People-Watching

Clinking glasses. Slurred words. The dull thud of music. Friday nights were always a mindless blur of poured shots, unique concoctions and bar tabs. As soon as I finished with one customer, I headed straight to the next. I was never good at small talk so I was thankful for any excuse to stay busy. Even on autopilot, exhaustion still clung to every movement. I am an introvert - not the best personality type for a bartender - but one of the tolerable aspects of this job is people-watching. You can learn a lot about a person, what stage of life they are in, what their problems are, without talking to them. Interfering or ‘chatting’ is messy, complicated. Watching is harmless if it is done subtly. I handed an impatient customer his double and scanned the room.

A buff man walked in, full-sleeve on one arm. He pushed past a sea of people. He took his beer with a restrained smile and downed it in about three gulps. I motioned to hand him another one. He was gone. Panic started to set in. I phoned my manager. I could barely hear his voice over the drunk conversation occurring three feet away. I glanced over at the CCTV footage. The man was outside the bar, beating the crap out of a much smaller gentleman. Fantastic. I called security.

High pitched laughter filled the dimly-lit room. Four women stumbled in, already tipsy, and headed straight to the bar table. “IDs please”. I barely recognised my own voice. The tall blonde rolled her eyes as they showed me their IDs. I fixed their shots. The short blonde on the far left was fighting for her life, but she managed to keep up with her friends over the span of three shots. The red-head on the far right had been approached by two different men. I have a theory: If you stand at the end of the group, you are more likely to be approached by men. Red-Head happily accepted drinks from her male counterparts, but never left the bar. For someone who couldn’t be taller than 5’4” she sure could drink a lot of alcohol.

Rejected male number two walked towards the very back of the bar. He was wearing a Ronaldo jersey. It was difficult to see, but I could just make out the twenty dollars that Ronaldo slid to his friend in disappointment. The man genuinely thought he had a chance with Red-Head. The girls were still chattering away, obliviously, as Ronaldo’s friend, a 5’9” Latino man approached the short blonde - proving my theory. She was already glassy-eyed from all the alcohol. She wisely rejected his offer for a free drink - a good call, since I wasn’t going to make her another one anyway - but her stare lingered as the man walked away. Ronaldo was glued to his phone. At least he got his twenty bucks back.

Another woman, probably in her late 30s seated herself at the other end of the bar. I asked her for her ID. She smiled at that and I poured her glass of wine. The woman, no wedding ring, was extremely still in the sea of shuffling bodies. She placed her phone on the bar, but it kept lighting up with what I presumed were text messages and missed calls. An older man, 5’10”, blue suit, got my attention. I got the withdrawn woman another wine, as per Blue Suit’s request. I was expecting her to smile at Blue Suit and continue sipping away. But she didn’t. She stared at the man, paid for her drink then darted off. Blue Suit didn’t say anything, just ordered himself a beer and stared at the women’s empty seat.

“Clean the throw up near the men’s toilets”. My manager tapped my shoulder to get my attention.

“Where are the cleaners?” I asked, stupidly.

“We are short staffed, just do your job.”

I got the mop and bucket from storage and weaved through the crowd to the bathrooms. It was almost the end of the night when people were the rowdiest and lost their sense of personal space. As expected there was a long line of men waiting. Some were just disgusted by the vomit, others looked like they were ready to spew themselves. I started to mop up the mess. A young brunette I didn’t recognise from the bar burst into the women’s bathroom. Tears streamed down her face as her friends ran in behind her, locking the door. Everyone lining up seemed disinterested. In all fairness, this wasn’t exactly an unusual scene for a bar. When I was halfway through mopping, a dude in the men’s line was being screamed at by his girlfriend, possibly his ex-girlfriend.

“You manipulative jerk!”

I had good sense to not turn around and look. I glanced back at the bar and everyone seemed unbothered. There are many reasons why the bathrooms were far, far away from the bar. As I was about to finish mopping, the brunette and her friends finally reemerged from the bathroom. The brunette’s makeup was freshly done and her friends were all giggling around her. The women’s bathroom will always be a mystery to me.

The screaming stopped, and I was done cleaning. I washed my hands and darted back to the bar. Six frustrated customers greeted me and I resumed making a cocktail of drinks - no pun intended. Blue Suit lingered in the corner. He stared at his empty beer glass. When I was finished with the impatient mob, I offered him another beer. He said no. He wasn’t ready to pay for the two drinks either. Blue Suit just stared quietly. He tapped his fingers on the bar table, revealing a tan line, instead of a wedding band, on his ring finger.

As I headed to the beer tap for a socially unaware 70-year-old, the buff thief waltzed in and sat down without saying anything. I handed the 70-year-old his beer, before the thief got my attention.

“Another beer here, thanks man!” He smiled as if he didn’t just steal a drink.

“Would you like me to add that to your original tab?”

"Only if it was on the house… because I left it there." I looked at him with raised brows, before he huffed a laugh.

“Oh relax, I had to leave urgently before. Security already had me pay the other guy.” I glanced over at my manager. He smirked, nodding.

To my surprise, the system confirmed that the man had, in fact, paid. In an attempt to avoid another complaint, I handed him his beer and took six dollars from my tip stash. “Sorry man, this one is on the house”.

The man laughed and slid me a twenty, “Sorry about the commotion”.

He stayed until closing time. Eventually, even my manager left, and it was just me, in an empty bar, about to lock up.

I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. I felt the water travel down my throat as I took a deep breath, readying myself to do it all again tomorrow.