I came in to work on an off day to assist The Boss with some repairs. The extra cash is nice and the change in duties is even nicer. The bar seems very peaceful during the daytime. The crowd is more concerned with eating and chatting than with drunken partying and loud, bad, thumping music. The music is still on, but at a lower volume, and more of a laid back, relaxed genre.
Many regulars come out to the daytime shift. You always see the same familiar faces, in the same seats, with the same drinks. I get to know them because occasionally I’m in during the day as well, not often, just now and then. They are a friendly bunch and I find myself running a gauntlet of handshakes as I make my way to the entrance of the kitchen to find The Boss.
We have some coffee, and the coffee is always fresh due to the frequent java orders. 12 noon feels early in a stripclub and everyone orders coffee, and nobody minds waiting for a fresh pot (we can brew only 1 pot at a time). After coffee it’s time to head to the Mens Washroom to repair the loose doors on the stalls. People bash these, kick these, swing on them, throw their friends and enemies into them. The Mens Washroom withstands substantial abuse on a regular basis. It is constantly being repaired. If not a broken mirror, or a hole in the wall, then it’s the doors, or maybe a clog from someone flushing something that really should have been thrown in the trash. A funny thing about this place, The Boss told me that if the wrong toilet clogs, they all clog up, and then they have to be unplugged in a certain order because they share a common pipe. He apparently figured this one out the hard way on a very busy (and messy) Friday night.
We set to work and in no time the doors are once more able to close without hindrance. The Boss notices a problem with the mirror next and we begin to fix it. At this point a customer named Phil wanders in. Phil is a very nice person, always cheerful, and he always appears happy, and shakes my hand. Phil has an interesting style. He dresses like a farmer in square patterned flannel shirts. I really can’t figure out where he buys these shirts. I’ve suspected that they may be old, purchased back when you could obtain such garments at your local mall, and that he looks after them so he may still wear them years later. Then I thought that maybe he takes drives out to some backward place where these shirts are still sold and simply buys a dozen or so to last him until the next time he’s out that way. It’s just that nobody wears those anymore; but it’s certainly a unique style.
Now Phil greets us with a “High guys!” and then relieves himself at the urinal. He then zips up and walks out – without washing his hands. I turned to The Boss and asked if he just saw what happened. The Boss stated that he failed to notice anything unusual. So I pointed out the peculiarity.
“Phil didn’t wash his hands. It’s kind of gross. I shake that guys hand all the time.”
The Boss explained that none of the customers wash their hands and that is why he tries not to shake their hands in the first place, and that he keeps a nice big bottle of Purell disinfectant gel in the back. The Boss went on saying that you can’t expect these people to wash their hands, and that these are not classy people. He told me that my expectations for the clientele that frequent this establishment are too high. I guess by using the employee washroom I never really noticed their habits.
“Man, the worse part of it is he’s eating chicken wings at the bar, with his hands.” I guess I’m a wimp when it comes to this stuff. The Boss was just shaking his head as usual, kind of having a laugh about it. “Well, even if he’d wash his hands clean, the germs would be right back on it as soon as he pushed the door open on his way out. But don’t be kicking open the door; Snake, this place gets banged up enough as it is.”
A while later I saw Phil sitting at the bar. He looked like he was getting ready to leave. He was in handshake mode. I picked up two bottles of wine so that when I walked by I would have my hands full. He would have to settle for a nod and a “how’s it going Phil, off already?” When I walk by him again I make sure I’m carrying a case of emptys to the back. Next time I passed him I was carrying some vodka coolers. “We’ll see you next time man, drive safe.” You get the picture. My hands shall remain pure!
(And you all better be happy about it because I'm the guy mixing your drinks, my paws are all over the glass, the lime wedges, the straws, and so on...)
