It’s no secret women, especially waitresses, are often treated terribly in the bar industry. I’ve already mentioned the rampant level of sexual harassment. Most put up with it due to several reasons. The most obvious is to avoid conflict and given men tend to be larger and stronger this is unsurprising. Many waitresses also assume inappropriate comments and occasional touching is just “part of the game” and the more cynical (or clever) ones use it to maximize tips. Managers also tend to drop the ball by refusing to call out creeps, or are often the worst offenders themselves. Like politicians you could suggest the majority of corrupt male (because it’s usually men) managers make the good ones look bad.
Either way, such harassment is tolerated or conveniently overlooked and if I had a daughter I’d never let her to work in the industry. Because she would have to get a black belt in Taekwondo, pepper spray on her key chain, and a loud mouth to call out creeps before I’d even consider it. Yet while I’ve often told female colleagues to call out bad behaviour at least 80% do nothing and suffer in silence.
But there are exceptions and sometimes assholes get called out harshly, publicly, and it’s incredibly satisfying to see.
***
Fred and I were at my favourite pub and it was packed. We came in late, after 12 a.m, since I’d just finished my shift. As usual we had to sit at the worst table. It was just next to the door, squeezed between the bar and several tables, and many people bumped into whoever sat there.
I’ll admit I’m not the warmest person but I’ve always been mindful of people’s personal space so I tend to get… displeased when people violate mine (physically) and offer no apology. Because in that spot in particularly I’ve been bumped more times a Persian soldier at Thermopylae. Eventually I lost it.
One time this one guy, who was there with a cute girl, ran into me three times in a row, never said sorry, and was obviously a prick who never got called out for being one. So after his smoke break, when he bumped me a third time I called him out… ROUGHLY. Because everyone gets a mulligan, shit can even happen twice, but when someone disrespects you a third time it’s intentional. He was shocked, his date was embarrassed, and the fucker took the other way around to his table for the rest of the night.
But that night no one ran into us despite it being packed, not least as the table’s stools had been taken, so we could stand and move around freely. This was fine as 17 years of bartending made constant standing second nature, or even comfortable for me. Besides it was a long weekend, there were many hot girls there, and we ordered two drinks at a time to avoid the turn around rate between pints.
After half an hour two guys walked in. If you’ve read Mad Magazine they looked exactly like the characters from Spy vs. Spy (I’m dead serious). One was dressed in all black with a black hat, and the other guy had a white hat and clothing. They were regulars and they dressed like this ALL the time. I’m unsure if they did this purposely, but it was hilarious and ridiculous at the same time. I found them annoying as they were sometimes loud and cocky but generally they were a mere annoyance. Though to their credit they never bumped into me when I sat at the table that shouldn’t have been.
Anyway, after their usual, insufferable entrance they moved to join friends at bar. However, one of the servers, Whitney, saw them. Her demeanour soured immediately and she advanced towards them without hesitation.
Whitney was hardworking, attractive, and nice, but had no problem showing how she felt about you. I’ll admit I haven’t always been the most pleasant patron to serve and while she never called me out directly her body language and demeanour more than compensated. I didn’t tip her once (I was either drunk or obnoxious) and the next time she served us I received the most perfunctory, cold service possible. Given I was in the wrong I shrugged it off and double tipped to make up for it.
Thus, Whitney never started fights but always finished them. I respect that completely, since bartenders shouldn’t initiate conflict but must never hesitate to end it. Either way 99% of the time I had no problem with Whitney and unlike countless waitresses she actually cared about customer service.
***
So when I saw Whitney’s stare of death and blitzkrieg towards “Spy vs. Spy” I knew at least one of them had fucked up and was about to get an earful. Given how annoying they were and how much I love seeing shit customers being called out I managed a rare smile and waited eagerly for events to unfold.
Besides the main bullet points of the… incident, I don’t remember much. As usual, some of this was due to the considerable alcohol I consumed and the sheer passage of time. But some of it is because the exchange was brief, harsh, one-sided, and decisive. Because most people hate conflict, customers usually back down when the staff hits back hard, and waitresses get away with more bluntness than waiters and bartenders. That’s why in rougher places I liked working with at least one tough girl because while dickwads will do escalating pissing contests with male staff very, very few will challenge a hardened waitress.
Anyway, Whitney stopped the gentlemen before they navigated the chokepoint between our table and the bar. This gave Fred and I a front row seat to the ensuing altercation. However, as I said the exchange between her and them remains hazy. But it began something like this:
“What the hell are you doing here?,” Whitney pulled no punches.
“We’re just here for some drinks,” one of them said with a tone of fake innocence. I think it was the one dressed in white, because while they were both… trying, I remember he was more despicable.
“You sexually harassed me last time!,” Whitney continued her assault ruthlessly.
Fred and I nearly spat out our beer at this point. Because despite the loud music everyone within a 12 foot diameter heard this and turned towards the commotion. In fact, I swear the music died off just then… either because the bartender muted it to enjoy the exchange or because I’d like to think the story developed this way. But it was awkward and the silence that followed was tense, to say the least. I remember looking at Fred and saying “that did not sound good!,” in my usual understated manner.
“…D, did I?,” the fool said as he looked around the lounge to find potential allies. He was quickly disappointed. Because the bartender nodded, the regulars at the bar either snickered or refused to meet his gaze, and even his friends turned away in embarrassment. Because most people are your friends, or pleasant acquaintances, as long as you’re tolerable. But 95% will abandon you immediately when you fuck up… badly!
When the white spy guy opened his beer hole (or mouth to those who’ve never drank) again he produced the only defense he could think of. “…What did I do?,” he asked with apparent, though likely feigned ignorance. Although to be fair, there wasn’t a small likelihood he had blacked out after the incident in question and forgot.
“Last time you said sexual, inappropriate things, tried touching me, and threw 20 dollars bills at me… like a prostitute.” “Damn,” I thought, “what a prick.” Though I later wondered if she’d be so outraged had it been 50 or 100 dollar bills. Because while I’m generous enough to believe Whitney wouldn’t have tolerated this I’ve seen too many waitresses put up with anything as long as the tip ratio funded a lifestyle they wanted, but seldom deserved.
Eventually, the white spy fell back on “really, I’m sorry if I did that, I was drunk…“
***
Ah, the old I was drunk cop-out. “Of course,” I thought and instantly rolled my eyes. Because this phrase is the refuge of cowards, addicts, and people who drink too much, wreak havoc in their careers and relationships, but never take personal responsibility. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had to face cold realties and brutal consequences from decades of hard drinking. Much of my memoirs catalogues this. It’s harsh and occasionally soul-crushing to wake up, remember what you did, (or be reminded what you did), and then do everything to avoid looking in the mirror). I may never have done anything while drunk I can’t live with, but there are things I’m not proud of and would never tell my girlfriend or mother. Such things I only confided in with Bryon and like a true brother he’d shake his head, call me a dumbass, speak his mind, but never judge.
Saying you were drunk isn’t a get out of jail free card, doesn’t erase your actions, and shouldn’t help you sleep better. There have been battles lost throughout history, with 1000s of needless deaths, due to alcoholism (simply Google Russian military history). Because booze doesn’t force you to drink, say the things you do, do the things you did, or cause whatever other horrible things that happen when you get fucked up. Alcohol doesn’t make you do anything… it just helps you do things you would’ve hesitated to do when you’re sober.
In that way it’s like power, because most people are kind and easygoing until they get real power over others. There’s a reason Lincoln said “if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” And in the bar industry in particular so many managers and supervisors fail that test spectacularly.
***
Anyway, after the white spy couldn’t mount a viable defense and admitted he was drunk during the ‘incident’ he was toast. The fact the bartender and many regulars witnessed the event sealed the fool’s fate. Even the black spy, his supposed blood brother, instinctively backed away from him. As I knew the situation wouldn’t escalate and was about to end I gave the bastard one final look of contempt and turned back to Fred, to continue whatever conversation had been interrupted by this farce.
Thus, the confrontation ended with a whimper instead of a bang, as fortunately most bar squabbles do. Otherwise, murder rates and insurance premiums would close many bars indefinitely. Because the Spy Vs. Spy duo left quietly, without incident, and I honestly can’t remember seeing them there again. Maybe it’s a coincidence as I stopped going to that pub regularly. Maybe they even changed their ostentatious attire, cocky attitudes, and I never noticed them.
Or maybe Whitney’s ruthless, but justified, frontal assault had spooked them enough from showing their faces there again. Because the only thing more terrifying for assholes in a bar than a tall, strong, imposing male bartender is any waitress, however small, who shows no hesitation to call out bullshit and won’t back down.