Below The Fold

Last night I worked for four hours at the P.S. Lounge.
I hadn’t planned on it; Amy took a guest bartending shift, but she was a little under the weather, so I strapped on the proverbial apron, so to speak.
I like it behind the bar.
I’ve done one other time, a few years ago. It was a good time then, too.
It’s a different relationship than, say, working as a waiter. When you’re working a bar like the P.S., you’re still empowered. I’ve seen far too many waiters get emasculated by little, angry people with insecurities that paralyze their insecurities. Waitresses get it pretty bad too.
I never really noticed it until I married a woman who worked in the industry for 20 years. Often, people asked her why she worked as a waitress, you know, because she seemed so smart. “Maybe if you took a computer class, you could go work elsewhere,” they’d say. Right, ‘cause when she was pulling down $50 an hour, she could dream of nothing more than spending the day doing data entry, or answering phones for $12/hr, with two smoke breaks and a 30-minute lunch hour to break up the monotony. Never mind the fact that she’s just as comfortable on a computer as the jackass who was speaking…
I see people everyday who wish they were somewhere else. Their eyes are filled with dreams they’ve committed themselves to ignore. I thank God I’m not one of them. I happen to enjoy my job (all of them). And if I didn’t, I’d leave.
And after last night, I’d probably go be a bartender. I’d pop open bottle caps and slide beers down the bar to guys who always sit in the same stool. I’d mix rum and diet cokes for girls watching their figures. I’d pour cranberry and sodas for the ones who, for whatever reason, aren’t drinking alcohol. I’d tell jokes and twirl the bottle opener with either hand. I’d make fun of people’s jukebox selections and point at random signs around the room that said things like, “The Bartender’s Always Right” whenever someone disagreed with my politics.
Yeah, I’d be a bartender.