Gandhi

I figured it would be like any other Friday, except for the fact that it would be my first shift behind the bar after quitting smokes (this time.) Last time I quit, I was a bit of a prick. Let me rephrase that. I’m a bit of a prick anyway, last time I quit smoking, I was a big, meaty, cock. Judging by the last time I stopped smoking, I was little concerned that I would gouge out a customer’s eyes and piss on their brain for the smallest of infractions. Don’t worry, dear readers. All customers left with the exact number of eyes they walked in with.

My happy hour shift started like any other. There were a handful of people at the bar who I bored with my tales of hypnosis and the end of my days as a smoker. As each new person came in, the previous one got to relive my tale of smoking cessation and my week off from marijuana consumption. I probably drove a few of them to take up both habits. I guess I was like that douche bag in college who found Jesus and wanted everyone to know about it. I always wonder if Jesus ever sees these fools coming first. Close to eight o’ clock, about fifteen early twenty-somethings came in to the bar. It was just before happy hour ended and I was excited for the pop. Alas, these kids were a little douchey. In fact, my level of anxiety began to rise. Normally, my first thought goes to smoking, but it appears that hypnosis has some how cut off that neural pathway. It’s like morning coffee. Just the smell of it when you walk into Peet’s will wake you up. In my case, I just purchase a cup of Peet’s coffee and my bowels begin to quiver. The anxiety eventually subsided, but like a person who has never smoked before, a cigarette wasn’t an option for me. (I apologize if I bore you, but this hypnosis thing is blowing my feeble, and easily controlled, mind.)

Kimi and Tim came on and usually I’ll order food, smoke, eat, smoke. Instead, I ordered food, ate, and went back to work. Novel. It was a great night from the get go. There were great customers. Adults who knew what they wanted, drank well, and tipped even better. The band brought some great people, too. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t all great. There were some douche bags but this was minor douche. As Kimi said, “There was enough douche to bother me, but not enough to put me over the edge.” In fact, there wasn’t even a douche bag of the night. There was the one guy who was hoovering chicken wings like a fluffer chugs cock. He looked like one of those cheetahs on “When Animals Attack.” I especially loved it when he took a break from gagging on the tiny bones, in order to yell, “Yo! Can I get another order?” Since you were so polite, why not? There was also the woman who asked to close out her tab. She gave me her name and I couldn’t find it in the computer or her card on file. I told her to ask the person who had been helping her. I may have been a little loud in order to be heard above the din, because her friend said, “You don’t have to be mean.” I said, “Excuse me? I told her I couldn’t find her card, maybe the person who took her order could help. Is there a problem?!” I don’t like yelling at customers, but I hate being told how to behave by them, either. Now this was someone who easily could’ve lost an eye and had her brain showered with urine. Then there’s the seriously minor douche who you ask how they want something, they tell you, then change it while you pour. A guy ordered three shots of Patron and a Red Bull. I asked if he wanted the Red Bull on ice. He said yes, checked with his friend, and half way through pouring it, he yelled, “No.” I angrily threw out the drink. I like to passive-aggressively let customers know when they’ve violated the rules of the bar.

Great music, great customers, big money. Sweet business. I wish every night could’ve been like Friday. Towards the end of the night, my lower back started to tighten up. I figured some weed would ease that pain, but when I got home, I didn’t have the inclination. (One paragraph later and, yes, my mind is still blown.) By the way, my favorite part of the night was when an Indian dude, dot not feather, ordered a drink and closed out his tab. I’m sure you can guess his name. Maybe it’s the nerd in me, but how many times do you get to slide a check presenter and say, not offensively, “Here you you go, Gandhi.”?