Thanks, Ass Neck

I drink. A lot. Because I can.

So it’s not that unusual for me to hit a bar, tavern, pub, club, what have you, for a drink or 5. And I have had my fair share of interesting, invigorating and insipid experiences. You get to meet a lot of “unique” and “diverse” people when sitting alone at a bar.

But for some reason, last night’s encounter is really starting to piss me off. I just can’t seem to shake it, and that is what really pisses me off.

So I decide to head in to some fancy “lounge” downtown near my office for a cocktail (double Citron, on the rocks, with a lime) after work. You know the type of place I’m talking about: it’s got the minimalist name (which also happens to be their mailing address) and is dimly lit with warm, dark earth-toned interior where the hipsters and young nouveau-riche try so hard to act all grown up, but can barely hide the fact that they faked their way through college and are deathly afraid their facade will be dispelled with the slightest misstep.

Now I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I am by no means a “regular”. Or even a “familiar”. So I really don’t expect any kind of special treatment or anything. But a little fucking respect is certainly not beyond reason.

So I wonder in to this joint around 10:30 PM and see that it’s doing a brisk business, most of the table are taken, and the bar is pretty full, except for the far end. So I make my way down to the end of the bar and because I’m not really looking AT the bar as I pull the chair out and begin to shed my jacket, I don’t really notice the three table settings with ice waters set out on the bar. Instead, I’m eyeballing one of the bevy of beauties seated at the table behind where I’m about to sit. After I’ve got a good take on the dear lovely, I turn my attention to the two hep-cat dudes holding court behind the bar. With a warm greeting, I flash them a smile. I always like to set a good tone with an unfamiliar barman, it helps to insure the quality of service I have come to expect from a real professional. And this is the kind of place I expect to have a professional mixologist on staff.

So as my ass is about to settle comfortably on to the bar stool, Ass Neck (honestly, I did not know him to be an ass neck at the time, that would come later), says that he’s doing well, thank you. “But those seats are reserved.”

Ah, the plates, eating utensils, napkins and tall glasses full of water, with ice cubes half-melted. Yes, these seats are indeed “reserved”.

“Oh, so sorry about that. I didn’t notice. I will just sit over here then.” I cheerfully reply. No harm, no foul.

So I move three seats to the left and take my spot next to a young attractive couple. At least I think they’re a couple. But from the few snatches of conversation I overhear, it sounds as if they may have recently met. She seems to be the more confident, aggressor-type in this particular social dynamic. Which is totally cool by me. I pay little attention to them, as I’m thinking about my beverage, which I have been longing for. So I order.

“A Citron on the rocks, with a lime, please.”

The barman turns to begin making my drink and after about 5 seconds he asks:

“Are you sure you don’t want a lemon instead?”

I’m sorry, but take a look at me, punk. Do I look like I don’t know what I want to drink? Is there something in my professional dress, styled hair and calm, confident demeanor that would suggest I don’t know how to order a fucking drink? I didn’t think so. Fix my drink bitch.

“Yes, I’m sure, thank you,” I pleasantly respond. Got to be nice to the guy with the booze.

So without further ado, he brings me a short glass of nectar, which I raise to my mouth, only to have my nose come abruptly in contact with a large cube of ice. Ass Neck (he’s starting to earn his title) has filled the glass so full with large ice cubes, that it’s nearly impossible to get any liquid onto my parched tongue without have the ice shower down my pressed shirt.

OK, no problem, so they’re tightwad with the pours at this place. It’s to be expected, I guess. We are in L.Q.A., and some of the places in this neigborhood take themselves a little too seriously. Like this place, for instance.

So I swirl the glass around and let thermodynamics do their thing. It’s not long before I have that sharp, yet tasteless fluid slide down my throat and feel the cooling numbness that is good vodka creep over my skull. All is now right with the world.

It’s not long before the couple seated next to me cash out and journey off in to the night, to what I am quite confident with be an episode of sexual intercourse. For some reason, I am left with the impression that she is likely a pro, and the deal has been sealed. Now they’re off to complete the transaction and exchange of bodily fluids. Don’t ask me why I know this, but I do. I like to think that I’m somewhat empathic and will occasionally pick up impressions off of people I encounter. I also suspect that whatever the nature of their relationship is, tonight’s sexual congress will leave one of them disappointed. And I don’t think it’s going to be him.

“Sorry, babe,” I think to myself. “You were kinda sexy, and I hate to see you waste another night of lust with an unfulfilling partner.”

So I let my mind wander, as it usually does when I’m alone at a bar. I think about work, I think about women (there a few cuties here tonight), I think about school, I think about work again, then school again, then the ladies. It’s all pretty much cyclical at this stage of the evening. And usually, I am fortunate enough to experience an insight or inspiration on some case or client issue I’ve got going on. This sort of free-wheeling problems solving is often beneficial and soothing for me.

So enough time has passed that I’ve finished the few ounces of liquid in my glass and am pondering as to whether or not I’m going to order another, when Ass Neck’s visage comes into view and, looking me straight in the eye (unheard of here in Passive/Aggressive Land), says very pointedly:

“Here, this is for you,” as he slides my tab across the wooden bar.

I am jolted out of my reverie by his tone and almost let speechless. While I recover my footing, I pull out my card and slide it back to him. I fumble for a moment as he turns away from me to run my card though the machine and ask,

“Were you trying to say something, there?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, turning partially around to face me again.

“Was that some sort of message you were giving me?” I inquire again, still maintaining a pleasant tone.

“Yes, a subliminal one,” he says, crossing back to me with the signature slip, which he places on the counter before me and then walks breezily away.

At this point, I am truly taken aback. I have done nothing wrong, I have spoken to nobody, and I haven’t spilled, dropped or broken anything. Now I use to be a professional barman myself, and I know the “warning signs” one must be on the lookout for, lest a problem from an unruly or intoxicated patron arise. And I am without sin this evening.

So, as Mr. Neck is walking past my location, I ask, with all humility,

“If I may inquire, what in particular seems to be the problem?”

He stops abruptly, and turns his goateed face to me, leans in and says:

“Well, it’s when you closed your eyes and about nodded off at the bar. That’s when I decided it was time for you to go,” with just enough insolence and condescension that my hackles start to raise. He holds his position, barely intruding into my personal space comfort zone for a moment and then walks off to finish what he was doing.

“Ah, I see.”

I look down at my bill, tip him 50% (it was only one drink, for fuck’s sake), calmly rise from my seat, lift my coat off the back of the stool and while shrugging into it, I can feel the eyes of the two pricks behind the bar watching me closer than a Marine on the “Wire” at Guantanamo Bay. I make my exit into the cold, windy evening without further incident in search of friendlier grounds.

Now I realize that he was just doing his job, and I won’t take Ass Neck to task for that. But what the fuck?!?! I realize he is no mind reader and could not possibly know that I just got off from a 13 hour day, the third this week. And that when I “closed” my eyes, I was in deep thought about the latest round discussions in a case I’ve been negotiating on for four months. Or perhaps I was pondering my strategy for getting my ass back in to school, which has been an 18 month undertaking so far, or maybe I was remembering a particularly flexible and enthusiastic young woman I knew from a few years back.

Whatever the case, Ass Neck and his employer can count on my never darkening the door of their shitty little lounge again. You see, I vote with my feet and my wallet. And if you think you can pass judgement on me based on an unfounded assumption, you might as well piss in your own Wheaties.

Unfortunately, this little transgression has lingered in my mind, twisting and turning and mutating into a thing so black and evil, Darth Vader would be proud. So I guess now it’s time to go take a big dump on a few of my adversaries. Sorry guys, I know it’s Friday and all, but you see, I got kicked out of a bar by Ass Neck.