Thank You, Bartending

I’d just pricked my poached eggs when my iPhone 3 began to dance. It was late morning on a Friday in February—Valentine’s Day. I picked up the call, and immediately regretted it. “Hey, Adam, we were wondering… do you have plans tonight?”

It was Gena, one of the managers at Benny the Bum’s, the bar I worked at down by the stadiums in South Philly. I never worked Fridays, but they were short-staffed. A special Valentine’s Day dance party had been planned with Bob Pantano, the Steve Aoki of South Philly’s disco-era divorcées. Gena pleaded: It would be really busy. Could I please come in?

Despite the name, there was nothing bum-like about Benny’s. Shortly before I started working there, new owners had renovated the place with a massive central bar, plasmas, a lobster tank and miles of glittery glass mosaic tiles. Ironically, the swank bar lived in the ground floor of a crummy Holiday Inn frequented by airline personnel, adulterers (occasionally one and the same) and tortured visiting-team sports fans. When I was in high school, the Holiday Inn was one of the only hotels that would rent you a room with a really shitty fake ID. Before I got the job at Benny’s, the last time I’d stepped foot in the building was the night of my junior prom.

My shifts at Benny’s underwrote my early freelance writing career. I’d bank just shy of a grand in three days, cash, and have such a good time doing it that it hardly felt like work. The bar team was like family. We’d spend an eight-hour shift together and then hang out for three more hours after closing. The bar manger, Greg, and I would tap the keg of whatever new beer had come in from Dogfish Head or Tr?egs. Gianna would impersonate customers. Cindy would drink dirty Martinis and drag on Carlton cigarettes like Cruella De Vil. I’d roll home at 4:30 a.m., watch an episode of the Wire with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, pass out and do it all over again.

Click here to continue reading...