Being A Regular Has Its Hazards

This incident took place about ten years ago or so at my favorite pub next to my college alma mater. I had been going there for about three years at the time and got along extremely well with the staff. I’d stop almost every day after work to wind down; I work in the steel industry four minutes away.

This took place on a Saturday, and unknown to me at first, the same exact day a huge tailgating extravaganza was going on near the stadium for a huge rivalry game that was to take place in the afternoon. I had just gotten off work and wandered in and found my favorite spot at the bar. As I sat, I started seeing more and more folks filter in — older people, younger people, kids with parents, and of course, college kids. I was around thirty-eight at the time. Most of the older people and families stayed away from the bar to order food before the big game at the tables.

Most of the college kids started to gather around the bar… and gather… and gather… and gather. Within thirty minutes, the bar portion itself was packed three to four people deep, all getting drinks and shots and whatever else they needed. It was a madhouse so with only one bartender and I think one bar back, they were getting overwhelmed.

Then, it happened. A full fresh beer and shot were shoved down in front of me by the bartender.

Bartender: “[My Name]. Dishes. Now.”

And she went back to serving the mob of college football fanatics. I glanced down to where the clean glasses were normally, and it was nearly empty. I guzzled some of the beer, slammed down the shot, rolled up my sleeves, and walked behind the bar to where the sinks.

I started pounding out the dishes through three different sinks. Suds and water were flying everywhere. And of course, that’s when it started. A drunk football fan called to me over the bar.

Customer #1: “Can I get a beer and shot?”

Me: “Sorry, don’t work here.”

As water splashed in my face:

Customer #2: “Can I get some wings and a beer?”

Me: “Talk to [Bartender]. I don’t work here.”

As I was stacking clean glasses:

Customer #3: “Can I get a round of Fireballs for friends?”

As I was stacking sixteen-ounce wet glasses in a cooler to frost:

Me: “Sorry, I don’t work here.”

Customer #3: “What? Yes, you do.”

Me: “Nope, but I’m getting free drinks to do dishes.”

Customer #3: “I need that gig. Can I at least get a beer?”

Me: “I don’t know which tab is which. Gotta wait for [Bartender].”

This same exact scenario played out every couple of minutes as people waded in from the back to the front. Over and over. At least forty times.

Finally, the game was about to start, and the crowd started to slowly filter out after an hour. I was caught up and leaned back to take a breath and stare at my shriveled-up hands. [Bartender] ran into the back to get some last-minute food order… and there it was. A finger snap. I looked over and some young college kid was getting my attention drunker than drunk.

Customer #4: *Slurring badly* “One more shot before I go.”

Me: “I don’t work here, sorry. I was just helping with dishes.”

Customer #4: “Of course, you do!” *Hiccups* “Just get me my shot so I can go, old man.”

I blinked repeatedly as she slapped down a five-dollar bill.

Nope, this ain’t happening. I leaned forward from where I was resting, grabbed a double shot glass, and set it in front of her. I grabbed her liquor of choice and filled it to the brim. As she reached for it, I picked it up and slammed it down in .32 milliseconds right in front of her. She just sat there staring at me with half rage, half a bewildered look.

Me: “You’re drunk and cut off as of this moment. Take your money and kindly leave. I hope you have fun at the game if you remember it.”

As she was trying to speak, I just pointed to the door. Defeated, she staggered out. I FINALLY got to go back and sit at my seat and relax. I never did tell [Bartender].