When you see three dudes walk in to a bar dressed in sombreros, ponchos and fake mustaches a half hour before last call on a cold night in February as a bartender it is only natural to look at them and wonder which one you will be kicking out first, if any of the three are still sober enough to serve at all. I was presented with this exact scenario on Saturday night. The answer is "the fat one in the middle."
Now, I wouldn't say that I like to throw people out. Usually if I do it means they have done something to piss me off, but a lot of times I look at it as an opportunity to let off a little steam and usually see something hilarious ensue. People who get kicked out of bars rarely take it well, but where I work the anger never gets physical. Most of the time people just swear at you and say funny drunken things. We have one particular neighborhood crackhead who is permanently banned from the premises. I like seeing him, because that always results in a hilarious crackhead confrontation. Last time he took a header down the front stairs. Fun fact: For the first two years I worked there I thought he was a woman. Until one night he told me to "suck his dick" and I said "Wait, are you a dude?" And then he swore at me and called me all sorts of names, accusing me of wanting to have sex with him and this and that as I laughed him out the door.
Depending on my mood and the type of shift I am having, adversity such as seeing sombrero kids stumble in can be dealt with in a variety of ways. Bad mood nights I am apt to just go over there with no intention of entertaining their antics, rush them to the point and most likely determine that they are shitfaced and tell them I am not serving them. Other days I will engage them a little bit, give them the benefit of the doubt and maybe end up getting them a beer if they seem like they won't cause trouble.
Now- I should say that I do this with most guests, sombreros or no sombreros. I guess I should probably not think of it this way, but I do. I see someone come in and immediately jump to conclusions about what type of person they are and what type of service they are going to get from me- and usually I am right on. Quickest way to piss me off? Answer the question "Hi, how are you tonight?" with "Let me get a menu," or "What kind of beer do you have?" Last time I checked, neither one of those are greetings. I am not a robot, nor am I your servant. I do not like to be spoken to like an asshole.
Anyway, on this particular day, we had been having a few bad money nights in a row and we were starting to get a late-night push that we hadn't experienced for a while. So, when the other bartender, Rachael, and I saw the Three Amigos come in we were ready to at least entertain them and see if there was some way we could take some of their money. I had had a bit of an angry episode earlier in the evening due to an incident involving a trash-talking coworker, so I think Rachael was keeping the health and safety of others in mind when she volunteered to go wait on the three poncho hombres. By that point in the night I was no longer pissed off, but it is always nice to play it safe when dealing with my fragile psyche. This is one of the large reasons why Rachael and I are a successful team- personality evaluation and an understanding of one another's emotional limits.
So, she headed over and talked to them and I kind of just lingered behind to make sure that they didn't try and anything stupid, as many drunk men tend to do when dealing with a woman bartender. In retrospect, serving the three "Mexican" kids was probably not the best idea but, like I said, we needed money and they ordered a few of our most expensive beers and said they wanted to try and order some food before our kitchen closed. I went over and joked around with them a little bit and as it turns out they had been asked to leave another bar down the street. Good move not mentioning that until after we gave you beer. They were probably on the cusp of 'do not serve' territory, but no one was slurring or getting loud and they were respectful, so I let it slide.
We actually had a lot of people come in from that other bar down the street around that time. One woman described the scene as being a bunch of "wide-assed college sluts assuming the position on the dance floor." I never really understood the appeal in that. Even when I was 21-22 I never really enjoyed the whole 'club' scene. I mean, once in a while there would be some good looking girls there, but most of them are just rubbing up all over each other while their muscle head dude friends pumped their fists and let the black lights take them to drunk land. But- I digress.
At this point, I have three drunk kids dressed as Mexicans, eating $60 worth of food sitting at the bar and they are cracking me up. Specifically, the fat guy in the middle was giving me a good laugh because his fake Mexican mustache kept falling off and he kept trying to"sneak" Cheetos from his pocket. Now, there is absolutely no rule against eating Cheetos at the bar. I can't think of very many situations where I would see someone whip out a bag of Cheetos and not be ok with it. "Ok, buddy, no orange fingers at the bar. Company policy."
Still, guy was looking around and fishing Cheetos out of his pocket like Napoleon Dynamite eating tater tots in class. A few minutes later I was doing something else and looked over to see that fat sombrero kid had dozed off. This is a no-no. Sleeping at a bar is one of the quickest ways to get tossed out, and I have a pretty quick hook, especially of I don't know you.
We do have one guy I'll tell you about real quick, we call him 'Sleepy Pete.' Sleepy Pete is your average bar regular. He usually hits somewhere else first and comes in to our place late night. He is old, fat and super tall- like, 6'7. He is loud, animated and most likely a huge liar. He always has some story about fighting off thugs or picking up hot blondes or punching out transvestites. The female employees hate him because he usually makes offensive comments. You know, "do the curtains match the rug" type stuff. He also tends to doze off at the bar. Hence the name. Now, he usually gets sort of a pass because I know who he is and he very rarely causes trouble. Still, if I see him sleeping, I wake him up. And I'm not nice about it. I throw shit at him, spray him with water, hit the bar with a broom handle- whatever it takes. Many a night it has become a game among other patrons to try and wake him up. Sleepy Pete.
I did not know the sleepy Mexican kid, though, so I went over to his friend and said, very nicely, "Listen man, you gotta wake your buddy up or I'm gonna have to toss him. I can't have him sleeping here, you know?"
The friend understood and apologized, saying "he had a few too many shots tonight, I think." So, I took his beer and replaced it with a water. I told Rachael he was cut off and went about my business. Now, fat, sleepy kid didn't notice right away because he was dazed, drunk and sleepy, but a few minutes later I heard him ask Rachael something like "Wait- so I can't have any beer at all?" I came over and was going to explain to him what the deal was, but before I even could his buddy told him he got cut off. His response was probably funnier if you actually saw how drunk and in space he was, but I'll describe it anyway.
First, you have to understand how slow this guy was moving. He was at the end of the line drunk. The final stage before sleep or, if he was with a woman, disappointing sex- then sleep. Like, every movement was deliberate and slow because he literally had no energy left. He was by far the most drunk of the three kids. Think of your drunk uncle- everyone has one- on Christmas eve after ripping shots for three and a half hours telling some story about why he got fired from the post office or how the electric company screwed over his father 45 years ago. Fading in and out of the conversation, looking at his hands and spacing out. That was this kid.
So, he gets the bad news from his friend, looks up at Rachael and myself who are both in front of him, slowly slurs something along the lines of "Well, fuck you. See if I ever come back here again," reaches in to his pocket, fumbles around for a few seconds, pulls out a three-quarters full bag of Cheetos- one of the 99 cent big grabs- and slowly lobs it in Rachel's direction. Now, when I think back I remember the bag as if it was traveling in slow motion because it seems like it took 45 seconds to get to her, but it had to be pretty quick because she never even raised her arms. She just kind of looked down as it softly bounced off of her chest and landed on the ground. It made the weakest bag crinkle sound when it hit her too. It was like when you get really upset and storm out of a room, but when you try to slam the door it is spring loaded and doesn't close. I think only three Cheetos fell out of the bag.
After the toss he got caught up in his chair and fumbled around while he looked for his coat. I probably would have burst out laughing if his friends weren't immediately apologetic and afraid I was going to toss all of them. In reality, I wasn't even going to throw him out at the moment. I was just going to laugh at him a little bit. I think Rachael was a little pissed at first, because she did tell him she should "punch him in the face" but even then, she was laughing a little bit, too.
What ensued from there was, in my mind, some of the most hysterical drunk friend lecturing that I have ever heard. At first, the fat kid tried to prove a point and leave. He walked outside like three or four times an came back in, probably afraid that I was going to yell at him. I wasn't. At this point, I just needed to make sure that he wasn't about to drive a car or that he wasn't going to take a header in to the water across the street. His pals told me there was another group of them at another bar and he was probably going to meet them. Clearly, he was not allowed in to that bar because he came back. I eventually told him he could stay, he just couldn't drink, and he settled back in. At this point, his friends started to lecture him on his behavior. Among the highlights"
"Dude, you have to apologize to them, that was just, I dunno, man, we're all just trying to have fun and you have to go throwing chips around."
"Man, when you threw that bag of chips at her you just, just, you just crossed the line, man."
"Listen, man, if you don't apologize, I don't, I don't think we can chill next Friday."
"Who do you think has to clean that up? Hey, man, he'll clean it. Do you have a broom? Dude, he's gonna get you a broom, just clean it up." (Again, three Cheetos hit the floor. Not exactly a mess.)
"It's just disrespectful, dude. You don't throw stuff at people, especially women."
"Don't let it end like this, man. We've had a good night. But you had to throw those chips."
And so on. Eventually, they convinced him and he actually apologized to both of us, individually. He blamed it on Tequila and Dr. McGillicuddy which, if you think about it, is actually a pretty good excuse.
Now, I admit, if he had been in that bar three hours earlier when I was pissed off, none of this would have gone so smoothly. But at that point I was in a good mood, and it didn't hurt that his friends were cool. Maybe that story doesn't translate to this medium, or maybe you just had to be there. But I kind of can't stop laughing every time I see those Cheetos hit Rachael's chest in my head. I never want to forget that.
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