I’m Not Pregnant

I’m behind the bar, it’s pretty busy, I’m in the zone. The trick, when it’s busy, is you keep yr head down, you make the drink, then you come up, take the money, register, next person. Never bring yr head up, and look across the bar. You make eye contact with someone, yr screwed. I WANT, I WANT, I WANT…that sorta thing. Keep yr head down, then pop it up for the next customer, what can I get you, eyes to eyes, never stray. Again, you make eye contact with another person, they own you.

I’m in the corner of the bar, I just finish a transaction with a customer, then I go to the left, I see em out of my periphery, I go, what can I get you, sir? But it’s in slow-motion, cause the moment I say the word sir, I make eye contact. And it’s not a sir, it’s a ma’am. Oh shit. I’m screwed.

I backtrack. Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t actually see you. I meant ma’am, my bad, can I just, buy you a drink and forget I just said that word?  Dig the hole deeper, know what I mean?

She was way cool about it, which made me feel a little bit better. I did buy her a drink, and when I said it, I go, sorry about that, sir, drink’s on me. You know, try to make light of the situation.

It’s kinda like when you tell a woman, awwww, how far along are you?  And she says, how far along?  I’M NOT PREGNANT, ASSHOLE.  Uh…oops. So, I never make that mistake. Unless I see, with my own two eyes, a baby comin outta her bagina,

I keep my mouth shut.

If you can believe that.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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