Anyone who has been in the business of receiving and dispensing small sums of money can attest to this; if you work in hospitality/direct point of sales positions long enough, you begin to get pissed off at fifties. I am at the stage now where I merely see a glimmer of that bastard yellow plastic and I subtly begin reaching for the role of coins with which I intend to bludgeon the customer unconscious.
It would not be a problem, not a problem at all, if it was only one customer who dropped the fitty, or god forbid the hundy when purchasing something worth 'a buck fit'.
Customer comes to the bar:
“I’d like an OJ please.”
Nondescript, unbiased bartender happily supplies and replies:
“Sure, that’s a dollar thanks.”
Customer hands over fifty, feigning a coy regret:
“Sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller.”
Nondescript, now somewhat biased bartender states:
“That’s ok.. Not a problem at all.. but see that guy there... He’s thirsty, but unless he’s feeling generous and wants to pay $20 for his cup of OJ, I’m now unable to give him change you hideous chode, you knew you were coming here! I see you and your fifties every week! Did you just ASSUME we were a bank? I'm surprised it's in AU$ considering you obviously heir to the throne of Dumbfucklund! Take your drink before you need it to salve your wounds."
A trend is forming, the customers are adapting. Bastardry, it seems, evolves at an alarming rate. Patrons at my workplace are learning that once the drink is opened or poured, there’s little the bartender can do but waste the drink unless we sell it to them. This puts bartenders in the uncomfortable yet expected position of putting up with a certain level of shit to ensure payment is made and reduce stock wastage.
This includes but is not limited to:
+
Waiting until all the fucking 5 cents are counted and re-counting them,
+
Accepting barter such as watches, jewelry, livestock & ex-wives
and
+
Conjuring EFT machines from thin-fucking-air without proper reagents or consideration to the level of wizardry of the bartender.
Some bar clientele have become magicians, masters of the sleight of hand, when it comes time to pay. Folding the fifty up really tight, hiding it in their hand, crinkling the shit out of it. Some customers palm it to me like a bribe, others saying
“what’s that behind your ear?” Others leave it in their wallet/purse until the very last moment then fuckin-
tadaah!
I await the day, and it will eventually arrive, when payment is requested from a customer and I will be handed green origami. While knowing full well, the forced question will be;
“What the shit is this?” the words already vividly haunting my dreams;
“It’s a swan.” Then it begins, the familiar feelings of the deep, slow draw of cold air, my chest expanding to accommodate. The ambient commotion little by little fading out, sights haze to a dark blur. All the usual hallmarks experienced momentarily before the screams.
Look seriously, be nice to your bartender. If it’s a busy night and you’re waiting to be served, have your twennies or less ready. Count your change and know how much you have prior to service. Take any coins below fifty cents and PUT them UP your arse. If the bartendress has a nice ass and/or a great
‘rack’, please don’t tell her, she knows, silently smile, thanking her for the view and move on. If you’re single woman with a current proof of legal age and the bartender catches your eye, don’t write your number on the money, because he will have to take it, and that’s
stealing. You will like him more when you’re both basking in the afterglow as
employed friends with benefits.
Holy Bartender
