The Dread

I like my job. The technical side of bartending fascinates me. The mixology, making strong spirits potable always stops me in the midst of the din of a busy restaurant and makes me smile. Martinis, Manhattans and Negronis are mildly intricate but quick to make and beautiful to look at.

Beyond the alchemy almost every shift brings a few moments of joy, real comedy or at least gallows humor. I like my regulars and coworkers. I love the new GM. The room is excellent. And the commute is tolerable. Why then do I hate going to work?

15:00 to 16:45 are routinely the worst minutes of my day. I loathe and thus procrastinate brushing my teeth, shaving and finally the shower. Once dressed I fret about dry cleaning, collar stays, the 1 California schedule. Upon leaving the apartment the angst shifts to my relationship with A. Did I wash my dishes? Did I make the bed? Is my desk clear?

And then the bus filled with early teenagers shrieking over their card games and texts. My route passes a few parks and I look with abject jealousy at the homeless lounging in the grass.

This anxiety is the cost of being on time. Most days I step behind the bar precisely at 17:00. Till counted, tie tied, apron knotted. And instantly the angst lifts.

Intro blog posts

are best kept short. I'll write about my bar, my friends' bars, regulars, tourists, business travelers, servers, cooks, busboys, managers, owners, cab drivers, professional drinkers, rookie drinkers, alcoholics, coke addicts, speed freaks and a beautiful girl from New Orleans who drank two glasses of wine with her mother, bussed her own glasses, over-tipped and left with a smile. I think everyone was relieved when the door closed behind her. Too distracting.