Stephanie is a poetry major. She can make poetry from anything. Here is the proof. She’s the one on the right.
Life At The Bar
I find myself always wanting to be late to work, even if its five minutes. That’s five minutes more I get to myself, and five minutes more I don’t have to be completely brain-dead. Every time I set up the liquor bottles, grab the fruit, and place out the bar mats, I’m still stuck with an extra hour of doing jack shit. That’s an hour of jack shit I’d rather be doing at home.
The floodgates open at 10:00 p.m. and in trickles the usual bar-tards; Cargo shorts, polo shirt, lanyard of some college or sports team poking out of their pocket. Did I mention the flip flops? Yeah, they all got a pair on. After a while the band decides it’s time to get the show on the road, and begin to play. I am so excited to hear another rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” or better yet, can you butcher another Metallica song please? I can’t wait for my night to be more fantastic than it already is.
The steady stream of idiots who tip me fifty cents are relentless, always wanting a drink or shot that takes more effort and more time than they deserve from me. “I need one Vegas bomb,” … Ugh, just one? “What’s something I can get with vodka in it?”… “How about a vodka cranberry?”… “Do you have Guinness?” “No, sorry, not back here.” … “Oh, uh, then can I just get one Irish car bomb?” You Jagbag, I told you already we don’t have Guinness in the band room. Of course, if I said that out loud I’d probably get fired. Or then again maybe not, depends on how drunk management is by then.
The real reason I put myself through this every weekend isn’t because of the money, or the simple joy of having a steady job, it’s because of Rob. The one coworker out of the countless many who I have ever worked with is the only one that I truly call a friend. I can honestly say that I love this guy, and trust me, not in a sexual way. Rob is loud, obnoxious, sexist, even though he himself looks eight months pregnant, and he’s undeniably hilarious. The gut-busting stories of his “whore of a cheating ex-fiancé (his words, not mine), and his adorable but dumb-as-a-sack-of-rocks cousin, whom we work with, never fail to make my night of Hell, Heaven. Did I mention his nickname is Bubba? That should illustrate the type of person, aesthetically as least, that I am dealing with here.
I don’t love my job, and I don’t make it my life or second home like some of the people I work with do, but I will always be indebted to it because it’s where I met Rob.
The first time I met Rob, he was face first into a massive burrito. Where his eyes should have been, all I could see was tortilla. Lettuce cascaded periodically down the front of his black collared work shirt, and onto the crest of his mountainous belly.
For a minute there, I seriously thought he was Homer Simpson; all he needed was a Duff beer and a brown couch to be sitting on.
His bald head reflected the green, blue, and red dancing strobe lights, while his hulking forearms held the massive monstrosity he was consuming. I wondered how anyone could eat something that horrible without wanting to cry from the shame, or throw up from the disgust, but Robe reveled in this two-ton taco like a pig at a slop bucket. After one glorious belch and ass scratch, Rob looked up from his demolished meal, smiled, and nonchalantly introduced himself; as if there is a need to anymore. I have already witnessed him massacre a cow, and by default I am now an accomplish when P.E.T.A. comes after him, so naturally we are now best friends, partners in crime, ying to yang sort of crap. As a female, I should be disgusted with his lack of common manners, but honestly, I was intrigued. What level of confidence, what ego, what rejection of civility, this carnivorous beast who just inhaled three pounds of beer without so much as blinking an eye must have. I knew after the ass scratch that we were soul mates.
Again, she’s the one on the right.