I Was Once A Bartender–Part 2

I once was a bartender, but then I was fired. I swear I’m getting to it.

The first time they attempted to fire me came in the form of a phone call. I was called by the nervously-new bar manager.  The bar manager fashioned himself a tragically failed academic (there’s a dustbinned Ph.D. thesis on herbs and mythology lost to the world), and not just the regular failures we both are.

He said I wasn’t going to work out because I “just don’t have it.” “It” was some natural bartending essence.

I hesitated to remark that those type of naturalizing arguments perpetuate racism and sexism throughout the ages. But who am I to challenge the preconceptions of the enlightened? And plus, this white man appreciates poetic justice.

When I asked for specifics, I was told I wasn’t friendly or sociable enough. This caught me by surprise. I felt I was doing a great job. And it didn’t seem like it was my job to be overly friendly or social. I’m not a clam, I talk when I want to talk. But I have a pretty big freak flag, so I minimize casual social interactions lest it fly unwelcomed.

And then, it doesn’t help that I’m like Nixon. My face at rest appears like I’m in a brooding foul-mood. Oh these heavy sagging polish lips. What misperceptions have you spread.

I was also told I wasn’t engaging the customers enough. I was just working weekend days during Winter. There were not many customers to engage. And if you weren’t aware, my last bartending gig was pretty high-end. We were not encourage to engage our millionaire customers.

Essentially, I wasn’t delivering “craic” in sufficient quantity. “Craic” is gaelic for “good times” or some bullshit. Much like the flair on one’s TGIF vest, I was to deliver the requisite restaurant brand atmosphere however shallow and unsolicited.

Instead, I busied myself with cleaning. The place is pretty filthy and I thought I was doing a good deed by organizing dusty drawers, cleaning disgusting coolers, and tossing rusty equipment. My old high-end bar manager would have been proud.

It was more likely that I wasn’t engaging my co-workers enough. I’m not a big fan of hanging out in bars. I can’t hear anyone. And when I do, they don’t mean it anyways.

I’m even less of a fan of hanging out where you work. I have a lot of interests. I have a girlfriend. And a few cats. And I’ve been working 70 hours a week. If I don’t have to be at work, I won’t be.

  

These aversions were not shared by my co-workers. If they weren’t working at the bar, they were hanging out at the bar. If they did something outside the bar, it was usually with someone from the bar. 

They depressed the hell out of me. I could wait to get home to kuddle with my kitties.

On the phone with the bar manager, I became immediately defensive. I explained to the bar manager that I was surprised by his reasons for firing me. I thought I was a friendly and social person (or at least I said that I’m not particularly mean or sociopathic), but from my past experience bartending, these were not qualities to exude. And I said that it was a little strange that this firing was the only feedback I had received in 2 months on the job.  

He actually agreed with me. And said he was going to give me another chance. But I had to really “turn it around.”

I didn’t expect that. My defensiveness wasn’t supposed to change his mind, but to protect my ego. I wasn’t sure I wanted the job anymore. I was doing well working 9-5 for Darth Vader and I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to waste my days at a dank pseudo pub for minimum wage and uncertain tips.

But then, I became infatuated with the challenge. Moving to a new city offers opportunities for re-invention. I could become friendly.

So I took the next day to read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, which basically tells you to smile all the time, use people’s names all the time, and constantly ask them personal questions. 

With this 120-year-old advice how could I fail?

How are you doing, Bobby? What did you do last night, Bobby? Bobby, you are fantastic! What do you dream about, Bobby?
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