The Seventy Year Itch

As you all can guess, I get all kinds of people from different walks of life. Each of them have amazing stories and histories, while others can be a little unusual. I work at a small sports bar in Shreveport-Bossier, Louisiana that is surrounded by neighborhoods and an Air Force Base filled with interesting characters. Most of those characters are a bit odd. Not all of their neurons are linked properly.

Wednesday nights tend to be quite interesting. Typically when I enter the bar, the bar is full of my older customers. The funny thing about it is that the elderly bar patrons are the wildest. One of my favorites is Mr. George. Mr. George is a eighty something year old WWII veteran who wears an old Nazi cap. The story behind that hat is he took it off of a dead Nazi soldier after killing the German soldier in the war. That cap is his trophy, and his wife made replicas for him. Also, Mr. George carries his sword cane in his left hand and holds his Jameson on the rocks in his right. That man can drink! I have never seen someone kill a fifth of Jameson in a four hour period and can still walk straight. Well, relatively straight. Mr. George is one of the most respected individuals in the bar for several reasons. He is quite the gentleman and asks females permission before "courting" them. However, Mr. George does have a rather active personal life. He keeps his "sword" in full swing, if you know what I mean.

Mr. George has two women he keeps rather close. Elenoir, his main girlfriend, is the typical elderly lady. She shakes quite a bit and always talks about her son, Matt, while barely slipping on her glass of Merlot. She is an old school southern woman who turns the cheek to reality and walks a few paces behind her man. The other woman, Betty, is probably from another planet. She is a pianist with a few loose keys. Betty loves to drink watered down crown and cokes while chain smoking her cheap cigarettes. A class act, she definitely is not. An interesting individual, she most definitely is. I know that she has a wonderful soul and means well. However, she can definitely drive someone to drink...a lot. Elenoir has no idea who Betty is and vice versa, which leads to an interesting turn of events.

On one "Geriatric Wednesday", I walk into the bar in full on Tabitha Mode. Like always, I slam my backpack on the chair and greet everyone sitting at the thirty foot bar. Mr. George is sitting with his main lady, Elenoir, at the very end of the bar. Sitting next to Elenoir is Ms. Scarlet, the most regal woman I have ever met. She has a very strong southern accent and never goes a day without her bright red lipstick. In her prime, she was a famous singer and traveled the world surrounded by sequins and vodka. Scarlet is the woman who says "Bless her heart" after talking poorly of someone. After greeting the three of them, I turn to face the front door, and in walks Betty.

Betty storms through the bar like a terrible hurricane, misjudged from size but leaving a huge path of destruction behind her. Her hair is a mess and her jet black sunglasses are covering her heavily bagged eyes. I am pretty sure that at least ten bar patrons gasped at the same time. The next dramatic episode of "The Old and The Restless" was about to begin! Immediately, Betty approaches George and tries to mark her territory by kissing him on the cheek. He avoided the kiss of endearment and greeted her with a simple, "Hello". Betty began her inquisition. Before she could get out her first question, "Who is tha", Scarlet interjected. Scarlet told Betty that she could "sit her ass at the other end of the bar where she belonged". Betty did as she was told. Its pretty impossible to say no to Scarlet. She can be quite domineering at times.

Soon after, Betty pulls out a rather large mirror and begins to apply false eyelashes while sitting at my bar. As she was doing that, she continued to yell towards George's end of the bar. The poor young Air Force Airmen that were sitting next to her had to close their tabs because they were disgusted by her inappropriate behavior. She asked me if she ran off my customers and of course I replied with a "Of course you did. That is what vanities and bathroom mirrors are for. My bar is not a vanity". After a brief apology, I was told something that could never be unheard. Betty decides to tell me that she needs to give Scarlet her business card because Mr. George's "other woman" needs to know something very important. In her words, "I have genital herpes and has had it for at least forty years. George refused to use condoms, so he most likely has it too. She needs to know because that can be deadly for a woman her age. She's practically on her death bed already". My ears then bled. All I could say was, "Well, that is very vital information". I then quickly walked to the kitchen and hid for five minutes. I was speechless.

What is one to do when something so extreme and personal has been told to them? I am sure most of my readers would say to talk it out with that person. No, not me. I ignored that woman for the rest of the night. I smiled at her, but I pretended like I was too busy with work to chat anymore. Finally Betty left with a much younger, more desperate, man too seek revenge on George. As she was walking towards the door, she punched Mr. George in the arm. His reaction was simply taking a sip of Jameson and continuing conversation with Scarlet and Elenoir.

I claim Mr. George to be the "Player of the Year". He has a few women not only fighting over him, but they fight for him. All he does is sit there and drink his Jameson. I hope to one day be the female version of him. Well, minus the possibility of having herpes.

And So It Begins.

When I pull into the parking lot of my beloved bar, I always feel a little anxiety. My heart starts to race, I become short of breath, and sometimes break a sweat. It is not because I am uncomfortable, but because I haven't a clue of whats to come in the next ten hours. The windows to the car are usually down while I am blaring my favorite The Black Keys song, "Psychotic Girl". I shake off the anxiety by singing and taking long deep breaths. Finally, I get out of the car and head to the front door while shaking my head and getting into the "mode". 

I have noticed that those who tend bar usually have multiple personalities or personas. I know for a fact that I do. There's the everyday Brittany who typically is calm, cool, and collected. She is the single mother of one and has her priorities in line. Boring, she is not. She can be witty, wild, and weird when she deems it appropriate. The other side of Brittany, the bartender, is a bit unusual. She is witty, sarcastic, abrasive, dark, and mysterious. I usually refer to that side of me as "Tabitha". Tabitha is the name one of my favorite bar regulars, Bob, gave to me to refer to that dark side. Tabitha is the mode I have to be in while walking through the heavily tinted front door.

As I cross the threshold, I feel the neurons in my brain rewire and my walking pace gets a bit faster. I slam my backpack on the chair behind the bar, and greet every person waiting on my arrival. Its funny to watch people's facial expressions because I typically say something inappropriate to every single one of them. For example, "Hey Tommy, its good to see you. Have you gotten your dick wet yet?". It throws them off because they see me as a southern belle. My hair is usually done, makeup on, and I look like an innocent young lady. Little do they know that Tabitha is indeed the most disgusting, perverted, chick on this side of the Mississippi.

 I consider myself as a "veteran" bartender in this area because I have been tending bar for about seven years. I started my bartending career at the age of seventeen at one of the biggest night clubs in Shreveport. The owner was a bit shady and allowed young girls to work for him. Anyways, I tended bar at night clubs for a good bit. I barely had any customer interaction except for "What can I get ya?" and "Get the fuck out of my club". All I did, really, was sling drinks for twelve hours and was drunk the entire time. Oh! I made a lot of money. I definitely can't forget the money part. I was then programmed to be a fast-paced bartender who slung drinks faster than you could order them.

Going from night clubs to a smaller sports bar is quite a transition. I chose to downsize because the club scene was getting old and I was ready to have a change of pace.The bar I work at is a little unusual for me. I had a difficult time for the first six months of working there because I have never been a very personal person. I prefer to keep my distance, and just keep glasses on the bar full. Little did I know that these people would grow on me. Most of the bar regulars hated me in the beginning. I was quiet, short, and avoided conversation at all costs. I always believed that the bar was between the bartender and customer for a reason. The two could never intermingle and it keeps a safe distance from one another. The bar should never be breached. I wanted the customers to not know a single thing about me. Almost two years later, I have befriended a few of them and continue to develop a relationship with several regular guests. And so the drama begins.