Saturday nights at the bar where I work have always proven to be weird nights. Sometimes I’m convinced that the mental patients from the clinic up the road from the bar are let out for good, or not-so-good behavior on Saturdays.
On this one particular Saturday, I showed up for work, and as is my habit, showed up a little early for a quick beer before my shift. I got there, took my barstool, and surveyed the patrons to get a feel for who was there, and the mood of the bar.
It was the usual Saturday afternoon regulars, except for one gentleman of obviously Spanish descent sitting off to one side. Not a problem, I always welcome new customers, because let’s face it, new customers mean new tips.
I notice the time, and push my beer and various belongings to the front of the bar so I can grab them easily, slide out of the barstool and make my way to the other side of the bar. I get ready, count my money, get my register started, fill out my time sheet, and after talking with the day bartender for a minute, I’m on my own.
I make my way around the bar, checking on everyone, chit-chatting a little here and there. One of the things I love about my job as a bartender is getting to talk to people, which is really weird considering how painfully shy I was growing up. When I was a teen, you could barely get me to look people in the eye, much less start a conversation, but now, it’s a whole different story. I guess growing up changes you. Or maybe I just changed, but I digress, as I often do.
I make my way to the Mexican gentlemen and begin to talk with him. It is soon apparent that his English is not very good. I ask him how he’s doing, he pretty much just nods and smiles.
He nods and smiles again and asks for “Bud Light.”
I grab him a beer, collect his money and make my rounds again. Later, I come to check on him again, he wants a shot of tequila this time.
Okay. I serve it up, bring it to him. He tells me, “I love you, American woman.”
This time, I smile and nod.
He stays a little longer, each time he orders a shot or a beer, he tells me again. “I love you American woman.”
Finally, he has had enough and we order a cab for him. I get him some water, leave him alone, and begin talking to some friends of mine who have come in.
We’re having a good old conversation when one of my friends stand up and point to the area behind me. Now, the bar where I work is a big “U” shape and to get behind the bar you have to enter from the other side.
I turn to look behind me and my Mexican gentleman has taken his shirt off and decided to join me behind the bar. I feel my jaw drop, my eyes go huge, and my temper rise.
Another friend of mine has come in at this time and he sees what’s going on. He grabs the guy’s shirt and he and the two friends I was talking to, corral the gentleman and pretty much wrestle his shirt back on. They continue to stand guard until the guy’s taxi shows up and they usher him into the cab and watch him drive away. This same gentleman has been in the bar several times since this incident and hasn’t taken his shirt off or professed his love for me. He hasn’t done any tequila shots since then either. I guess tequila really does make some people’s clothes come off.
A “Shot” of Laughter
We loaded up one Sunday to check out a little bar on the levee. At this time, I still had a Pentomino puzzle in my car. Pentomino’s are pieces in various shapes and the objective is to form a rectangle using all the pieces. One of the pieces had fallen on the floorboard and one of my friends pick it up. He tosses it out the window. He then says, “Oops, I hope you didn’t need that L-shaped thing cause I just threw it out the window.”
“Damnit!” I say. “That was my diaphragm!”
He cocks his head to one side, trying to figure out if I’m serious or not.
“In the shape of an “L”?”
“Yeah.”
He shuts one eye, looking, still thinking. He’s still thinking when our other friend in the back seat pipes up. “Does that make it a diaphragmel?”
