I’m behind the bar, guy comes up, says, is so-and-so working tonight? I can tell this guy’s had a few drinks. Already, he’s slurring his words. I say, no. He’s not working tonight. Oh, man, he says. I wanted to have a drink with him. Why isn’t he working tonight? Well…he works some days, and then he doesn’t work other days. This is one of those days he doesn’t work. He says, oh, man. Can you make me a drink? I assess the situation. No, I say. You probably shouldn’t have one. He gets up from the bar, does an about-face, and walks toward the stage.
Five minutes later, the guy that’s headlining, comes up to me and says, there’s a really drunk guy by the stage, yelling and harassing the musicians playing. Can you do anything about that? The door girl comes up and says, I’ll take care of it. Great, I think. That means I don’t have to.
Drunk guy comes to the end of the bar, starts yelling, HEY HEY HEY. To me, of course. I approach. Yeah? I say. He says, what’s your name? I say, Clint. Curtis. He jumps back and says, wow, you’re really proud of that. All right, I say. Time for you to leave. He says, I need a pen. What’s with this guy? I get him a pen. He says, I want a piece of paper. Why? I say. I want to know who’s kicking me out, he says. No, I’m not giving you a piece of paper. Just remember my name. He rummages through his wallet for a slip of paper. Ok, he says. What’s your name? I say, I already told you my name. Jesus. My name is Clint Curtis. How do you spell it? He says. I look around, exasperated. Yes, there’s a rapt audience. C-L-I-N-T C-U-R-T-I-S. He writes the name down. Then he says, ok. What’s the time? Like he needs to know the time when he’s filling out his report. The time? You want to know the time? I’m not giving you the time. Look on your cell phone, or your watch. Then he says, my father does advertising for all of this. I’m going to tell him, and you’re going to be in trouble. Mind you, this guy that’s standing before me, looks like he’s 45. No joke. Oh daddy, daddy. This guy kicked me out of the bar! Don’t sell advertising to him ever again. I give a simple finale of, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BAR. And leave it at that.
Later on, I’m talking to the musicians that were playing while he was spazzing out, and they did say he had really good rhythm when he was clapping along to the music.
So…I’ll give him that.
From my heart to yours,
Clint Curtis. Bartender.