“Hell is other people.” -Jean Paul-Sartre
He slammed the debit machine on the bartop and refused to pay. I told him I was calling the cops. The idiot got up and bolted for the door. I should’ve cut my losses and let him go but I was pissed off over how much he’d disrespected my bar.
I burst through the door, saw the waitress on the patio, and asked where the bastard was. With a hint of disapproval she pointed behind me and said he went around the corner. I shot after him without hesitation.
After turning the corner I saw the fool, he was nearly 40 meters away. “HEY!,” I yelled to get his attention. He stopped, turned around, and stared back at me. After dealing with this moron’s bullshit for nearly two hours I finally lost my tempter: “Come back here YOU MOTHER FU…”
***
The only thing worse than an asshole customer is a stupid one. Assholes can be stubborn and argumentative but 99% of the time they back down if they’re called out, you threaten to ban them, or say you’ll call the cops. They are jerks and not particularly bright but they still want booze and to come back to your bar. Because bartenders have the final say of who remains a customer, who gets to drink, and most assholes understand crossing us too many times forfeits these selfish interests.
But with stupid customers there’s nothing you can do. Appealing to (or threatening) their self-interests always fails, because they’re too stupid to know what their interests even are. You can’t reason with them, bargain with them, and even banning them or calling the cops doesn’t always work. Because rather than getting the hint they stick around until bouncers force them out or cops arrest them. And if they’re really dumb they repeat this process again and again despite an expanding criminal record and list of places they’ve been booted from.
I’m not a violent man, really, but unless they become a born-again Christian or get hit by a bus, the best you can hope for is they’re beaten savagely enough to forget the location of your pub.
***
It was 4pm on a Monday when I walked into my bar. I expected a slow, uneventful shift. It wasn’t the summer or holidays, there were no concerts or events going on, and no welfare or GST cheques came out that day. But as Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park said “life always finds a way” because in the bar industry drunken idiots always find a way to make life difficult. It was the last job of my colourful career, except for a brief return years later that lasted 5 weeks (but that’s another story).
I was tired and not in a good mental state as the last year had been beyond frustrating. I hadn’t found a good job after five exhausting years of university and was bitter to be still bartending. To make things worse I always got the bad shifts (it was Monday after all) while the cute girls got 100s of dollars a shift in tips despite meh service. To be fair they were at least nice and the owners were solid, but this was the last place I wanted to be after being at the top of my class for five, long years.
However, the first minutes of my shift were great as Bryon had come in for a beer. In our 17 year friendship it was rare Bry and I went for beers or that he sat at my bartops. Much of this was because he was careful with money, some of it was due to health issues, but most of it was from the toll of three decades of bartending, which made him appreciate the benefits of solitude.
I forget what we talked about, especially since I’d just seen Bry a few hours ago, but meeting him outside of home was always a treat. But as we chatted I noted the customer next to him was very annoying. He was probably in his mid-20s, was of average height and weight, but he more than compensated by being loud and drunk. And thanks to the fucker being sat at the bar meant he was about to become MY problem!
Because the tiny, nervous 19 year old server hadn’t cut him off, or asked him to pay his tab before she left. Instead, she transferred his bill to me, brought it to my attention, and left without another word. That’s a common occurrence in the industry, especially in unprofessional or toxic establishments: To avoid any conflict if possible and pass on all responsibility when it comes to difficult customers. Because many waitresses talk tough, and some bust the balls of every male colleague, but most gladly pass the buck to the bartender when one of their drunk, obnoxious customers have to be cut off.
Anyway, Bryon stayed at the bar for the for first 30 minutes of my shift but I can’t remember much after our initial exchanges, because once I got behind the bar the drunken idiot wouldn’t shut up or leave me alone until he left. It was obvious he’d been drinking since early afternoon, given his dubious state and the expensive bar tab the waitress passed onto me. Because the man was more plastered than Amy Winehouse. Bry soon left but offered no wisdom on how to deal with this ‘inconvenience’; either because he thought I was professional enough to handle it (which was wrong), or that he knew I was often too stubborn to take advice (which was right).
***
At first I tried being friendly and professional, the way I was trained by chain restaurants in my early career. But that works far better on sober, rational human beings versus idiots and raging alcoholics. But I started with this to cover my ass in the full expectation things would go south, the guy would make a scene, and I’d have to boot him out in a very public way.
This approach worked, to an extent, for the first half hour. The guy was stupid drunk and annoying, but he wasn’t bothering customers or the staff (YET). He said dumb shit and interrupted me occasionally and this would increase significantly later in. It became like a swarm of drones attacking a Russian tank; you can shoot them down in the dozens but eventually one gets through. But in the beginning he was tolerable enough for what I assumed would be one or two more beers. Because as every bartender and waitress knows, nothing is sweeter to the ears’ than a fucking annoying, drunk customer asking for the bill.
So I did my best to appear friendly, even interested, when I had spare moments to interact with the fool. I can’t remember much of his personal details, mostly because I only pretended to listen to his nonsense. But I know he’d worked as a cook, didn’t have a job (big surprise), and had just applied at the bar. “And when did you apply here sir?,” I asked so I’d be able to find and destroy his resume before the owners saw it. “Four hours ago,” he said before unleashing a loud burp.”
“What an idiot,” I thought to myself. Rule number one for applying at restaurants is your don’t drink at the bar (let alone get hammered) after dropping off a resume. At this point I dropped my previously indulgent demeanour. The guy was not only drunk but beyond clueless and since he was almost finished his beer I assumed he’d finally get the bill. So when I spoke to him again instead of asking if he wanted another drink I said “would you like the bill sir?,” hoping he’d get the hint.
He didn’t… of course, asking for another pint. “FUCK,” was all I could think. I should’ve just cut him off then and gotten any confrontation over with. But I hesitated, gave in, and hoped this would be the last drink. Because when dealing with obnoxious customers we always pray every beer will be the last.
“Here you go,” I said in the most perfunctory tone possible, hoping he’d realized my patience was wearing thin. But I’d just made a tragic mistake. Because alcohol corrodes judgement and inhibitions, the fool had none of either, and this would prove to be a beer too far.
***
It started with him hitting on the bar waitress. I noticed his wandering eye from the beginning but now he kept staring at her. Then he just went for it, in a brutal frontal assault. “Heyyyyy… what’s your name?,” and “what’s your number?,” and “when are you getting off?” This last one nearly gave me a stroke, realizing the tool wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Thankfully the waitress, who had far more tact than myself, said “far later than you’ll be here.”
The dumbass finally gave up but then turned his attention to me. He’d interrupt me constantly for the next half hour with things like “bro,” “man,” trying to initiative idle small talk or occasionally stupid requests. I can’t remember much because I kept telling him I was busy, increasingly raising my voice and adopting a more authoritative tone. Unfortunately, this guy was dumber than a brick. You likely won’t believe this but such an occurrence had never happened to me in the industry before. Every other difficult, rude, or even aggressive customer had either backed down, paid and left, or asked to see the manager by now.
Not this idiot though. Without question he was the most insufferable customer I had in 17 years, and that’s a high bar to clear. The man was so annoying he’s the only person ISIS would’ve paid to give back after kidnapping for ransom!
So after he finished his latest beer and asked for another I cut him off and brought the bill, with as much professionalism I had left. I hoped to God he’d just pay the bill and leave. But my prayers have never been answered and the tool kept asking for another drink. This would continue for at least another 15 minutes and with hindsight I should’ve immediately just unleashed my harsh, loud side of bartending or called the cops. But as this hadn’t occurred before and there was a quiet trivia night going on I wasn’t yet ready to disturb the peace. Because this wasn’t a rough place or dive bar, it was actually classy, and I didn’t want to tell the owners I hadn’t exhausted all peaceful means to resolve this… situation.
Thus, I tried one last round of diplomacy, if only to cover my ass. But unsurprisingly, any effort to reason with the fool failed, so I finally said fuck it. I brought the debit machine, told him it was time to go, and expected the worst. I wouldn’t be disappointed.
He slammed the debit machine on the bartop and refused to pay. I told him I was calling the cops. The idiot got up and bolted for the door. I should’ve cut my losses and let him go but I was pissed off over how much he’d disrespected my bar.
I burst through the door, saw the waitress on the patio, and asked where the bastard was. With a hint of disapproval she pointed behind me and said he went around the corner. I shot after him without hesitation.
After turning the corner I saw the fool, he was nearly 40 meters away. “HEY!,” I yelled to get his attention. He stopped, turned around, and stared back at me. After dealing with this moron’s bullshit for nearly two hours I finally lost my tempter: “Come back here YOU MOTHER FUCKER!” I probably didn’t use these exact words but it’s what he deserved.
There followed a short back and forth full of threats and expletives unbecoming of a classy bartender (which by then I wasn’t). Then the idiot walked down the street and turned left into an alley. I debated going after him but realized it wasn’t worth the risks. Besides, I had a bar to run and wasn’t willing to potentially martyr myself for minimum wage and my wounded pride. So I unleashed one last “FUCK,” went back inside, and finished my shift.
***
After my shift I wrote up an extensive report, once more to cover my ass. I stressed my attempts at diplomacy, left out anything that incriminated me, and took a photo of the group chat when I saw the owners had seen it. Years later I feel foolish as they were stand-up guys and backed me completely (except for admonishing me for chasing the bastard outside). But given how many times I’d been betrayed in the industry, I’d learned to document everything regarding such… ‘incidents.’
Before leaving I found the idiot’s resume and wrote down his name and cell number before tearing it to pieces. Then I went home, or to a pub, for a few beers to calm me down. Once I got home I had a quick meal, a shower, then crawled into bed. But after a few minutes I was still too wound up to sleep.
So I got out of bed and cracked open a Bud Light. Then I texted the little shit. It’s been awhile but the conversation may have gone something like this:
“Is this (the fool’s name)?,” I began.
“No, this is his mother,” she answered a few minutes later.
“Your son applied at our bar today,” I continued with increased enthusiasm.
“Oh,” she started, “did he get the job?”
“Not exactly… he got drunk, made a scene, and left without paying.”
The idiot’s mom never responded after this point but I know she didn’t block me as I noted she read the rest of my texts.
“We could charge him you know,” I said with glee. “We have witnesses and he’s on camera. You should tell your son he’s very fortunate. His bar tab isn’t worth any legal action but he’s lucky he didn’t do this at a rougher establishment. Because the staff and any bouncers wouldn’t have been… SO GENTLE.”
Satisfied the bastard’s mom would unleashed hell upon him I got into bed and slept peacefully.
But it proved to be a hollow victory. This ridiculous incident hit my harder than I thought. Had it occurred even a year earlier I would’ve brushed it off. But 17 long years of bartending, combined with disillusionment after not finding a good job after university, had finally bled me white. This was the catalyst that ended my career.
Because a few days later I handed in my two weeks notice and told myself it was finally over. The last shift was boring, uneventful, and only my girlfriend came by to see me off. My bartending career ended the same way it began: With a whimper, not a bang.