What Work Is

They routinely ask you, what else you have to do with your life?

What’s your other job?

As if working split shifts, doubles, red-eyed with raging hangovers, running on depleted adrenaline levels, days and nights. Seeing The Future in a cracked shot glass, the amber liquid inside all the hours and minutes of those days and nights forming a hard, small viscous puddle in the middle of a cratered bar surface that looks like no man’s land in some nightmare film version of The Waste Land. 

So I say, “I’m independently wealthy.  Actually, I do this for fun, getting paid is just a bonus.”

And, if I’m in a real foul mood, I tell them something like the truth, “I’m doing in depth field research for a human science experiment.

My thesis is set for review and possible publication like in the next few days, keep asking questions and there might be a whole section devoted to you.”

And they laugh and laugh and laugh as if I were some kind of quick witted, one liner artiste, instead of a small piece in god’s plan for the human comedy that always has a tragic ending no matter what part you play.

Sometimes I even tell them the title of the Work in Progress, although it’s rarely the same one or the real one.

Somehow today sort of feels like, Show Me the Way to the Next Whiskey Bar

Last week it was Quiet Flow the John

Next week?

Who knows?

Face Down on the Barroom Floor Ramada Inn/Silo 1974

She pushes open the swinging kitchen doors,

eyes wide, hands shaking she said,”You’ve got

to do something, they’re tearing the place

apart.” 

In the rathskeller, below, it sounds

to the staff as if the dancing has gotten out

of hand as if all of the feet are in the

wrong part of the room and that there is no

music but a new kind of nerve ending

sound of glass meeting brick.  

Now, on the floor of the lounge, five brothers 

are putting the finishing touches to a twelve-hour 

day of solemn marriage rites and shots of 7 Crown 

with beer chasers along the bar, holding 

the night manager’s head inert, free form kicking 

his face in the darkness as a waitress weeps, 

they run overturning tables and chairs as they go

spinning table candles spread a thin hot sealing

wax over blood on the wash and wear carpet.

This year on the job training qualifies you for a merit badge in plastic surgery and seven days with a white batman mask, as the stitches heal. It’s a mask you won’t show off in public because Halloween isn’t for another eight months and you’re in no mood to answer questions.

Actually, there are some hidden benefits in a life threatening beating; a week off, no questions asked ,and the scars, later, to prove you’d done Mugging 101 and passed with three scars workman’s comp will fork over cash for.

Upper Management show their gratitude for blood and time loss with a spontaneous, in-depth criticism for all the things you did wrong in a crisis beginning with, “You should have nuked them with the fire extinguisher.”

Or, “call the cops first, ask questions, later.”

As if there was an operating telephone nearby to use.

As if one foam fire extinguisher could quell an indoor, no rules Australian football game involving all the players from several teams, their next of kin And their fans, a congregation of Assholes that gave new meaning to the word, Chaos

Walk On

He was up against

the side bar

and he’d been there

all of his life

touching him was

risking contracting

a fatal disease

but I had to do it,

“The bar is closing

down, you have to leave.”

His eyes focused

on a point no one

else could see.

“Leave?” He said.

“I have weapons

sanctioned by the Lord.”

“I hope they’re

registered in Albany

County or else you’re

in big trouble.”

“I have transmitters

locked into invisible

orbiting satellites.”

“I’ll pass up my best FCC

line, would you like

me to call a cab

back to CDPC or would

you rather walk?”

“I have no money.”

“You’ll have to walk then,

it’s not that far. Besides,

I’ll bet you could use

the fresh air and exercise.”

It was late November

and he didn’t have a coat.

That was his problem.

He should have thought

of that when he left

the Loony Bin with

his spare change.

I was being hard on

lunatics that week, and they

were being hard on me.

After this last assault, you file that claim with Workman’s Compensation despite strict prohibition of any such claims by management no matter what the cause or nature of the injury.

Compensation Board claims raise the Company’s premiums.

But after a complete, comprehensive late-night tour of all the Emergency Rooms in the Greater Capital District Area, for a wide variety of on-the-job related injuries and nothing to show for them but permanent damage and lost wages, you really don’t give a flying fuck about their higher premiums.

And Management says, “You’re developing an attitude.

A Bad Attitude.

But when you tender your resignation a couple of months later, they change their tune.

Offer you a modest raise.

After all they can’t afford to lose you.

Who else will do all the dirty work?

Working Stiff

They like

to work

you day

and night

until your

eyes start

to bleed

they don’t

care about

how you

might feel

unless they

think you

might not

make it

So you show up for work.

For now. They aren’t the only club in a tri-state area no matter what they would like you to believe.

You don’t like the job but it’s the work you do and despite all the heat, the stuff and nonsense, you take a certain pride in being able to do something no else can do as well as you can.

Like walking out on a ledge and staying there, daring what will happen to happen

But you can’t shake the labels or the rap

The Attitude

You’ve got a Bad Attitude

Why bother, it’s true, you do: it comes with the job

It’s what distinguishes you from the rest of the crowd, the amateurs.

Mind Games

“Do you know

Mary Beth?” he asks

“Everyone knows

Mary Beth.” I sd.

“Why she was 

here just last

week.

We talked for

over an hour.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine.  Real 

fine.

Still working

in the same

place

Still hates

it too.

She was asking

about Joe.”

“Yeah, she would.

Do you know

Joe?”

“Not really,

I’ve seen him

though.”

“He’s a real

pisser, Joe is.

Did Mary Beth

tell you about

the time

Joe dropped trou?”

“Oh, no really?”

“Yeah, it was at

the New Year’s Eve bash

over at the Son’s Hall

Freaked everyone

right out in a hurry.

You should get to

know Joe, he’s a real

pisser.”

“I can tell.”

“Hey, man, when you

see Mary Beth tell

her I was by.”

“Sure will, dude.”

As if I knew

who any of these

people were.

You’ve cultivated this on the job trained self-image of a night time warrior in the trenches for so long you actually believe it.

Think that there’s a war being fought with liquor bottles, beer steins, insults and drunken tirades instead of hand grenades, horseshoes and atomic bombs.

When asked how you do it, the answer is always the same, “If everyone were doing it would be easy and then what would become of us?”

A line from a movie about a bomb disposal expert.

And what you are doing is a kind of bomb disposal; all those human atomic bombs you always ready and waiting to go off.

And they’re always at your disposal to deal with as you wish

Because you’re the head mad doctor,

The scientist with the rocket fuel

The magic cure

The liquid medicine

Cripples

They looked 

as if they’d

copped

their last

dimes out

of a blind

man’s cup

As if they

rolled old

ladies and 

infirm old

men for their

meals

There was

nothing wrong

with them

drinking

in my place

that a

couple of 

years

behind bars

couldn’t cure

You’re no better than they are

And you probably feel worse

But you can never show it

After all the show must go on

And you have your professional pride

Reference Question

“You see this guy?

when he came to

work for us

he had to look

Bud up in a

book-didn’t know

the difference

between a bottle

of beer and a

bottle of booze

and just look

at him now.”

I didn’t hear that

I guess it’s because

I know the boss man has

to score points with

the money men too

Just ‘cause he hasn’t any

thing better to do than

build himself up by knocking

someone else down has nothing

to do with me, I’m better

than that.  I mean I can

take a joke as well as

anyone, I’ve been laughed

at too many times not

to know a joke when I

hear one. So later, when 

the Boss Man asks me

for a Dewar’s on

the rocks I have to laugh

What’s he talking about?

He must be kidding me.

I might even have to look

it up in a book.

I don’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out when I leave either

Or turn out any of the lights

I just make sure everything stops working the next day in a timed sequence like some kind of Alfred Hitchcock restaurant horror movie with those who remain as the unwilling characters.

I make sure all of my messages are put on Call waiting indefinitely or are misdirected to the back room of Rummy’s Bat Cave where the derelict who answers the phone has been on a non-stop binge since 1937 and will forget what he is doing with the phone in his hand, mid-conversation and leave the line open forever, phone dangling against the wall like the useless appendage that it is.

What the hell, it was only a job.

There’s always more work once you’ve summitted the plateau.

After all bartending is just something you learn to do with your head while your body is making drink, is watching what’s coming down in your world as it happens and surviving long enough to talk about it.

I guess that’s what writing is all about,as well.

But what would I know about that, man, I’m just the bartender.

A Pro-fessional with an Attitude

Or a character in a story

Or maybe even one who creates characters

Which one is it?

That would be telling and a bartender never tells

That’s against all the unwritten laws,

The Code of Ethics

Everyone Wants to Be a Bartender

It must be a

great life-

I’ll bet

all the girls

proposition you-

You must

overhear some

wild conversations-

I’ll bet all

the waitresses

are really wild

and all of that

free booze-

All that easy

money-

You must make

great tips

here

huh?-

You must be

a gambler-

Who do you

like in the-

You know

where I

can find

some easy-

I’m a little

short-

I know you

guys always

have bread

can I bum-

it’s a great

life

real great

and I’ve

been beat up

in some of

the best

joints

in town

too

Every word of this is true.

Everything I say is true.

Come to the Tavern where I work now and sample one of the cocktails from my bar book of recipes with a personality called Killer Cocktails.

Better be nice; remember who’s making those drinks you’re going to put into your body.

Better yet, just read the book

And see who gets the last laugh.

Or wait for the sequel, The Hair of the Dog That Bit Me.

That’s me on the cover, not Lon Chaney Jr. dressed to kill as the Wolfman.

It happens to all us professionals after a while, The Metamorphosis

That’s what work is.