I stood over the man’s motionless body, not sure if he was alive. My colleagues couldn’t move, they were in shock. The guy who had assaulted the man finished swearing at him then made for the exit. I asked the waitress to call 9/11 then walked towards the office to tell the owner what happened. “This will not look good on my resume,” I remember thinking.
***
The first time I managed a bar some drunk idiot hit a customer over the head with a stool. Fifteen years later I wonder if that was an omen I should’ve switched careers. But sometimes life is chaotic and you just need a paycheck.
I’d just finished training to be a manager at a local, family owned restaurant. The owners and sons (who ran the place) were nice enough. The place also had great wings and brew good beer, but otherwise it sucked.
The staff were toxic and insolent. Besides usual pettiness, gossip, and drama, I’ve never been so disrespected as a manager. In more professional workplaces they’d be fired. In most armies throughout history they’d be shot. I’ll admit I wasn’t the best manager, it was my first attempt, and I tried the carrot more as I tend to be easygoing. With hindsight I should’ve used the stick more.
Our Customers were hardly better. Much of this was due to the 12 VLT machines we had. Whatever you can say about VLT customers, they aren’t the most loved creatures to crawl into a bar. They’re generally mean when they lose, stingy when they win, don’t tend to buy anything, and no one enjoys serving them. Other customers represented typical low brow types. I don’t mean this by class or profession btw. I just mean general lack of class, social skills, and decency. Too many were drunk and disrespected and ogled the girls. They’d down countless jugs of beer, stay well past last call, and were unseemly loud.
But in truth I wasn’t ready for management, either mentally or professionally. Some of this was due to the lack of role models I had in the industry and some of it was due to personal issues at the time. You can teach leadership and management skills in the bar industry but they usually just throw you in the deep end and say “sink or swim” instead. Thus, I treaded water desperately for three months at the bar before saying fuck it and walking away.
***
The least rewarding restaurant job is being a manager. It’s poor pay, you deal with all the complaints, and you’re sandwiched between staff drama and owners or corporate bureaucracy. If the Peter Principle dictates you rise to your first level of incompetence I tapped out at management and then avoided that role anytime I could afterwards.
There’s a reason managers are an especially tragic breed of miserable creatures in the bar industry. They got stuck at one terrible place or shuffle inexorably to one after the other. They snort the most coke, chase the most skirts, and steal the most tips. They can outdrink any customer or employee and their only benefits are a $50,000 annual salary at best, a free daily meal, and staff drinks after work if they’re lucky.
To enjoy such an existence you need a great place, have to love the industry, enjoy people, and have thicker skin than a rhinoceros. I had no such advantages when I started my first management job in 2010. I’d just left a toxic job at a motel bar and hoped this place, a local restaurant that brewed beer, would be a step up. But I was wrong.
The key to cultivating a good manager, which is forgotten by many organizations, is to hire based on character and leadership abilities, versus competency at previous roles. That and adequate training of course. Unfortunately, while I was a good server and great bartender I wasn’t ready for management, due to my then temperament and personal issues, while the training was dubious at best.
However, I did learn alot about leadership, business, and human nature during my first abortive attempt at management.
I was surprised how disrespectful employees can be to their manager (in that case me) in the bar scene and how ridiculous some customer complaints and requests could be. My favourite example from that job was a table of unattractive, middle aged women. They demanded to get the most expensive bottle of wine reduced to the price of the cheapest, because the latter was unavailable. Had I been an owner I would have laughed in their face but I compromised by meeting them in the middle.
Such instances taught me how cheap and entitled customers can be. Because while I’d dealt with many rude customers while bartending my go to when customers went too far was saying “would you like to speak with the manager” until they either shut up or accepted the offer. Because the buck stops at management and they’re suppose to be the fire brigade that stifles the flames of tension and conflict.
I also learned that people love taking credit but are “surprisingly” absent whenever blame or responsibility is involved. As JFK once said “victory has 1000 fathers but defeat is an orphan.” Servers were the worst of course. If a customer or big group left happy and complemented the restaurant, it was all due to the server. If something went wrong it was always the host, kitchen, or management’s fault. The same applied for other positions of course. When the cooks screwed up it was because the server didn’t run the food on time or they didn’t mod correctly (even when it clearly wasn’t the case).
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked at functional places and seen people share credit or own up to mistakes, but those were exceptions. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve heard “I take full responsibility” in 17 years but I couldn’t even guess how many times I’ve seen colleagues throw each other under the bus. Being in the earlier part of my career when I was still naive I remember taking responsibility for one particularly bad evening at the bar, where a big group walked out angrily. As it happened on my watch and I made mistakes it was the proper thing to do. But what I remember most is how none of the workers had my back despite their many screw ups.
It was a lesson I never forgot and it was the catalyst that made me leave that bar and never come back.
***
It was around 8 p.m. on a weekday night. The place was dead, except for four patrons at the bar. They were all men, middle aged, and drinking hard. They were fine, except for this bald guy who was obviously used to being a bully and getting away with it. He’s one of those people who are just obnoxious enough to piss everyone off, but never quite crosses the justify cutting off or being kicked out of the bar. With hindsight I would’ve told him to fuck off, pay his bill, and get out… because sometimes that’s how you deal with bullies. But again it was my first management shift, I was green, and it wouldn’t have looked good on my record.
I can’t remember his name but he had a massive a chip on his shoulder. He likely had little class or education based on how rude and racist he was. I’m not sure why he was such a miserable prick, but he was probably bitter about life and combined with alcohol that’s always a toxic mix.
There were two girls working with me that night. One was a sweetheart and the other was a modestly hot girl with a snotty attitude. However, even modestly hot girls get attention from most guys so she attracted considerable attention from the jerk at the bar. Usually, I’d entertain such unpleasant men to give the girls a break but the snotty girl was tough and could handle herself.
Thus, as soon as I determined the man was a lost cause as a human being I only interacted with him when he needed a refill. Otherwise, I let him interact with my snotty colleague… who perversely seemed to enjoy the interaction. What can I say, people often attract those like themselves and jerks often like jerks. But I kept a watch on the situation, mostly because the place was dead and I wanted an excuse to kick the bastard out of the bar.
The man was there with a friend and there were two strangers next to them. They all seemed to get along well… at first. I can’t remember most of their conversation given I was focused on the asshole and often away from the bar. However, at one point “Mr. Happy” must have said something to piss off one of the strangers at the bar because the latter got up and went got him.
I stopped what I was doing because I had an instinct something was off. Years later I remember thinking “hey that guy’s pulling out a stool towards him… hey he’s picking it up… oh look he’s pulling it back to get ready to… OH FUCK…”
***
The man smashed the asshole over the head with the stool with a considerable amount of force, and he fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. I ran over to see if the jackass was still alive, as the man who attacked him shouted “I’m a full blooded Cherokee Indian you fucker.” Apparently the bully had been uttering racial slurs to the point the other gentlemen became irate and retaliated with a 15 pound stool. Who would have thought an obnoxious bully could be a racist… right?
To me this was a perfect example of my views on freedom of speech. That you can say whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean you can escape the consequences of what you say. Sometimes you’ll be called out, sometimes you’ll be fired… and sometimes you’ll get clobbered over the head with a stool.
Certainly, I didn’t feel sorry for the dickwad who was laying on the floor, but I didn’t want him to die, and now I’d have to deal with a substantial inconvenience.
I was surprisingly calm, focused on determining if the bastard still had a pulse. Then I told the perpetrator to leave the bar, and asked the waitresses to phone 9/11. I remember telling everyone the cops were coming so those remaining at the bartop bolted out of there. With nothing else to do I went to the office to inform the AGM of the situation. I told him, matter-of-factly, what happened:
“Some guy hit a customer in the head with a stool.” -Myself
“What… is he okay?” -the AGM
“I don’t know.” -Myself
“…Is he breathing… is he… dead?” -the AGM
“I don’t know.” -Myself
“Why are you so calm,” the AGM asked incredulously.
“…There’s no reason to be excited,” I think I said, “he’s either dead or not.”
In truth I’m not sure why I wasn’t more bothered. Perhaps I was just young, used to conflict, and already going through a lot of unpleasant things in my personal life.
***
We returned to the scene of the crime and the AGM searched for a pulse. Thankfully, it was there… jerkface was gonna live. On the plus side he was still unconscious, so I didn’t have to listen his rude utterances. There were also no other customers in the bar at the time so we got lucky we wouldn’t receive any 1 star reviews. Barstools to the cranium aren’t exactly good for business.
The cops came after what seemed like an eternity. After determining it was okay to move the asshat he was picked up and put in a chair. Personally, I would’ve been okay leaving him as a crumpled heap on the floor… but we live in an imperfect world.
Finally, he woke up from his unplanned loss of consciousness, with a wild look of fear in his eyes. It’s a look I relished… one I had seen from many bullies who received the physical consequences of their unpleasant actions. But fortunately from a legal standpoint for the bar, he was relatively fine. There were a few cuts, bruises, and some blood, but nothing was broken and he didn’t have a concussion. Most likely his thick skull absorbed most of the impact.
The “victim” was angry but also disoriented so he struggled to give a statement. This was fine by me as I didn’t have to listen to his nonsense. Then he was taken away and I never saw him in my bar again. So there was that at least.
Finally, I gave my statement, which was a damned inconvenience as it was approaching closing time. The cop was mild-mannered and professional, which was nice given I’ve had bad experiences with the police before. I gave my version of events in as detailed and honest way possible, without emotion or excitement.
But at the end I couldn’t help myself from delivering a Parthian shot to the bastard. “The guy was a real jerk to be honest,” I started. “He pissed off everyone and said a lot of racial slurs. I’m grateful he wasn’t hurt badly but he kind of deserved it.”
The cop, who had better things to do than deal with bar squabbles disagreed. “Well sir,” he said respectfully, “just because he was being a racist jerk, doesn’t mean he deserved to be hit in the head with a stool.”
I can’t remember my response but I’d like to think I said “well, we’ll have to disagree with that, officer.”
***
The police soon left and I had the thankless job of mopping up the blood and picking the broken stool debris off the floor. This, combined with having to write a long entry in the manager’s log book, meant I stayed an hour later at the bar that night. Finally, the AGM, servers, and cooks went home, I finished the close, and locked the doors.
That night I definitely took advantage of my two free pints per shift. I had a raspberry then a blueberry based wheat ale and took my time. Years later I don’t remember what went through my mind but I have a few ideas. Likely it included phrases like “what have I got myself into,” “I didn’t sign up for this,” and “why am I still in this industry?”
But reality intervened as I remembered I had to open the next day, the dreaded clopening industry workers fear. That and issues like rent and the fact I’d no idea what else to do for a living, that would pay to survive in the short and medium term, made me accept my lot in life. So I downed my pints, went home for a few more beers, and readied myself for another day in the business.
It would be 13 more years before I left the industry, but whenever possible I avoided being appointed to management.