REAL STORIES FROM REAL BARTENDERS >>>

I've been a bartender for a long time. I have met countless freaks, jerks, pervs, sweethearts, rockstars and crazies. Even though it's a physically and mentally exhausting job, these are the colorful people that make it all worthwhile. Well, that and the tips.

I'd like to share with you some of my personal experiences behind the bar, along with the stories from some of my fellow bartenders. Each week - under the clever heading of "Behind Bars" - I will dig into my memory bank - and the incident log books that all bars keep - to bring you some of my favorite stories.

Names of bars, bartenders and patrons have been changed or withheld to protect the innocent.

And the not so innocent.

Cheers!

This week...

Fight For Your Right

These days, when a fuck-wad of a customer is at my bar and they don't do anything to warrant kicking out, like starting a fight or harassing someone (unfortunately, you can't just kick someone out because you think they suck) I choose body language and a weak pour to say, "Screw you, buddy."

This wasn't always the case.

There was a time when I was a surly bartender in a pretty punk rock bar ... where the bitch in me was liable to let loose at the slightest act of douchebaggery on a patron's part.

In fact, I was in numerous fights, either as a mediator (by physically restraining the perpetrator), or as a contender (defending whatever righteous moment I was in).

Those days are long gone now, and I have forgotten the majority of incidents.

This last weekend, though, one of those memories walked in to the bar.

I was serving up a fair amount of Long Islands when a guy says to me, "Hey, you probably hate me, but I wanted to say hi."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"I'm Tyrone. You punched me in the face, like, ten years ago," he says with a big toothy grin.

"Oh shit!" I reply.

Now I remember - it's the shithead that slashed my friends' tires then proceeded to call me every cunty name in the book.

"I don't hold ten-year grudges," I tell him.

We then high-five as we recount the story from our own perspective, clearing the air of any misunderstanding. Apologies are accepted on both sides, and he even showed a little admiration.

"I could never forget you," he says as he takes his drink.

"The girl who punched me in the face," he shakes his head as he walks away, still grinning.

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