You sit down at my bar wearing a trench coat and glasses that are not size appropriate for your face. I throw my award winning, semi- white smile your way and say, “hey man, how’s it going today?” You take the time to do a half squint and push your glasses up the rim of your nose so that you’re more comfortable reading your menu.
“Diet Coke” is your reply to me.
Diet Coke. I ask you how you are doing and your thought out answer that you verbalized with your lips formed two words for me, Diet Coke.
“Hi. I’m Sprite. Nice to meet you, you fucktard.” I thought, but I didn’t say it. My actual response sounded rather forced as I said,
“Yes sir. I’ll have that right out for you.”
This is my job; my profession, my niche. I bring you things that you could get yourself and then you give me money for it. I’ve worked in restaurants for fourteen years now and I feel like I’ve mastered my craft in most aspects of it. Overall, it’s an enjoyable experience that has slapped more life lessons in my face that I could have ever conjured up. Let me assure you that cleaning dishes and remembering the ingredients that are poured into a Cosmopolitan is not what bartending is all about. An ungodly amount of patience for stupid people, reading people and adjusting to them, and constantly wiping off my mouth because I have so much bullshit on my lips is what bartending consists of. If I’m having a bad day, guess what? You’re sure as hell not going to know about it because I’m here to entertain you. I’m here to shoot some encouragement your way. I’m here to listen to you tell me that your parents are coming in town this weekend and then I’m here to pretend that I give two shits that they are.
You could go to any bar in Atlanta and purchase an overpriced drink and get placed on an uncomfortable barstool while multi-tasking your attention to your phone and your underappreciated, self-made bitchy girlfriend. But you can’t go just anywhere and have you bartender know what you drink, know where you like to sit, know what you like to talk about, and know that you could have just poured a scotch at home; but you didn’t. You chose not to because you want the company, you need to be social; you need to feel like someone out there actually gives a damn that you had a bad day at work. And right there, ladies and gentlemen, is where my art comes into play.
My outer layer says to you, “You’re amazing. You make my life complete every time you walk into my bar and I care about you.” My second layer says, “I don’t give a fuck that Lisa wore shoes to the office today that looked like stripper stilettoes and I don’t care that Bill didn’t text you back last night. He’s probably avoiding you because you ‘hashtag’ too much on his facebook page.” I NEED to think angry thoughts like that so that my sanity stays intact and so that I can decipher what inspires me and what doesn’t. But my inner layer, the layer that actually shapes and forms my character and contemplates my flaws and life’s true meaning; it actually thinks this: “Remember there’s no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end. “~ Scott Adams
So even though the end of my shift entails me talking shit about your diet coke response and laughing with my amazing co-workers about how awesome we are, I still strive to be kind because life is too incredible to be anything else.
