#bartender stories

[mouthtapedguy]

Iconic behavior on both sides

[storiesofsvu]

Y’all…. Holy HELL.

Tonight was INSANE.

Our number jumped like 60 people between 3pm & opening (5pm) so we were down a server.

The bar (aka me) was SLAMMED the entire night. I sold $5200 in liquor alone!

(Like, the usual max is like $2500) but this was CONSTANT.

I had to take a lil break at one point to go smash a glass out back & have an angry/stress cry.

This is fucking insane.

My body is so sore.

[dippietheham]

TW: Death, Grief

Grieving the loss of a loved one is hard for anyone. Even if I'm just watching and sharing grief, it can get tough.

Mocktails help me get over these times. So I went to visit my favourite bartender. He stood quietly by as I downed two of his concoctions in a row. I didn't ask if there was alcohol, but something burned its way nicely down my throat, bringing tears to my eyes.

At least that must be the reason for my wet cheeks. I have no good reason to cry. I don't have enough reasons to grieve.

While I nursed my third almost certainly alcohol free mocktail, my bartender quietly took up a tale.

----------

Have you heard of the Dancers for the Dead (he asked)?

Many people enter and leave through the doors of my pub. Oftentimes, they come once, and never return. Sometimes, they become regulars, and their habits are pretty much set in stone. For those, I know their preferences, their moods and their orders.

(He placed another mocktail in front of me.)

And sometimes... They don't return.

I've never really thought about those who don't return. People change locations or change tastes. I seldom think of them outside that mild curiosity that we humans have. The gentle wondering of why a person who entered our lives had to leave, or chose to leave. Where they're at. What they're doing. How they are now.

Death... Seldom enters that equation.

The day I met a Dancer, I was spending time with my fairy friend, watching the garden together. It's a peaceful experience, an excellent reward for owning this piece of land that crosses so many boundaries.

As he snacked noisily on his beef that day, the wind started to pick up. As sometimes happens, a little whorl of air started to spin on the path before us, picking up dried leaves and small twigs. Round and round it spun.

I suddenly recalled one of my patrons. A little old lady, with a love for flair. I'd always made a show of pulling out her chair. I'd wipe the table with extravagant movements, and serve her drinks and food with a flourish. She always had the sweetest smiles and giggles for me, and would show her concern for me in little ways. One time she brought in a packet of popping rocks, because she wanted me to feel like a child again. We shared that pack of popping rocks, an unspoken crackly secret in the midst of the hectic world.

Another young lad came to mind. He was quiet, surly, curt. But he seemed to know this about himself, for while he kept to himself for the most part, he'd leave an extra bill on the table and exit unobtrusively. Almost apologetically.

Both of these patrons had stopped returning for a couple of months by that time. As I wondered why they'd suddenly surfaced in my memories, the air started to crystallize around us. My fairy toadfriender audibly swallowed the rest of his beef, and seemed to come to attention.

It became apparent that there was someone - or something - in the middle of the whorl that had been floating past us. She was small and slender, about as tall as a standing squirrel. I couldn't see her features clearly, as she never stood still. She spun around, one foot on tiptoe, the other lifted to her knee, arms arched over her head. Her face was uplifted, and as she spun, she never seemed to face a single direction for long.

A web of water droplets seemed to flicker outwards from her dance. Little shiny gems that flared, catching whatever light was present, glittering, shining. They would be swallowed up by the vortex generated by her dance, vanishing in little sparkles. Her feet twinkled as she pushed her foot off the ground again and again, a perpetual pirouette, a ballerina caught in a cycle. The droplets spread out, up, and then fell.

Then the sense of loss hit me.

It was almost tangible, a sense that something, someone was gone. A hole was left where a space had once been occupied. But not just a hole, a lack-of-presence. Perhaps there was a sense that this should not have been. Ideally loss should never have occurred. Things should not have changed. But they had, they did, and now grief was present in the place of who once was.

As the Dancer danced on, my friendly toadfairy and I could only watch, spellbound. Tears streamed down our faces. Suddenly, with a lingering smell of sunlight, lilac and lavender, she was gone.

We sat there, my fairy friendtoadster and me, gulping like fish fresh out of water. Sobs were wracking my body, but my fairy friendlytoad reached out a webbed foot to my hand. He must have done something for me, for I was able to calm down and breathe better. He looked a mess (for a toad), but he appeared calmer too.

"You weren't supposed to see that." he sniffed.

"What was it?"

"That... was a Dancer for the Dead."

"Death comes for us all, even the fae. Along with loss, and change. But many a times, humans pretend that death and loss do not affect you. Your kind don't seem to like facing up to grief and pain. Tears that should be shed are withheld, like little plugs that stopper up the drainpipes of grief. You cover up your tears with work, with distraction upon distraction, entertainment, with drugs and addictions."

"But drains must do what they do. Or they will overflow. The grief and tears must go somewhere. And for every man or fae that tries to stop the flow of grief that comes with Death, a Dancer is born."

"The Dancers of the Dead dance unseen. They carry the unspoken losses, the unmourned dead. They weep for those for whom tears have been restricted, lingering at the edge of someone's eye, but never shed. They dance to share in the burden of grief that the world creaks with, to release it like little sprinklers, so that the world continues to spin. Grief, carried and stopped for too long, can break the world with its weight."

"For some of you humans, the grief will never be looked at. It is too raw, too painful, too much to handle, too unreal to be real. For other humans who have died, truly alone, no one is around to mourn them. No one grieves what should be grieved. And yet for some others, they need to survive. Their Grief needs a bitter pint, a friendly shoulder, a listening ear and the comfort of a warm bed after. They don't have the luxury of those things, not yet. Not now."

For all these reasons, the Dancers dance. In the midst of a spinneret of wind, in the breath of a passing breeze. In the middle of a thunderstorm, pelting down hard in the heart of a city, a little Dancer might spin, crying, expelling grief into the uncaring night. In the middle of the ocean, where the darkest smear might exist at the bottom of a deep trench, a little whirlpool would spin up, circle for a while, and then dissolve, to reappear at another time of need. Sometimes, in the darkest of hearts, a little Dancer might turn up, for a split second, attempting to release the hurt of hurts, and possibly failing. But they will still dance. On and on, they dance.

I, a human, was not supposed to see one. But for that moment, I grieved my patrons who I now knew had passed, for some reason or another. I grieved that I would never see them again. Their stories had ended, and I would never experience them again in my life.

"But the fae welcome the Dancers. Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"When the grief has been released, it means that there is hope for moving on. Life continues despite loss and change. What is lost may never be regained, but there is always something and someone new in this world. A new memory is made with every loss. The day must end before the new day can dawn."

"The fae know this too well, for the number of years we stay on this plane. But the Dancers remind even me, that for every loss I sustain, there is something I will gain. For every loss to have happened, I must have experienced. A life lost to me, is a life that once was with me. You, my friend, have been kind to me in a way few have been kind. I will lose you one day too, as I have lost almost all my human friends."

He smiled at me. As only a toad with teeth can, but today his smile was a lot warmer.

"For you, I will grieve. But I will also be thankful that I once had a supply of good beef. And beer."

"And a human companion who never asked for more than my company."

----------

I slept like a child that night. For I dreamt of a Dancer, who caressed my cheeks with her tears, and enfolded me into dreamland with a warm embrace.

She smelt like my mum.

[dippietheham]

Today was tiring. I'm not addicted to mocktails, but in my tiredness, I find myself trudging up to the doorstep of my now favourite bar. Nodding to the toad on its bench (and getting a croak in return), I push open the door, and seat myself at the bar counter. My bartender takes a look at me, and quietly puts together my favourite mocktail without any mockery. In fact, he takes so much mockery out that it's practically alcoholic.

While I nurse my second glass, he regales me with yet another tale.

-------------------

Did you know (my bartender says) that in the middle of a desert somewhere, there's a top that's always spinning?

I meet the top every now and then. He drops by my bar when he's finally persuaded to take a break, on his whirlwind tour of the Top 20 Interesting Places Recommended by A Fairy (You won't believe the 15th). He calls himself a top but he's more of a gyroscope, a spinning disc of metal balanced in the center of a metal frame. He can't stay still.

His home is near the center of the desert. If you try to walk in that direction for about 10 days, you might reach a spot near a rock that looks like the nose of an enraged cat. He spins close to that rock, but doesn't allow himself to be under any shelter. Instead, he stands in the open, and spins.

He watches the sunrise as he spins, and bakes under the hot noon sun. He keeps an eye on the setting sun while he spins on, never stopping. He shivers as the desert temperatures plummet in the night The stars, pretty as they are, offer no comfort. The cold does affect his spin, causing him to wobble now and then, but he's never allowed to stop. He never allows himself to stop.

When he first started out, his bottom bearing kept getting caught on sand grains and he would wobble and topple. Without fail, he'd get up again and spin. By now, the sand beneath him has been ground to a glassy glaze, and he topples less. And still he spins on.

He showed me how he spins, and it's like a ballet within a ballet. His frame spins gently in one direction while his disc spins in the other, and that makes him balance as he spins. It's magical, almost hypnotic, and it's relaxing.

I asked him why he spins in the middle of the desert where no one can see his beauty.

"I was owned by a man who tried to cross the desert on his own. Perhaps it was foolishness, or pride, but he told no one, and asked for no help. He ran out of water for quite a while, but managed to make his way near the rock that looks like the nose of an enraged cat. And as he lay gasping and dying, I fell out of his pocket."

"As he lay panting, he summoned the last of his strength to point. And lo and behold, under the rock that looks like the nose of an enraged cat, was a small bubbling outlet of a hidden aquifer. No one would see it standing up. It was only visible when he had finally given up and laid down, only to find that he couldn't even crawl over to the source of life to restore even a little of himself."

"And so he died and wilted up. Death may be unforgiving, but the desert even more so. I know not how to count time but the sun rose and set only a few times ere my master's bones were exposed. Sandwinds come and go, and the sands shift. His bones are gone now, but the rock remains. Ugly, unassuming, uninviting, yet with life."

"I know not why I did not get buried. I know only that when my master's finger finally vanished under the sand, that no one would know of the life that they would get if only they stopped to look closer, to stoop down to my level and see. So that same day, I tried to spin."

"It was difficult. My bearings were coated with sand. Sand was everywhere. I was alone, and yet I wanted to try. So I creaked. I rasped. I jerked and jolted, trying my best not to fall, and failing. There were many times that I wanted to just give up and let the sand swallow me."

"But it never did."

"A time later, a man did walk past. He looked tired and dry, as only the desert can make you be. He saw me stuttering, and knelt down to see me closer. In doing that, he saw the water, and he stayed a day or two, watching me, resting and recovering under the shade. He had some oil on him, bless him, and he oiled my bearings. I finally got to spin as I did in my youth, and he watched, as he rested. Then he left. Unlike my master, he was able to carry on."

"I spin now because my master died alone. I spin because the sands do not swallow me. I spin because a stranger oiled my bearings and helped me spin better. I spin because hope and life exist where no one thinks to look, and I want them to look in case it's the hope and life they need. I spin even though I gain nothing because I have been given too much to not spin."

Do you never get bored of it?

"Nah. It's fun to spin. It's fun to be able to spin. I can spin better than some tops that have become famous (you hear of those Baku something tops and I'm like come spin in the desert with me dude. You won't last a minute.)."

Don't you need to take more breaks?

"Sometimes. When my bearings scratch as I spin, I leave to look for someone to oil them. The glazed sand is a good marker for those who pass, but only for the short time I'm away. I do fear that someone may need to see the water when I'm gone, but for me to continue to spin, I know I need to get those bearings seen to."

"One day, I expect the sand to cover me. One day, the desert might shift enough that the rock may be hidden, or reveal the water more. One day I might stop spinning because I cannot anymore."

"But until that day, I'll spin, for the few that will need to have the hope to carry on."

-------------

My bartender does like to spin some tall tales sometimes.

But somehow, I'm a little less tired. On top of the world, even.

[dippietheham]

Part of my job includes taking photos, and one time I had to muck about with a ship in a tub. However I mucked it, it still insisted on being a ship full of water, heading down.

After beating back yet another bunny that had inexplicably poked its head around my door to look at what I was doing, I threw in the towel. I got on my hrududu and made my way to my now favourite pub for my mocktail fix.

Not for the stories of course. Though my regular bartender had one ready for me.

--------

I never knew (said bartender-rah), when I bought this place over, just how interesting this plot of land is. My fairy acquaintance did try to explain it to me once, after he'd had a thimble of vodka I'd left out with his regular beef portion. This pub sits on a confluence of influences. Fairies, dreams, fantasies, ideas, potential dimensions and dying stars alike have influences on the fabric of this world. Stories have power to change things in our world, and these are influenced by the glimpses we get into these otherworldly or outerworldly places.

I (continued bartender-rah) have no idea what the fairy was talking about, mind you. It might explain why the last owner insisted on passing me the keys to this pub at specifically 12 minutes after noon on the 12th of December. He was sweating quite a bit while doing it too. In the middle of winter.

Maybe he just likes the number 12 a great deal.

But strange things do happen here.

It was that moment between the darkest minute of midnight and the second where the next day really starts. I was still cleaning up after turfing another embleer drunk gently out the front door. There was no one left in that moment, so I was ready to take a short breather. I went back behind my bar, and placed my turfing mop back in its place, and I heard the door open.

I turned around, greetings on my lips. "Good even, good fellows! What... Are... You... Having?"

A horse and a tiger entered the bar. Instead of leading up to a punchline, they looked like they had both been punched up. The tiger took a seat at my bar, and when I say took a seat, I mean it rested its butt on the bar stool, while folding its forepaws on the counter.

The horse just laid its head on the counter and stared in my direction. I truly understood what people meant by horses have long faces. That was one long face staring at me.

With a hoarse voice, the tiger asked for a slice of raw beef, "as large, thick and cold as you can keep it," and a Shirley Temple in a bowl. The horse asked for a bowl of oats and a bucket of iced water in a naggy tone.

(I had to use the mop bucket, but I swear I cleaned it thoroughly before filling it with ice and water filtered through a spring. I clean that spring regularly too, and make sure it has some bounce in it.)

They took a while to eat their food, especially the tiger who held the beef to her black eye for a long while before eating it with relish. I've never seen a tiger eating pickles before. The horse just ate like he hadn't been able to silflay for a while, pausing only to harrumph and toss his head.

When they finally had had some drink as well, they started talking for real. It turns out they had been arguing over who was stronger.

The horse insisted that his child needed only an hour after birth to start running around, and would start eating grass on its own within a couple of weeks. The horse himself could kick down a barn door, leap over stiles with a single bound, and pull heavy carts and loads, no problem. He could eat sugar and apples and could find food easily - grass was not exactly hard to find in a non-desert area. Tigers only ate meat. Such inflexibility.

The tiger simply flexed her forearms and opened her mouth wide, displaying her long canines. She also gave a soft roar, rattling the glasses in my cabinet behind the bar. The horse snidely asked if she needed to see a vet for that cough.

Before they started throwing haymakers again, I felt I had to say something.

"You both do know that you are both strong?"

Two sets of angry eyes stared at me.

"In the beat of a mouse's heart, either of you could destroy my pub. The tiger can take down a horse with a paw and a bite, the horse can brain a tiger with a well placed kick. Your strength is more visible, tiger san, but humans tend to hunt you more, and your numbers are less. Your strength is undeniable too, neigh-bour, but humans use that strength to make things easier for themselves."

I paused to assure them that I was in no way insulting them or stating that humans are superior to them.

"My point though, is that you both each have your strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps you'd argue that even the food you eat determines how strong you might be, but does it, really? Or how soon your children can be independent of you. Is that necessarily strength?"

"I'm a dude that serves fermented water in different flavours. I listen to you guys for the money (hopefully) that you'll pay me. I serve others and clean up after them. I won't last seconds in a fight with either of you. Would you call me weak and still drink the drinks I serve you?"

They both pointed out that I was, indeed, still weak.

"Well, weak as I am, shaking in my boots as I am, I'm speaking up to avoid either of you turning my much loved bar into kindling. Is that weakness still?"

Both of them stayed quiet at this while I cleaned my bartop.

"In how many worlds can a horse and a tiger get along without wanting to kill each other? Why not use your strengths for each other, to make up for any weaknesses you may have, instead of trying to one up each other in a way that doesn't matter at all?"

---------

I honestly don't think horses and tigers can talk. But after getting home from my mocktail, I'm going to lay some lettuce out for those bunnies.

You never know.

[thehappybartender]

It’s SOOOOOO funny when you guys ask for a Dos XX while holding up two fingers. And then get told you only wanted one. Its SOOOOO great. 

[thehappybartender]

I love reading our yelp reviews. I’ll also read neighboring bars/clubs and it’s hilarious at some of the things people will complain about. 

I wasn’t let in because I didn’t have a proper i.d. 

-Well no shit.

I wasn’t let in because I had Jordon’s on. This establishment is racist. 

-What?

I wasn’t allowed in because I had a neck tattoo and because IM a veteran this establishment doesn't support out troops. 

-HUH?

[thehappybartender]

Annoying Question #5

-“Hi! How’s it g..”

-“CAn i HaVe a mEnU?”