I’m setting up for the early show with a fellow bartender. She’s counting the register, I’m stocking things in the back. There’s probably 14 musician guys in black t-shirts, loading in equipment, setting up their gear.
I walk by the women’s room. Holy cow! Someone died in there. I’ve smelled that kind of aftermath many times in the twelve years I’ve been bartending. Can you imagine the kind of diets these musicians have on the road? Fast-food, junk, unhealthy food. It’s not all their fault. It’s a cross between having no money, and no place to sit down for a home cooked meal. So when they go into the women’s room, and take care of things, it turns out very unpleasant for the bartender having to breathe when stocking in there.
I get back behind the bar, say to my fellow bartender,
Have you gone into the women’s room lately? It smells like road kill in there that’s been baking in the sun for a week. She says, hey. Why do you think I need to know that information? I say, you need to share that information with your fellow bartender. It’s like war stories.
Half-hour later, my fellow bartender says, I think I’m going to go in the women’s bathroom, check out the small waste baskets in the stalls, see if they’re full. I say, great. Would appreciate it.
She goes, I stock straws.
She comes back five minutes later, says, there is the biggest streak I have ever seen in one of the toiles.
I say, SEE!!!! You have the need to divulge!!!