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Illustration by Mario Noche
When you’re a female bartender, you need three things: a sense of humor, a lot of sass and a thick skin. When you’re a female bartender on a college campus, I also recommend a can of Mace. But sometimes, when you’re not expecting it, you end up with a guardian angel.
I learned these things the hard way while bartending at a hole-in-the-wall on Ohio University’s campus. It had all of the trappings of a great dive—a crappy pool table, cheap beer and a perpetually funky smell that refused to vacate the premises despite all cleaning efforts. Its clientele was a mix of Athens townies and a slew of frat bros with their parents’ credit cards and an affinity for pounding 32-ounce Mega Mugs.
The crowds often gave me reason to wish for a little extra protection, but what surprised me most was the quantity of lame pickup attempts. There was the college guy dressed as a baby for Halloween—diaper and all—who slurred that he was hungry and would I like to be his mother? Swing and a miss, buddy.
A few months later was Dad’s Weekend at OU. As I stood in front of the bar and leaned over to ask a co-worker something, a visiting father reached out to get a handful of coed booty.
Then there was the fortysomething local who called me over and, without breaking eye contact, said, “I’d like to get you pregnant.” I pointed out his wedding ring and suggested he try that line on his wife instead.
Dealing with these guys takes a practiced hand. Sometimes you have to indulge them or risk losing the tip. Other times you have to let them know where the line is, and that they’ve crossed it, without offending them. On rare occasions, you revert to force. The dad who thought my butt was a free-for-all got backhanded.
Hey, a girl’s gotta protect her assets.
As for the tips, or the lack of them, I have plenty of horror stories, including the women who thought their good looks were adequate compensation and the guy who left a quarter on a bill for $25.
But then there was my guardian angel.
One slow Monday night, a dad came in with his daughter and son, who appeared to be in their mid 20s. We chatted for a few hours about nothing in particular while they had a few too many.
Before they left, I noticed that the son started to argue with his sister and father as he dug in his wallet to pay the $40 or so tab. From the other end of the bar, I saw him drop a wad of cash on the counter. Even from 20 feet away, I knew it was too much. A quick count confirmed it: He had left an extra $125. I chased the fool into the cold night.
There, I found his sister still arguing with him about his tip. I quickly agreed with her, telling him that if he wanted to leave, say, $20, that would be more than enough. He shooed his family away, pulled me aside and explained.
“I’m being deployed to Afghanistan in a week. I have $17,000 in my bank account and nothing to spend it on,” he said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t need that money.”
Tears threatened to spill as I admitted I’d been worrying about how to make my rent payment that month. He smiled, pushed my outstretched hand back toward me and walked away without another word.
Emma Frankart is an assistant editor for Columbus Monthly.
