Almost 22
One of the great joys of working in a bar is that I’m basically paid to be nice to people. No matter how rude, stupid, or ugly the customer, it’s my job to smile and be friendly. It’s actually a fairly easy job because, on the whole, most of humanity is comprised of fairly decent human beings whose friendly smiles come naturally.
It’s true, and I can’t believe I just said that.
Often, I actually want to be friendly with whomever’s sitting at my bar, not just for profit motive, but because she’s pretty. Last night was such a night. A pretty woman walked in with (dare I say it?) awesome hair (Ha! I said it! I’m such a fag).
She was completely charming, utterly funny, cute as a damned button, honest, and, most importantly, she looked me in the eye when we were talking. She made me happy the entire time I was in her presence. Had this been a social situation and not work, I would have asked her out and, even if she denied me, I honestly think it would have been welcome.
I pulled out all the bartender stops for her: buying her drinks, loads of extra attention, actually listening to her (ask any bartender if he can actually remember a single word his customers spoke last night) . . . I even concocted a new drink for her, a blended drink. Blended!
[EDITOR’S NOTE: Bartenders hate blenders. Hate. Really, really hate.]
She and her male friend had planned to leave my bar and go to dinner at nine. I kept them there until 1 a.m., so mad were my skillz. Then The Age Bomb hit. I realize that, having carded her, I should have know how old she was but, again, bartenders see hundreds and hundreds of people a week. In her own words, she was “almost twenty-two.” Almost twenty-two?
Really?
GOD DAMN IT!
Not two nights ago I was in a social situation with another pretty woman I found utterly charming. We were introduced by mutual friends, often run into each other, are on a very friendly basis, flirt with each other, etc. In other words, there is no reason I should not ask this person out. When, during normal conversation, age came up, she revealed she was twenty-three. My actual reaction was: “Twenty-three? GOD DAMN IT!”
No matter how many Martinis are involved, twenty-three is too young for me. After the Great Esther Debacle of 2006, I have learned my lesson and have a self-imposed age limit on dating partners. I explained myself to my twenty-three year-old friend, who agreed with me completely. She was surprised at my age, as well. We were both disappointed. It was cute. You should’ve been there.
But back to the bar last night: later in the evening, my twenty-one year-old crush was having a private conversation with her friend. I overheard something that was not intended for my ears, but bartenders have very big ears (it’s a valuable job skill): my crush is a Suicide Girl. Is that fair? Really! What the hell are you doing to me, God?! You present me candy, dip it in honey, roll it in sugar, and expect me to lay off it?!
Fucking really?!
The definition of a tragedy is that the outcome could have been avoided if only the protagonist hadn’t been such an idiot. I’m standing at a crossroads of a tragedy. To my left is the road to happiness and normalcy. To my right is the road to a successful personal life and gratifying career in the arts. In front of me is the road to pain, suffering, and misery . . .
Dipped in honey . . .
And rolled in sugar.
The Cardigan and Pants Cocktail
In a blender:
- one cup ice
- half shot of Absolut Mandarin
- half shot of blue curacao
- half shot of Apple Pucker
- half shot of Malibu rum
- shot and a half of strawberries
- shot and a half of orange juice
- shot and a half of pineapple juice
- a good shot of whipped cream (yes, in the blender)
- small half shot of banana syrup
- small half shot of coconut syrup
- blend until smooth, and serve in a very large foo-foo glass with lots of frippery
Blog