A couple weeks back I volunteered to guest bartend at a birthday party. I thought it would be “fun.”
I was waaaay outta my league at this downtown club where women in fishnets danced on the bar, a DJ spun from inside a cage, and sparklers went off every time someone ordered a $400 bottle of Veuve.
People were ordering things I had never heard of. Back in my day, we ordered a simple Malibu and Pineapple. Or Jack and Coke. If you had no sympathy for the bartender, a Piña Colada. But these people wanted Redheaded Sluts, Adios Motherf—ers, and Red P—ies. I almost blushed taking their orders (all of which I did not know how to make). That is, when I could hear and understand the orders, what with all the accents and the loud club…I couldn’t even read lips!
I grew resentful as the night grew on, as we were expected to bartend (free labor) like we had gone to bartending school. And I had to work the cash register, with extremely limited retail experience. It was a disaster.
It was a Wednesday night, and my shift lasted until 2 a.m.! My two friends, girls in their early-ish 20s, asked me if I had invited my pals. I said, “If they’re up at this hour, it’s because they’re having to breast feed.”
Seriously, what was I doing?!