The next night, when you showed up, The Pope was there. He wasn't mad, but he was clearly disappointed in you and your stupid friends. You immediately knew that you had fucked up. You felt exactly the same way that you felt when your father was disappointed in you when you were a kid. You felt like shit. He gave you a slight talking to, but you don't remember anything he said. But you don't have to.

After a week or so, Nick showed up at the bar wearing a yellow raincoat, galoshes and big yellow rain hat. It was funny and you thought it was a classy move. You also figured that The Pope instructed him to do that. The Pope knew what it would take to win you and your drinking buddies over and advised Nick accordingly. It did the trick.

Funny thing was, Nick cut way back on his tall tales. You decided that he must have got an earful from The Pope too.

But that all happened a couple years ago. Nick eventually moved on to bigger and better things and the rest of you still show up every night after your last customers are gone.

*****

As yesterday turns into tomorrow, you settle into a ratty barstool between Ryan and Tom and start on your second Rum and Coke. Ryan is finishing his first Gin and Tonic. Tom has probably been there since five or six o’clock and is drinking his usual rusty nail with a Coors Light back.

Oddly enough, there are several regulars named Tom. But to you, it’s not confusing at all. Tommy is a bartender at The Firehouse Pub, a college hangout located across the street from the Fresno State University; TomTom is a bartender at The Airport Lounge, which is NOT located at, or near an Airport; Ten Pin Tom bartends at Ten Pin Lanes, a bowling alley located just a few miles away; Big Tom, who isn’t all that big, and Little Tom, who isn’t little, but is shorter than Big Tom, work together at The Palace, a dance club which attracts an older crowd; and, of course, you are sitting next to Tom. Tom is about 45-years-old and works for a company that makes and sells awnings and patio covers. But on Sunday nights, he bartends at the Moonlight Lounge.

Years earlier, well before you were old enough to legally drink, Tom started the Sunday Night Drinking Club. The rules were simple. To be a member you had to be at the bar on Sunday Night. Then, between Midnight and 2:00 A.M., you had to drink the following by yourself:

• 1 pitcher of beer
• 5 cocktails
• 3 shooters
• 3 shots

There were other rules too. Things like fouls for spilling or vomiting, prospective members had to stay for the entire two hours, and Tom monitored the proof of any chosen liquor. This last rule assured that the contestant didn’t down a bunch of pussy-proofed stuff like Malibu or Amaretto.

Although it sounds easy enough, it took you a couple tries before you were able to join. You learned that there is a combination of pacing and order of consumption that is necessary to complete the task.

Other than your name written on a cocktail napkin and taped to the back bar mirror, membership doesn’t really get you anything special. But it’s kind of an elite club and you are proud to be a member.

*****

For the next hour or so, there is a constant parade of customers. At first, they are only
fellow bartenders and waiters coming in after their shift. But as it gets later, the crowd turns into a roughly organized assembly of characters that are mostly college kids but are mixed with gang-banger-wanna-bees, nerds, jocks, douchie-looking assholes, mustachioed hipsters, and small groups of half-lit girls. They are coming from a large variety of dance clubs, micro beer tasting rooms, and college hangouts where Last Call takes place by 1:15 A.M.

You and Ryan and Tom are right where you want to be. The drinks are flowing, the conversation is fun, and none of you can give a shit about anything else in the world. You have a front row seat at the best place on earth.

Dan yells “NEXT TO LAST CALL” at 1:45.This is the time when the Moonlight Lounge stops selling cocktails and beer and only serves shots and shooters.

Kamikazes, Purple Hooters, and Pinkies are ordered. Fireball shots seem to be the shots of the night, and dozens of those are ordered too.

You hear “LAST CALL” and instinctively know that it’s 1:55 A.M. You and Ryan and Tom finish your drinks, push several twenty dollar bills across the bar, shake hands with Dan and about a dozen or so more people and are out the door with everyone else by 2:00 A.M...


 Read Part IV >

The Glow of a Neon Martini, Part II

< Read Part I



8:00 P.M.

The bar is full of people who are waiting for seats in the dining room, having an after-dinner drink,
and those just who have just stopped by for a few drinks. It's clear that you are in charge. You are the captain of the ship. You are also the activities director, the psychologist, the referee, the librarian, the judge, the traffic cop, the bookie, and the pimp. You control the mood, the tempo, and the degree in which inebriation escalates.

The crowd is three deep at the bar and everyone wants a drink, wants to pay, or wants to ask some stupid question. A lesser bartender would fold under this pressure. He would be in the weeds with no apparent way out. But not you. You are in your full element. You are constantly scanning the room. You are looking for empty glasses, full ashtrays, and fights.The place is loud with laughter and excitement, and greetings, and orders, and stories. You hear everything and choose what to ignore and to what you will react. You are able to decide, immediately, which of your next moves will take priority. You are in a groove. You make people laugh, and put people at ease.

Throughout the night, you will have at least one person misplace a phone, or a wallet, or a credit card, or a purse; at least one person will send back a drink because it’s not the same color as the one they were served at some other place while they were on vacation; at least one person will point out that they had been a bartender while they were in college. At least one couple is on a first date; at least one couple are on the verge of an argument; and at least one person will ask you for a drink “on the house”. “Whose house?” is your standard reply. “I don’t own this place. When Giuseppe comes by, ask him.” You know this answer will shut them down. You always say the right things with confidence. At times like this, you have the ability to tell someone, anyone, to "fuck off" and they would smile and say thank you.

*****

You love your job. When you were a senior in high school, you got a job as a restaurant busboy. You eventually became a waiter and realized you were really good at taking care of people. You made it your mission to transform grumpy people into happy customers. But it was more than the job that you enjoyed; you were attracted to the lifestyle that accompanied the food service industry. There was a camaraderie that came with your job. You had a built-in group of friends who you shared a bond with and with whom you would spend late nights and early morning hours. To some extent, it's necessary that those sorts of relationships form; much like soldiers or sports teams. You spend countless hours together dealing with duties in an industry that no outsider could possibly understand. And your off hours are at a time of the day when none of your other friends are available. And there’s not much to do during the middle of the night except drink. Sure, there were 24-hour bowling alleys open, but somehow the main activity was to get loaded. “Why not just go home and sleep?” people ask. Well, if they have to ask, then they just won’t be able to understand.

So you left that first restaurant for a better one, where the tips were better and the customers were
better looking. That place had a bar and you, as a waiter, were required to learn a little about the bar business. You were required to know how to garnish every drink and to know the difference between Ron Rico and Bacardi and Calvert and Beefeater. You had to know how to upsell. If a customer ordered a Vodka Tonic, you needed to be able to instinctively ask if they’d like Absolut, Kettle or Goose. The difference between any of those and the shitty well vodka could mean the difference of several dollars. And you understood that those dollars added up. Since the customer leaves a tip based on the percentage of the entire bill, this meant more money in your pocket. It all came naturally to you.

During your time as a waiter, you also learned a lot about people too. You learned how to be prejudiced – something you’ve been told to NOT be your entire life. You justified this by telling yourself that you were simply profiling. When you think about it, your parents, teachers and the entire politically correct society has been sending some pretty shitty mixed messages to you for your entire life. When kids are little, they are taught to not touch hot stoves, approach random dogs or take candy from strangers. It was an attempt to keep you safe, but you were also taught to NEVER judge people based on their appearances. How fucked up is that?

The restaurant industry has taught you how to generalize based on culture, color and religious background. You learned some very basic and general rules about people:

When given the choice for deserts, Asian people are more likely to order some sort of fruity item. Fruit topping, fruit pies, fruit cobbler - instead of chocolate, fudge, or butterscotch.

Smokers tip better than non-smokers.

Drinkers don’t scrutinize over the bill.

The folks who you wait on after church on Sunday are terrible tippers.

English, Mexican, Black people, and teachers are terrible tippers too.

So, like your approach to a stove, a pit bull or some crazy-eyed stranger in a van, you view customers and understand the possible outcomes of your pending interaction before it actually takes place. Sure, you are sometimes wrong. But you are often right.

By the time you were 21, you had landed a spot as a barback, and within six months after that, you were picking up daytime shifts behind the bar. It came natural.

*****

11:00 P.M.

The kitchen closed at 10:00, but the bar is still full. You will decide when to yell “last call” and begin the process of encouraging the last of your customers to leave. You usually tell them they have to go and then make them feel special. “This is last call and we’ll be closing pretty soon,” you tell them. “But you don't have to hurry. Enjoy your drinks. I’m just going to lock the doors and start cleaning up.”

Your friend Ryan is finishing with his last table in the dining room, going through the routine of sweeping the crumbs from the linen, offering coffee, and presenting the check. "Take your time," he says. To you, It almost sound like he means it. The customers always believe he is being sincere.

Ryan walks into the bar and asks you if you have time to "help" him with something in the back.

"Absolutely," you reply.

You tell your customers that you need to take care of something in the kitchen and that you'll be right
back. Then, you follow Ryan through the swinging doors, through the food prep area that's littered with leaves of lettuce and chunks of French bread, through the dishwashing area and out the back door. You each sit down on a couple of overturned plastic milk crates and Ryan pulls two Heineken bottles from his apron pockets. You each light a cigarette and spend the next five minutes drinking your beers and smoking and staring off into space. Neither of you talk. This is a nightly routine and it's your favorite part of your shift.

A half hour later, you and the last few customers walk out together, pausing to lock the front doors and turn out the lights. Their night has come to a close, but yours is just beginning.


Read Part III >

The Glow of a Neon Martini, Part I

Your alarm clock won't do its job for another twenty-two minutes, but you are already awake. You try to pull the sheets over your head to shield yourself from the bright afternoon sun shining through the nicotine-stained slats of your shitty window blinds. But even that doesn't work. It’s 2:38 and there is only a vague recollection of details from the night before. The details aren’t important; it will be the same tonight as it was last night.

For the better part of fifteen minutes, you switch back and forth between sitting on the edge of your bed and aimlessly shuffling around your one bedroom apartment while trying to decide what to do for the two hours before your next shift begins. The apartment is quiet and cluttered with chores that haven’t been done in at least a week. Probably two. Priorities, they’re all relative. And you think to yourself “God, I need to get some laundry done. I can only wear that pair of black slacks to work one more time before coworkers and customers notice how truly filthy they are.”

There’s a low-level pounding in your head and a total lack of energy. So you make a cup of instant coffee and turn on the TV. The thought of food makes you feel sicker than you already are. But Folgers is a pacifier.

The next hour is spent watching Cops with hollow interest. You have the aching need to just sit and do nothing but smoke a few cigarettes for a while.

As 5:00 ticks closer, the rush begins to prepare for work. How is it possible to be running late? You ask yourself this same question every day but there’s never an answer.

You quickly iron a white tuxedo shirt, wipe off your black apron with a wet washcloth, pull on a clean pair of white athletic socks and then pull a pair of dirty black dress socks over the top of the tube socks. Thin dress socks just don’t have the support you will need to stand on your feet and perform for a live audience for the next seven hours. You make the same mental note that you make every day: buy thicker black socks.

As you climb into your fifteen-year-old Honda, you hope that you have enough gas to get to work. No time to stop, you can’t be late again.

As you dart through the door at 4:59, you are greeted by familiar sounds and smells. This feels more like home than home does. You start to feel alive.

You say hello to several regulars as you make your way through the dining room on your way to the bar. You stop, shake hands and make small talk that is filled with witty remarks. You are the only one who realizes that each remark you make is practiced and unoriginal. They think you are charming.

You know you are not.

“What did you order?” you ask a middle-aged couple sitting at table 12.

“We’re splitting the Zuppa di Mare and Pappardelle with Saffron,” the gentleman replies.

“You’re making me jealous,” you tease. “Those are my two favorite things on the menu. You’re going to love them. Come by the bar and give me a report when you’re finished with dinner.”

You hurry into the lounge and find Katie, the daytime bartender visiting with one of the busboys. You look around and can immediately see that she hasn’t cleaned or restocked anything. The place is a disaster. There’s a list that she has taped to the side of the cash register.

fryday - day shift.

1. Theres alot of water in the bottom of the fridg.

2. Need more Kettel 1

3. Out of olives.

Good thing she’s pretty.

When Katie started working at Giuseppe’s, she said she had experience, but you highly doubt it. The
owner, Giuseppe DiGregorio probably hired her for her big fake tits. He’s an idiot.

Gently persuading Katie to restock and clean before clocking out never works. You’ve learned that you have to be direct. You have to treat her like a child. Sometimes you have to be flat-out rude. What’s her deal? You wonder what type of abuse she suffered from daddy, or mommy’s boyfriend that would make her more likely respond to abuse. Who the fuck cares? She won’t be around long. You’ve seen it before. Giuseppe will get tired of looking at her and will get rid of her.

No, he won’t actually fire her. He’s too much of a pussy to do that. Instead, he will start cutting her shifts down to the point where she can’t afford to stay here. This is the way it always happens.

***** 

There they are. The same three regulars that show up at the beginning of your shift. You spend at least two hours with them every night, yet you know very little about them.

There’s Craig. He’s in his late-forties or early-fifties. You have no idea where he works, but you can tell by looking at him that his job doesn’t require him to do anything physical; he’s pasty and soft. He’s not married and you’re pretty sure that he has never been married. Hell, you’re pretty certain that he’s never gotten laid. He just can’t grasp what it takes to be charming and appealing to women. He can’t seem to NOT act creepy when it comes to chatting up the ladies. You are embarrassed for him.

Then there’s Annie. She’s probably about 40. She’s attractive and fit and works in some office that’s close by. She usually only has one or two drinks before heading on to whatever she does. But sometimes she gets carried away and has several more and ends up sticking around for most of the evening. You like "that" Annie the best. She can be funny and sexy when she gets a little loaded.

Finally, there’s Roger. He’s an attorney and a friend of Giuseppe. He never pays for anything and you're fairly certain Giuseppe owes him money - probably for one of his divorces. He’s nice enough, but tends to be demanding when he wants a drink.

The bar has fourteen comfortably-upholstered stools, two booths and two two-top tables. At the other side of the room, there's a baby grand piano. Arthur, a tall, skinny 40-year-old guy with a toilet-seat hair-line and a shitty black suit is sitting at the keys playing "Somewhere My Love", the theme from Dr. Zhivago. Most of the songs that Arthur plays are from the same era, which makes you wonder about his background. Perhaps he was taught by an overbearing mother who made him play the songs from her youth? He reminds you of a balding Norman Bates.

For the next hour, you simultaneously restock the glassware, keep an eye on the server station, and make small talk with Craig, Annie, and Roger. Although the orders are steadily coming in from the dining room, they are still the only customers at the bar. This is the way it is where you work. The early crowd aren't big drinkers. You won't get really busy until at least 7:30.

Read Part II >