For the past week or so, a friend of mine that I went to college with [God, how long will it take for me to get used to the past tense when dealing with this subject?!] has been in Boston training for her job. She got hired as an employee with the Boston Beer Company, and basically is a rep for Samuel Adams.
Let the jealousy wash right over you. Mmmm. Sweet jealousy. Made with the finest hopps.
So I’ve had the chance to spend a few nights with her, as well as some of her incredibly entertaining co-workers, who are all getting trained by the company here in Boston. The wealth of stories I gathered in just the Saturday night excursion ALONE are enough to both shame all our parents as well as put to shame anything we thought was ‘crazy’ back in college.
Nope. Not easier. Still wicked hard to use the past tense.
The one thing that I swore I would write about, though, was our encounter with Bitter Ol’ Bitch at one bar in Faneuil Hall. For those of you who haven’t visited Boston, Faneuil Hall is a big area comprised of shops, bars, restaurants and other entertainment venues. Its one of the Boston highlights, so make sure you pay a visit.
Anyways, the first bar we walk has only two bartenders. A man and Bitter Ol’ Bitch. Guess who we had?
In the beginning, we kind of figured that maybe she was having a bad day. Being 45 years old and having to serve 20 somethings can’t be the most uplifting of experiences. So we gave her the benefit of the doubt when she yelled at us to MOVE AWAY FROM THE WAIT STATION! NOW AND QUICKLY!
We also gave her the benefit of the doubt when she would fill our beers up with more head than a whore can give on a BOGO night. We’re out to have fun, right? Let’s not let someone ruin it.
However, things got to be enough when she began to mouth off to us. Mind you, we are polite people. Not only that, but because my friends work for Sam Adams, they have to be on their best behavior while in one of the bars they sponsor. So when we began to get not only the cold shoulder, but the evil die in a fire stare, we got a little frustrated.
Don’t worry, though, we maintained our cool. Well. For the most part. See, when I asked the woman how much my drink was, she did this thing that I will never, ever forget. It was one of those moments where you don’t hear or see anything else but what is happening right in front of you.
As I asked how much my beer was, she leaned in real close, and with more emphasis on every syllable than was needed, she said FFFFoooour FFFFFiFFFFtyyyy.
One, single, solitary glistening bead of phlegm jumped from her lips, arched over the bar, and in a glorious swan dive not performed by even the most skilled of athletes, slammed right into my right eye.
My head reeled back as if I were punched, and whiplashed back into place. I stared her right in her eye, gave her an even MORE intense die in a fire stare, and slapped a $5 dollar bill on the table. She kind of smirked, turned the register, and cashed the bill. She made no attempt to give me back my 50 cents.
So I stood there, staring. She stood there. Staring. Finally, without loosing her gaze, she reached into the register and took out two quarters. She walked back over to the bar, dropped them in front of me, and made a quick turn as if to say HA! I win, LOSER! I AM THE BEST BARTENDER OVER 40 EVER!
Obviously, she doesn’t know me.
Excuse me, MA’AM?! MA’AM!
[lots of emphasis on the ma’am]
She turns back around and gives me a look.
Ma’am?! You forgot your TIP!
I slid both quarters towards her with a smile. As she came back over to pick up her paltry pay, I slipped my finger over one of the quarters and slowly drew it back. Leaving her with a single coin.
There you go!
I pocketed the quarter and walked away.
Try and pay for the hair dye to cover up those gray patches with that. Ass.