The Not-So-Sexy Bartender
Sometimes I’m a bartender at fancy cocktail parties and receptions. It’ll pay the bills for now, and I get to serve drinks to some truly magnificent people sometimes. Sometimes I even meet a couple cute blokes.
It was my first night on the job, and I don’t actually know how to bartend. I flirted my way through the interview, lied about having four years experience (zero, actually) and then bought a book called “Everything You Need to Know about Bartending” and read it on my way to my shift. The clerk at the Borders counter looked at my grocery store bag full of martini shakers and wine openers and then to the book and laughed like crazy.
I get there and it’s a party for…wait for
it…GAY MILLIONAIRES. To top it all off…these were hot thirty-somethings with their own businesses (and personal trainers). The work was pretty easy. The first ten guys all want a vodka cranberry. Another comes–he wants a cape codder. Can’t fool me–I read the whole chapter on vodka–I pour a vodka cranberry.
Then, the *one* comes up to the bar.
He owns a company that sells private home fitness equipment. He obviously uses his own product, because his biceps seem like their ripping the sleeves of his shirt. As I prepare his dry vodka martini with a twist of lemon, I compliment his belt. This causes him to lift his shirt a little, revealing those two perfect ‘V’ lines and a little peek of his abs! Ahhhh! Word of advice–if you flirt while zesting a lemon, only bad things can happen.
I zest off half of my fingernail along with the lemon and my finger starts shooting blood.
His dry martini suddenly looked more like a cosmo, and my finger looked more like stubbed toe. Now, I don’t quite have a feminine scream, but at the same time I wouldn’t call it masculine. The host turns off the music and dozens huddle around the bar. A plastic surgeon steps forward, “It’s okay everyone, I’m a doctor.” IT’S LIKE A MOVIE.
I’ve lost Mr. Dry Martini and I’m obnoxiously over-bandaged, and now I’m the one-armed bartender. The next Vodka Cranberry comes up to the bar and says, “Oh, poor baby. Did you cut your finger?” Another Vodka Cranberry asks, “How did that even happen–you don’t have anything sharp on your bar!”. I’ve gotten pretty good at concealing my injury until this cute lil ‘mo asks if I have Campari. I reach for it with the bad hand, and my ‘mo gasps. Nope.
When Mr. Dry Martini comes back he motions with two resigned hands, “Just a vodka soda.” and he retreats off to flirt with Mr. Campari.
Fast forward: end of the party. I say to the host, “Were you pleased with everything tonight?” aka “Give me my tip”. He said, “Well, I had a good time–but I don’t think you did (he looks down at my finger). Have a good night”. No tip. I was expecting over $100 from this bloke. No boyfriend, no tip, and half a finger. Oh and to top it all off…it was the ring finger.
searching for george, george glass 
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