Wanna tell ya’ a story…about the barman blues. I’m workin’ one Friday…and a song come on the radio.
It was the George Thorogood version of the late John Lee Hooker classic “One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Beer.” And in case you’re wondering, the clock on the wall said three o’clock.
We are all familiar with that timeless drinking tune since our first high school keg party and probably know the lyrics better than we know our college’s school song. But for some reason I paid a little bit more attention this time. Because I was in bartender mode and listening from behind the bar, I came to the realization that although I consider the song to be a brilliant blues masterpiece and quintessential post-adolescent anthem; Mr. Thorogood wouldn’t last 10 minutes in that bar if I was working.
First off, I’m a fairly intuitive bartender and I can usually pick out the derelicts as soon as they darken the doorstep (chalk that up to the old “takes one to know one” adage). I’d probably seen him that day, he was standin’ on the corner leanin’ up against a post. I don’t care if he’s tired, he’s been walkin’ all day – I ain’t gonna let him slide.
Now say he slipped past the initial detection system or it was busy and I didn’t see him come in. If some guy sits down and asks for one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer I’m instantly preparing myself for the worst and envisioning the best scenario for getting him out of there fast. That’s the order of a man who’s about to get pretty banged up, and I’ll think he’s kinda funny. I know everybody’s funny, but now he’s funny too.
Another pet peeve of mine is people who order beer as “beer.” For bourbon I usually go for a bottle of Jim Beam unless otherwise instructed, and the scotch order will send me after the Dewar’s. But when I’m standing next to 17 tap handles and there are 40 different bottles and some guy asks for a “beer” it really pisses me off. Now I have to go through the song and dance of, “What kind of beer do you want? Import or domestic? Light or dark? Bottle or draught?” How about you just tell me what you want instead of making me pry it out of you?
Every now and then I’ll get the pain-in-the-ass who just insists on sticking with “beer” as an order. I’d be willing to bet these ambivalent orders account for a large percentage of the Bud draught volume in the United States.
Getting back to Mr. Thorogood, if any patron ever greeted me with the salutation “Look man, come down here,” the last thing I’d be saying is “So what you want?” I’ll take, “Hey buddy,” “Hey chief,” or even the occasional “Yo, yo, yo!!!” But “Look man, come down here,” would elicit nothing but a stern glare, a polite suggestion that the gentleman go engage in autoerotic relations with himself and a not-so-polite escort to the door. If you treat me with respect I can be so nice – Lord, I can be lovey-dovey. But if he’s that surly and belligerent before I’ve even given him anything, I can’t imagine what he’s gonna be like after one bourbon, one scotch and one beer. And if he feels I’ve been ignoring him, maybe I have my reasons. After all, he’s kinda funny. I know everybody funny, but now he’s funny too.
All this aside, say there was a total eclipse that night and the moon and stars were aligned and I was in an exceptionally patient, good mood behind the bar. The fact of the matter is: THIS GUY HAS NO MONEY!!! He came home one Friday and had to tell the landlady he lost his job. So out the door he went – she a-howlin’ about the front rent she be lucky to get any back rent. She ain’t gonna get none of it. But here he is with no money out drinking. If he can’t pay for the drinks, I ain’t gonna let him slide because I know I won’t see my money next Friday. And even if he can cover the drinks I’m probably not going to see much of a tip – and let me tell you, Georgie-boy, that DO confront me!!!
I didn’t leave the bartender one red cent, and out the door I went… But I’ll be honest, if George Thorogood actually walked into my bar I’d be more than hospitable. In fact, it would be my pleasure. I’ve had a few drinks with Lonesome George a number of times, though he was never physically in the same room. If he ordered one bourbon, one scotch and one beer I’d give it to him because I’m sure he’s good for it. And I’m sure he’s not all that “Bad to the Bone” and would likely behave himself.
So if you’re out there, George, and you’re reading this, feel free to stop on by. I’m not about to “Get a Haircut and Get a Real Job” anytime soon, so I’ll be looking for you from behind the bar.
Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/bitter bartender, writes a biweekly humor column for The Hudson Current and websites in the New York Metro area. He spends a lot of his time either in front of or behind the bar in Hoboken, N.J., where his tolerance for liquor grows stronger as his tolerance for society is eroded on a daily basis. Feel free to drop him a line at c_halleron@yahoo.com.