There’s an early episode of The Simpsons where Homer reluctantly wears a pink shirt to work. He’s spotted by Mr. Burns, mocked by colleagues, and sent to a mental asylum. Michael Jackson guest starred and I don’t remember the point, but for years afterwards I laughed whenever I saw a bright, pink shirt. That’s what TV and pop culture does to you (especially after seeing the episode dozens of times).

I never laughed because pink can be associated with gay men and feminism, I just don’t like the colour and the episode always made me howl. As history progressed it became more socially acceptable for even macho men to wear pink, which is fine by me. But for many kids who grew up in the ‘90s that Simpsons’ reference always came to mind at the sight of a man wearing pink.

There’s nothing wrong with those pink shirts against bullying, NFL players wearing pink shoes for breast cancer, and stuff like that. All I know is I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a flamboyant, pink shirt. I prefer grey, black, brown, and more neutral, if somber colours. However I dress it’s never ostentatious or a poke in the eye for people.

***

One day the owner of the Piano Bar came through the front door with the largest, brightest, pink shirt I’ve ever seen. It was very unexpected from a crusty, old Irishmen who always spoke his mind. He was a mastermind of the restaurant industry and would sit at the bartop on weekends, drinking double vodka and diet cokes out of the smallest legal glass possible. The man was great to serve under and the only owner I would come out of retirement to bartend for.

Anyway, I looked on in amazement watching the owner, our great leader and field marshal, strut across the bar looking like the pink power ranger. I gestured to Leon, one of the line cooks, to turn his head. He turned around, saw this abomination, and looked back at me. We locked eyes, formed smiles, and struggled to stifle howling laughter. Leon was a biker, a veteran of the industry, and had seen it all. Like me, he had watched The Simpsonsthroughout his childhood; I’m sure he got the reference based on what followed.

It remains a mystery why the owner wore a pink shirt. It wasn’t Valentines Day and he didn’t support progressive movements the colour as a symbol. Frankly, he was as politically correct as an alt-right incel. Maybe he just liked pink and was comfortable enough in his masculinity to wear it without embarrassment. Good on him.

Either way, I mobilized all my self-control to not laugh or ask the owner why he made this… unexpected wardrobe decision. Leon also exercised self-restraint as we kept looking at each other with glee, waiting for the moment we could unleash our stifled laughter.

It’s been 8 years and I can’t remember how busy it was or who else was working. The fact I don’t know means it was probably an average, boring shift… minus the bright flamingo shirt. But I buried myself in work more than usual to make sure I didn’t say or do something stupid to upset the owner.

I pumped out drinks from the bar at a fast pace, did cleaning duties early in the shift, and engaged in more small talk with customers than usual (hardly most bartenders’ favourite obligation). It was fortunate the owner didn’t sit at the bar most of the time he was there, because I would’ve lost it and succumbed to premature howling.

***

I’m unsure if he was there for 30 minutes, two hours, or another measure of time. That’s what happens when you bartend, it often slows down to Bullet Time like in the Max Payne games. But there was still sunlight when the owner said goodbye and turned towards the door. It was then I delivered the long awaited coup de grâce.

I said “hey (his name)…” and he turned around. Then I followed with, in the most fake, sincere sounding tone all bartenders have to master, “NICE SHIRT.”

The entire staff and bartop became silent, afraid of the old warhorse’s potential cranky response. They were soon relieved. He merely said, with non-fake sincerity, “thanks (author’s name)” in a friendly tone and walked way. The owner thought I was being serious… that I was complimenting an eye sore that could’ve been seen from outer space.

The otherwise silence continued until he left the bar. But once the front door slammed shut all hell let loose: Most of the staff and bartop, those with a sense of humour at least, erupted in laughter. Leon had his head on the bar and kept hitting it with his hand. I was bending over howling and didn’t care how ridiculous I looked. I’m sure the red headed bar manager said “what’s wrong with you?”

Anyway, it remains among the top 10 funniest moments of my life. Bartending is harsh, unpredictable, rarely fair, and often absurd. It’s the same with life: Sometimes things become so depressing and exhausting you can feel helpless. In such trying times you can either laugh, cry, or both. 

I’ve learnt to lean towards laughter.