I Want A Puppy

Rob Cullen made our night. It’s that simple. It was a mediocre Friday, but one tip changed everything. Thank God for Rob Cullen. Six months ago, it seemed that Fridays were the great nights and Saturdays were hit and miss. In the last month, or so, it’s been the opposite. I don’t know what could be the cause of that, except maybe our economy is in the shitter; and, the after work crowd is rushing home to cuddle with their pay checks. It could be a lot worse, because it seems like I live in a bubble here in Santa Monica. I pray that bubble doesn’t burst.

Growing with the one and a half seasons of Los Angeles, I’ve always looked at day light savings as the beginning of summer. Everything seems to change when people drive home in the light, instead of sheer darkness. Alas, daylight savings has come really early this year, as you may have noticed, so my summer kick off is taking place in fifty degree weather. I guess this is why our patio, which is normally busy in the early evening, was empty save a few icicles hanging from the tables. I only had two customers at the bar when he walked in. I recognized him as a Stella drinker who gets a bit too drunk. I served him one to give him a shot. Half-way through his beer his eyes were closing and he began to talk to himself. It was a great way to start off a shift. He came in for his second beer and I told him he was done. He mumbled something, walked out, and flipped me the bird over his shoulder. Good times. Happy hour was funny. To the outside observer, it may not have seemed busy, but everyone came in at the same time. We have six items on our happy hour menu and for some reason, everyone was ordering potato skins. I don’t know why it happens, but some things tend to get ordered more than others. For instance, I’ll make a Sex on the Beach (vodka, peach schnapps, orange, and cran,) once every six months, but five customers ordered them last night. I don’t know why it happens. Something in the ether. In any case, I messed up a table’s order when I put in two wings instead of two skins. I was off my game, but it turned out to be a delicious mistake. You don’t think I just throw that shit out, do you?

Tim and Kimi came on and the douche was in full effect. I didn’t experience it as much, but they sure were inundated with it. Tim’s all-star was the guy who picked up a can of Red Bull we were using and took a sip, then he put it back. Tim called him on it. The guy said, “All right. I’ll be a man. I admit it. I took a sip.” This jerk off drank from a can and placed it back to be poured into someone else’s drink and he claims to be a man. No dumb shit, a man pulls out the three dollars sans tip to buy a can of Red Bull. It’s up there with the ass clowns who feel the garnish tray is a tong-less buffet. I saw one dude grabbing olives out of it. I was tapping a beer when I caught his eye. I shook my head, pointed to the olives and said, “Uh-uh.” The guy came over and said, “Want me to leave a dollar?” How stupid are people? I tell this guy to obey a rule, one that concerns hygiene and every other customer, and he thinks I’m trying to extort a Washington out of him. I told him, “No, you can keep your money.” Later on in the evening, I had three customers waiting to be served, one woman and two men. I went up to the woman, “What can I get you?” She said, “Some fruity shots. Something that tastes good. No tequila.” I said, “Grape kamikaze?” She replied, “I don’t like kamikazes.” Great. Why don’t I go through the book of shots to find one you do like? For those keeping score at home, some bartenders may be shot sommaliers. I’m not one of them. Then she mentioned that she’s a bartender. I said loudly, “Really?” Because in no universe of normalcy, would a “bartender” hold up other customers while they decided what fruity shot they wanted. I moved on, leaving her to ponder her eventual decision. Then there was the guy at last call who ordered, “One diesel and two unleadeds.” I’m game. I asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?” He laughed, “A Bud and two Bud Lights.” That amused me for a nano-second.

But the bar wasn’t comprised solely of douche. One woman, an annoyance, ordered a Fat Tire and a Long Island. I asked, “Anything else?” A water. I was filling the water. “Anything else?” A Bass. I was visibly annoyed, because it’s not a question I like to ask over and over. “Anything else?” Another customer made my night, when she chimed in, “I want a puppy.”