On The Absurdity Of Bartending
I’m a bartender, and these days, I find that declaring such describes and involves more than just the job duties I perform to make a living. For better or for worse, it is who I am. It’s what people know me as now. It’s the life I live, and it’s an absurd one, at that.
“Contrary to all reason and common sense” is the phrase that many literary sources use to define the word “absurd,” a derivative of the Latin word “absurdum.” Moreover, “absurdism” is an idea that’s been explored by many brilliant minds of the past and present, like Aristotle and Thomas Nagel, to name a few. They, like many people who have deeply contemplated their circumstances in this life, felt that sometimes, well, shit just seemed weird.
In his paper titled The Absurd, Nagel suggests that true absurdity is the realization that we live in an absurd world. That’s it. It’s when you look around, take a whiff, and think to yourself this is pretty strange.
During random blips of random bartending shifts, I often experience such whiffs. I look around and realize that what I do and where I am is absolutely absurd. Instead of working in front of a computer or in a doctor’s office or in an auto body shop, I stand in front of a crowd of people and pour poison into a glass for them. It makes them happy, and they give me money for it. That makes me happy in return.
It usually goes something like this: I’m four or so hours into my Saturday night bar shift with another four to go until last call, and that’s not including all of the delirium-induced closing procedures that will span into the wee hours of the morning. It’s been a full house since I stepped behind the bar — so much so to where I ponder how incredible it is that an electrical fuse doesn’t blow, or how there have been no punches thrown yet.
We’re three to four thirsty folk deep at the bar — not quite in the weeds, but it’s busy enough to pull me away from the film debate I’m engaged in with two friends who can’t agree on who’s the best “Bond” of all time — Daniel Craig or Sean Connery. It’s busy enough to walk away from the guest who got your attention for service, but prematurely blew their load by turning around to their friends and asking them what they want. It’s busy enough to politely avoid the story a wine geek is trying to tell you about their trip to Burgundy last month. It’s busy enough for you to avoid breaking glass in your ice well at all costs. It’s busy enough to cater to those who tip and demonstrate good bar etiquette, and for those who don’t, well, it’s busy enough to leave them to the will of the Darwinian code of survival at the bipedal watering hole.
In the midst of the madness, in the chaotic scramble for clean rocks glasses or a re-supply of blue cheese-stuffed olives, I’m briefly stunned. It’s as if my favorite combatant from the video game Mortal Combat, “Sub-Zero,” froze me with his darting ice cloud. For the shortest blip of time, I contemplate hard. When these profound moments of wonderment occur, I’m immediately paralyzed and entranced; but in a good way — like a dog having its belly scratched with its master’s hand, their freshly-trimmed nails gently grazing back and forth in perfect rhythm. I’m most alive during these moments that come and go like my guests tend to do on a busy night.
These moments, or resets, only last for a few seconds but are sanity savers. They align me into the groove state — a stylish flow of suave movement and wit that many bartenders channel when the house is packed, the band is rocking, the one-liners are being instantly downloaded by the muse, and their hair and/or waxed mustaches are still perfectly maintained. My regulars are assembled on all fronts, my garnish tray has been recently replenished with shining, fresh fruits and other goodies, I hear the “ooh’s” and “ahh’s” from those who I’ve convinced to try my new cocktail, and to top it off, a patron just paid me to take a shot with them. There’s flirtation and joy and humor and celebration in the air. In this state, I feel like the immaculate Manhattan I just darted a maraschino cherry into. I feel complete.
Ever so slightly-buzzed, I’m moving nimbly alongside my fellow comrades in an un-choreographed and improvisational dance of sorts. Bartenders often work in small, cramped spaces that do not allow for clumsy, out-of-rhythm step. We dip and bend and waltz around our dance partners, constantly grazing and touching each other to alert them of our close proximity — something I often accidentally do in public to complete strangers at crowded supermarkets. In any other environment, how we touch each other and where we put our hands would be grounds for sexual harassment charges or worse. But it’s accepted and encouraged in the trenches of the barroom.
At large, there is no equation or particular scenario that alludes to the onset of these brief realizations of the absurd, these “holy shit — this is what I do” moments, but typically they occur when I have a broader vantage point of the room. And I’m usually put under the spell right when I need it the most, as my level of patience for dealing with drunken adults has all but evaporated. Right before I pull my own hair out, jump up onto the bar top and kick over everyone’s drinks, and make my escape by bursting through the wall “Looney Tunes” style, the cloud of cool hits me. I’m pouring a beer and then WHAM! I’m tranquil. I’m centered. I just stare out at the bar packed-full of men and women drinking poison, and in the midst of the chaos, I scan the incredibly diverse pack of upright monkeys, laughing to myself when I consider my relationship and role with them.
Some of them are loud, some of them are quiet. Some try to find another to mate with, some bite their nails in nervous anticipation of the next big play of the game on the big screen. Some are well dressed and some are barely dressed. Some live a few drunken somersaults away and some are visiting from distant lands. Some cram food down their throat, and some cram their tongues down someone else’s throat.
I’m awestruck and realize that this is a special time in history that will never again be replicated the in same way it is taking place before my wide-open eyes at this very moment. It’s the stuff movie scenes are made of: the sound of side plates being stacked, the pocketed eruptions of laughter, the clinking of cheers’ing wine glasses, a cocktail being born out of its frosted tin, the burping, the “yo’s,” the “ey’s,” the “eyy-yoo’s” — the crowd of thirsty night owls all seem to be tapped into this energy in the room that no one can precisely put their finger on.
And when that tranquility dissipates and I do end up breaking glass in my ice well, or I slice my finger while peeling a lemon, or yet another keg exhales its last dying drops of beer into my face, I get angry and flustered again. Once again I commit the crime that Thomas Nagel referred to in his paper—I’m back to taking myself and my life too seriously. I curse the Gods when someone doesn’t tip, or when a guest takes minutes of my time to taste all of the craft beers we have on tap and then decides on a Coors. I’m made livid when someone snaps their fingers and signals to me to come hither as if I’m their butler. And holy shit — those who turn their backs to me while I hold their freshly-crafted cocktails in my hands and wait to be compensated — yeah, I hate those fuckers.
But at the peak of my anger, at the very limit of my ire, Sub Zero graciously chills me out once more. As I return to the beer taps yet again for a guest who is a repeat offender of the “Can I get one more?” offense, I turn and look and sigh and laugh at the madness, the absurdity of the room. All of For another few seconds, I become mindful and zen and shit. This is my office, I think to myself. Holy shit!
I’m a bartender. What I do is absurd, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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For more ramblings on bartending, please check out the link for my book “The Watering Hole—A Bartender’s Breakdown of the Bipedal Drinking Establishment” listed below.
Follow me on Twitter @jayreidwrites, and visit my website at JayReidWrites.com. Cheers!
