A Typical Shift

The clock above the corner booth says 9:37 PM, but my body is feeling closer to 3 AM.

I sigh. My head is just not in the game tonight. I’ve accidentally overpoured the stocky gentleman slouched over the counter, though I’m hoping this last drink will get him pliable enough for the doorman to escort him out without a problem. His eyes are drooping, and I can clearly see the work he has to put in to tilt his head up. He shifts in his seat and locks his foggy eyes on me, a smirk pushing up against his tired jowls. He takes his time starting to form words, his slurring apparent.

              “Don’t chu worry...shweetheart…” he pauses to clear his throat. “I’ll be done…after this ‘un.”

              “You sure will, hon!” I do my best to smile brightly, with teeth, and cock my head at him. Very practiced. He chuckles and shuts his eyes again, assuming in his inebriated state that I’m supporting his decisions instead of making a veiled threat. While his eyes are taking a quick rest, I lock mine with the doorman, Jack, and wordlessly gesture to the drunkard, who now appears to be snoozing with his head on the counter. Breathy snores float out from his chapped lips, the moisture leaving fleeting marks on my bar. It’s past time for him to go. Jack—a hulking, solid mass of muscle in human form—descends on the drunk and locks his bulky arms around the man’s frame, lifting him up and off the stool with ease. The drunk man is clearly not light, either, I thought. Jack could probably break him in half anyway.

              The man barely protests. Even to somebody as drunk as him, it’s clear that fighting back against Jack is a mistake. A “hey man, what’re you doing” and an “okay okay, I’m leavin’” from the drunk and he’s out on the street, just like that. Jack slams the door in his face, turns to me across the room, and mimes brushing the dirt off his shoulder. I laugh and mouth a silent word of thanks. Thank goodness, I think to myself, as I look around the place. Only a few patrons remain, scattered across the room, holding their alcohol well and not paying attention to me. Maybe my manager will let me leave a bit early for once. I lean on the bar and let my eyes drift to the window, not lost in thought but getting there. And then I see them approaching. Lots of them. Too many of them.

Santas.

No.

What day is it?? I frantically whip out my phone and open up a web browser, making an effort to keep my phone hidden in case management walks past. I rapidly type “Santa bar crawl Boston 2019 date” into the search bar and tap the button, already knowing what I’m going to find. My theory is confirmed just as one of the Santa Clauses attempts to reach for the door handle, misses, stumbles, and grabs for it again, to the delight of his guffawing white-bearded buddies. Damn it.

One of them finally manages to grab the door handle and quite literally flings it open, and all the Santas come barreling in with the sheer force of a thousand stampeding reindeer. I recognize that I am vastly outnumbered, lost in a sea of alcoholic Christmas metaphors. There are so many of them, and frankly, not even one of me. Despite the number of hefty bodies still shuffling into my bar, the room grows frigid with a December chill that follows them as the door is held open.

I make sure to take deep breaths as this large group of primarily 30something men in red onesies approach me all at the same time. They swarm my bar, and soon all the empty stools are filled. Santa Claus everywhere you look. Sitting down at the bar, standing up behind the occupied stools waiting for an opening, milling about the place and laughing with their Santa friends. Nearly all of them trying desperately to get the attention of this lone bartender at the same time, hoping that they can get another drink in their gloved hands before the buzz starts to wear off. I’m about to start taking drink orders from one end of the bar to the other, but one portly middle-aged Santa who shoved his way to the center grabs my hand from across the counter and pulls me close to his stubbly face. I can smell the Jameson on his breath before he even speaks.

“Merry Christmas, baby. Get me a shot of whiskey. Quickly.”

              I snatch my hand back and force a smile on his behalf, because I’m thinking about his money and how I want as much of it as possible.

              “Well, Mr. Claus. I’ll get that for you right away, but I have to take some other orders first. I’ll be back in just one second, I promise.” I start to walk away, but he leans further over the counter and tries to grab at me again. He misses by half an inch, while my instincts kick in and I quickly slap at his hand. His face sours, and I quickly recognize that this could become a lot uglier.

              Have you ever seen Santa Claus drunkenly attempt to climb over a bar, only to slip on it halfway through and send his flailing limbs directly into a large display of glassware behind the counter that crashes down in a shower of shards and cuss words? I have.

              By the time this Santa even realizes what exactly is happening to him, Jack and two backup guys were dragging him up and out of the bar by the collar of his red suit. I hardly notice at this point, too busy pouring shots to take a second to watch the fun. I’ve seen weirder things happen in this place anyway.

              Another, more svelte Santa wanders over to the corner of my bar. His name is Mark, he slurs at me. Mark has decided that he is in love with me, and he wants me to become his Mrs. Claus. He really says those things, and then he throws up. Mark is shown the door.

              “Thanks, Jack,” I say when he returns from relocating my suitor. “Too bad I’ll never find love now. He was husband material.” He rolls his eyes and smiles at me.

              The rest of the night plays through without too much trouble. By the time the remainder of the Santas moves on, it’s just about time for my shift to end. My manager, Chris, beckons me over to him.

              “Becks, you did great tonight. Sorry that drunk men in Santa outfits are so undeniably horrible. So uh…what are the odds you want to stay a little bit later and help me close?” He grins at me.

              “Not a chance in Hell, Chris, but thanks anyway. Merry Christmas!” I skedaddle before he even has a chance to respond. When I get to the front door and start to reach for the handle, Jack grabs it for me and opens the door to the frosty air outside.

              “Merry Christmas, Becks” he says with a smile. I smile back and wish him a good night. Maybe Mark wasn’t my only potential suitor after all.