I had finally come to the end of my rope. College simply wasn't for me, at least not at that time. I had spent nine semesters bumbling my way through psychology, sociology, literature, history, philosophy, and theology courses. It had finally become clear to me that in my efforts to "find myself," I was wasting a lot of money on coursework that ultimately had no end game.
In other words, I didn't know what the hell I wanted to do. And considering the fact that I had had to take out student loans to pay for some of those courses, it appeared that I was also failing to grasp even the most rudimentary economics principles -- don't borrow money, unless borrowing it will ultimately help you to get ahead.
I had over 140 credits now, but was no closer to earning a degree than I had been three years ago. I couldn't "get ahead" until I graduated, and I couldn't graduate until I knew what I wanted to do. So I decided to quit. I was soon to join an august, but somewhat pathetic club of really well-read college dropouts.
Of course, the more sobering reality was that dropping out meant getting a job. It was not that I was adverse to work -- quite the contrary. The only reason my college debt wasn't a more serious problem was because I had been working and saving money since I was 15 years old. But all of those jobs had been menial, unskilled positions that I held while in high school or during summer breaks from college.
I had alternately been employed as a cashier in a fast-food restaurant, a stock boy at a large department store, an insert stuffer at the local newspaper, a warehouse worker at a window and door manufacturer, a housekeeper at a hospital, and a landscape maintenance worker for a number of different businesses.
I wasn't looking for another one of
those
jobs. I wanted to work in a place where I got to hang out with people I could actually talk to -- people that could carry on conversations that were at least interesting, if not earth-shatteringly significant.
I didn't need to be the boss; I just didn't want another supervisor treating me like I was a complete idiot -- like the snaggletoothed lady at the hospital last summer, who spent a good fifteen minutes one sadly memorable day explaining to me and one of my co-workers the "tricks" to arranging the correct number of chairs in a large conference room so that the rows of seats were straight.
"If you put 10 chairs in each row," she had said, "and you have 10 rows; that's 100 chairs! So if you want to have 250 chairs on each side, how many rows of 10 do you need?" And, even worse, "Look, if you line up the front legs of each chair so they touch the edges of the squares of linoleum, each row will be nice and straight!"
It should have been enough to have said to us, "just make sure that the room looks neat and presentable with 500 chairs set up and a 10 foot aisle down the middle," or perhaps even more crudely, "I want 500 goddamn chairs arranged with 250 on this side of the freaking room and 250 on that side with a wide aisle right in front of the podium. And make damn sure they're all in straight lines, got it?" At least the direct approach didn't assume that we hadn't passed 4
th
grade mathematics.
I wasn't assuming that I had "intellectual talent," and I knew that I wasn't qualified for a professional position. There weren't that many of those types of jobs in the small college town where I lived anyway. I just didn't want to be a peon any more. I didn't think that was asking too much.
So, one mild winter afternoon, just a week or so after the first of the year, I went downtown to apply for a job bartending at a local restaurant and bar --
The Bike Club Pub
-- a funky little place that catered to an older college crowd and downtown business types. I knew it pretty well, had eaten and drank there on a number occasions, and it seemed like it had a good vibe and drew a nice mix of people. I thought it might not be a bad place to work.
I had never bartended before, but god knows I had done plenty of drinking! I figured I was safe with most of the well drinks, obviously beers and wines, and at least a fair number of blended cocktails as well, like Bloody Marys, Margaritas, Daiquiris, Manhattans, Martinis, Old-Fashioneds, and Gimlets, to name a few. If it took me a little while to memorize the difference between a Rusty Nail and a Sidecar, I would probably be okay.
I met with the manager of the place, a guy by the name of Todd Farnham, who, from the get-go, I surmised was a total asshole. After asking me a little bit about myself, Todd quizzed me on a few drink recipes. Apparently, I did well enough, because before I left the place, he offered me a part-time job, working 25 hours a week.
This part-time offer was pretty typical. Most of the bartenders, waitresses, hostesses, and cooks that worked at the place were students at the university, and held down 20 hours a week or so in addition to attending classes full-time. I was okay with the part-time gig for now, but I made it clear to Todd that I was really looking for full-time work, since I had decided not to go back to school for the spring semester.
Todd, in return, made it clear to me that he didn't have anything full-time, so I could take or leave the 25 hours a week. I took it. He told me to come back the following Friday, and I went back home and studied drink recipes for a couple of days.
I reported to work a few minutes before 6:00 p.m. on a Friday night, the weekend before the new semester began. When I walked in the joint, it was already nuts. The place was packed with people and the bar area was more crowded than I had ever seen it. There was another bartender already working, and both Todd and a guy by the name of Mark, that I came to learn was the assistant manager, were behind the sizable bar that was situated along one wall in the middle of the long, narrow restaurant. Both were working like mad themselves.
Two dining areas occupied either side of the bar area, each seating perhaps 100 people. There was also a second level, that contained another bar, but that was only used for special parties or when we booked a band. Tonight it wasn't in use, so everyone in the place was crowded into three really small areas, and if I had to guess, I would have said there were probably 300 customers in the pub at the time. It was a madhouse.
I jumped behind one end of the bar, not bothering to ask whether or not I was supposed to punch a time clock before I started my shift. It was clear that my help was needed immediately, and without asking anyone what I should do first, I just started taking orders from customers or waitresses and mixing drinks, or pouring beers or glasses of wine. After a steady hour of running like crazy, things calmed down long enough for me to at least distinguish between the customers and my fellow employees.
Todd, who was irritated about the fact that he was still working at 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night, when he thought he should have been out spending money at some other drinking establishment instead of earning his salary at the one that employed him, finally confronted me after things had settled down. "When did you get here?" he snarled, clearly interested in taking out his frustrations on me. It particularly annoyed me, because I knew he had seen me right after I came in and took my place behind the bar. I had even talked to him momentarily.
"About an hour ago. You told me to be here at 6:00 p.m."
"And I supposed you were here at 6:00 p.m.?"
"Actually, I got here about 10 minutes before that. I thought maybe you wanted to show me where to clock in, or fill out paperwork, or maybe some other stuff."
"So did you clock in?"
"No, I didn't know where the time clock was. You didn't mention that when you hired me, and things looked awful busy, so I just went behind the bar and tried to help, as best I could."
