39

Even though it was my birthday, I figured it would be like any other Friday. I got to the pub a half hour early and was immediately greeted by Nicole. She wished me a Happy Birthday and walked me inside. I walked into the main room and saw above the bar two-foot, gold, helium, balloons, which read, “GARBER 39.” Awesome. I cracked up. It was a great beginning to my shift.

Happy hour started off slow, but then some old friends began to trickle in. Liz and her sister Sarah led the parade. She was followed by Poodle, Claire, Adrian, and Kathy. Kathy had stashed a homemade, red velvet cake under Ruby’s stroller. She busted it out with candles to boot. My friends sang, “Happy Birthday,” and then we dove into the cake. It was delicious. I was super touched, it was a lovely thing that Kathy did. The bar began to fill up, and in between bites of cake, I was running around helping customers. Needless to say, I was a bit distracted. It was my birthday and there were friends everywhere. I neglected a few customers, but when I explained the balloons, all was forgiven. It was a great happy hour, I probably should’ve stopped there.

It was a strange night. After my dinner break, it seemed busy, because of the noise and the crowd, but we didn’t seem to be making many drinks. We did have some real All-Stars walk through the door and I blame the band. I’ve never had so many customers pay with change. The first one ordered a bottle of Bud. I told him five dollars and he whipped out three singles and eight quarters. He then asked, “Is there an ATM nearby?” I wanted to ask, “Do you want the one that only spits out hundreds, high roller?” Personally, I hit the ATM before I go out. I don’t break my piggy bank in order to purchase a five dollar beverage. The next wizard ordered a Guinness, seven dollars. He paid with a five, a one, eight dimes, and four nickels. The first time around I counted wrong and he corrected me. I apologized and explained, “I so rarely get dimes and nickels to pay for a drink, I mean from my non-homeless customers.” I thanked him for the lack of tip and moved on. Perhaps my favorite customers were the two women who ordered Diet Cokes. They told me they were both designated drivers and balked when I charged them six dollars for the drinks. I explained, “Just because you drove doesn’t make you a ‘designated driver.’ If you transport your drunk friends, then I’ll kick you a soda, but if everyone drove and wanted free Diet Cokes, we wouldn’t make any money.” It saddens me that I have to take time out of the celebration of my birth to explain how the designated driver program works. Go to McDonald’s and mooch a free cola, skank. I was beginning to regret working on my birthday. What started out so sweet, was becoming a pain in the ass. Of course, on my birthday, I had a trio of young ladies belly up to the bar. One asked, “Can we get three mystery birthday shots? It’s my friend’s birthday.” I asked, “When?” She responded, “Three days ago.” I replied, “I’m gonna have to charge you.” She began to get defensive, explaining that she didn’t want anything free. I ask you, Dear Reader, am I wrong to assume that when a customer says, “birthday,” they mean “gratis.” Otherwise, why not just call them shots?

Two bands played that night. And between them they some how took up half of the back room with their equipment. During the second band, Opus Dai, my buddy Jimbo came up to me and said, “Dave Garber, if you don’t go listen to this music and write about it in your blog tomorrow, I’m no longer your friend.” Well Jimbo, I listened and now I’m writing. Are we still friends? Just before midnight I did a shot with some regular customers. I don’t know if it’s my age, but that shot took the life out of me. Not only was I exhausted, but time slowed down. It wasn’t just me and my nearly forty-year old ass, but Kimi, too, couldn’t believe how long the last hour of the night went. I guess the bands loyal followers finally ran out of change to purchase drinks, which is why it was so slow. When our clocks finally ticked half past one, I rang the shit out of the last call bell. In fact, I went over a minute early and stretched out my shoulder, in hopes of cracking it like the Liberty Bell. I don’t regret working on my birthday. It is just any other night. Next year my birthday falls on a Saturday. For those keeping score at home, it will be my 40th. Douche bags be warned: I will not suffer fools on that night. I’ve got three hundred and sixty four days to bone up, and bone I will, but for now, I’m just going to enjoy being 39.