So we all know I'm a bit of a drinker. I think I've sold myself out on that front. What you probably DON'T know is that I was a massive lightweight (oxymoron?) all throughout college, and that it wasn't until AFTER I graduated that I decided to treat my liver like a punching bag.
It all started at the smoothie shop where I worked through most of my time at UCSB. I mean sure, I had my fair share of vodka bottles hidden in the deep freezers in the outside office, but for the most part--and this is important-- I knew when ENOUGH was ENOUGH. I would get tired of drinking liquid before my brain had a chance to get tired of functioning, so it always worked out that I would end the night in a stable state and wouldn't make too much of a fool of myself. I was certainly never the one who woke up with a giant penis Sharpied across her forehead, to say the least.
And then... one fated day... that all changed.
I was working the night shift at the smoothie shop. My friend Tim invited me to grab a beer with him at the bar down the street during my dinner break, and of course I agreed because nothing makes mixing fruit together more fun than a belly full of Hefeweizen. We sat down at the bar, and I was still wearing my T-shirt uniform with the smoothie company's logo on it. Okay fine, and yes, I was still wearing my bright red Crocs (you asshole). Anyway, I was sitting there chatting away with Tim when the bartender-who-was-also-the-owner-of-the-bar interrupted with, "Hey, you work there at that smoothie shop?" I nodded, and laughingly said that I was guzzling booze on my break. "So... you gotta job? Well... how about working here too? I'm looking for another bartender. Lemme know when you can start."
I was caught off-guard. Not only did he not seem concerned about my soggy work ethic weighed down by two pints of beer, he actually seemed to think that having a job automatically qualified me to work for HIS business. I let the second half of my second beer do all the talking, and before I knew it I was committing to a trial shift at the bar later that week. I returned to my smoothie shift, optimistic and excited to become the newest cast-member of Cheers.
Ahh... so naive.
I showed up to my first shift full of anxious butterflies and self-doubt. There was no training paperwork or methodology whatsoever to help new employees learn drinks or bartending etiquette or whatnot. Instead, there was just Jake. Jake was the stalky martial artist/ bartender who cackled raucously and poured out heavy drink orders... and had a slight reputation for taking all his clothes off by the end of his shift. I did not know this at this point, however, so I followed him around like his every breath dictated the Law of Tending a Bar. Within five minutes, it became apparent to me that the only education I would be getting that night was how every single fucking drink tasted that any fucking customer ordered. It was like losing at an aggressive game of dodgeball. Everywhere I looked a shot of something swerved toward me, the alcohol slapping me abrasively in the throat and eyes and soul. I remember sampling my first Johnny Walker Black, Adios Mother Fucker, and Cosmopolitan within the first hour. By the end of the night, I'd tried every form of liquor under the sun, and I was pretty sure my name was Natasha. Thank goodness my same friend Tim had come to cheer me on my first night, because he suddenly became crucial to my survival. He insisted on walking me home despite my slurred protests that I would be fine.
"Alright, (single white female), it's time to go. What street do you live on?"
I furrowed my brow, but not in the cute way women furrow their brows in misogynistic novels. More like the way an ogre would furrow his brow while taking a dump, I think. "Uhhh... yeah... it starts with a 'P'?" My question mark made Tim's face drop. As he rattled off various street names beginning with "P", I schmammer-staggered in some direction that felt like home. We eventually found my abode, which Tim realized humorlessly was located right next to what was known (also humorlessly) as Kill-Whitey Park (multiple gang stabbings and such had given it a bloody reputation). I hazily recall being led to my door and the immense feeling of relief I felt when my hand wrapped around the handle, safely home, teeter-tottering on the brink of unconsciousness. I also vaguely remember Tim asking if he could use the bathroom really fast before he had to walk home through Shady McShadersonville. And I remember, as if witnessing through a fog machine, pushing the door closed on his bursting bladder and trying to mumble something of a thank-you, but all that came out was a whoosh of vodka-saturated oxygen particles. And then, the next thing I remember was waking up to myself sitting up in bed, projectile-vomiting all over my dignity and humanity.
And thus began the avalanche of booze-infested nights where I was tipped hundreds of dollars to trip uncoordinatedly around the shelves and build a relationship with Cazadores. Some of my bigger fans started making tally-marks on my arm to keep track of my nightly tequila intake. It totaled eleven shots per shift in the time known as the Dark Ages, and I would be coherent enough at the end of the night to close the bar down and go grab a beer with some friends. For some reason I feel proud of that fact, although I know I should probably feel shame or something else equally degrading.
It didn't matter that I didn't know HOW to bartend-- that was the best part about it. If I didn't know how to make something, I'd discreetly look it up in the cheater's drink book we always kept on-hand. And if it didn't show up in the book? I'd ask the customer directly, which usually lost me a little respect. It wasn't my fault though-- I'd spent my college years mostly drinking beers from my brother's fridge and $4 bottles of wine. I wasn't familiar with even a basic selection of common liquors, so every drink ordered was "New to Me!" for the longest time. I'll never forget when a snobby blonde chick ordered a lemon drop and I smeared sugar-looking salt all over the rim of her glass. Or when someone ordered a Wild Turkey shot and I frantically looked through the cheat book before loudly declaring that I didn't know what was in that, could you please tell me? Shoot me now. Or when I was blushing and trying to figure out how to make a "77" instead of a Seven-and-Seven.
Once I got the routine down though, an even giant-er obstacle crashed in front of me and my dream of being a successful bartender. This was the fact that my boss was a clear-cut cokehead. Now I had never had experience with this form of drug-abuse before, but even to innocent ol' me it became apparent that something. was. up. The man cruised in to his bar during peak hours, wiping his nose furiously with his pointer finger while sniffling dryly and rapping out orders to me like a sergeant in heat (just... pretend that made sense). His most infamous move was to get behind a bar full of already-served customers and start pointing gun-fingers at them while shouting "WHAT CAN I GETCHA?!!!" and pulling on the imaginary air-triggers. Whenever a customer's feathers were ruffled by my boss's service, I would have to shove cardboard coasters in my mouth to avoid hysterically laughing at the explanation of "It's just business because I have to run this business and you know keeping up with business is always hard when you need more business--" etc., etc., that always ensued. "Business" became the blanket term for every sketchy thing that went on in that bar. Paychecks written in hand from his personal checking account? Just business. Cockroaches playing leapfrog along the rows of clean shot glasses? Eh buddy, just business! That drunken bastard peeing in the cesspool known as the "mop bucket" that we clean the floors with later? Don't even worry about it! It's business, my friend!!!
I continued my stint as bar mother of this glorious dive for about six months after I graduated. It took roughly that much time to kill all the brain cells that enjoyed the pointless dicking around that had become my life. I got into restaurant managing and have since been on a journey to reconnect with the artist within me that used to direct all my attention. That journey has led me to Encinitas, where I am living alone and managing a vegan-friendly restaurant with environmentally-conscious values. The hours I have allow me the time to write this silly blog I've taken up and actually start to create the million-and-one artistic ideas I've been carrying around in my head ever since I gave up art and took up drinking. I feel, finally, for the first time in a long time, like myself. Like the curly-haired girl who would crank up the ballads on Jewel's latest album and get lost in the eyes of the portrait I'd spend all day painting. It is this reconnection with my former and greater self that causes me to frighten customers: whenever someone asks if we serve wine or beer, I jump up and down and loudly shout, "HELL MUTHA FUCKIN' NO WE DON'T!! HALLELUJAH!! PRAAAAISE THE LORD!!" and punctuate my gratefulness with excited fist pumps that jostle the customers' comfort levels out the door. They may not understand my zeal, but I am content because every time I feel my liver giving tiny little liver fist pumps right along with me. Hallelujah, praise the lord! I hear its tiny little liver voice squeaking, and that is all the encouragement I need. Well... that and the fact that my beer belly has grown its own moon to orbit its inflated circumference.... But that's just business.
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