Dirty Laundry Friday

The best thing about having been a bartender is:

The stories. 

Bartenders see things that would make most people's toes curl, some people laugh-hysterically, or...wonder about their life choices-and consider them-from that point on, possibly unstable. 

The sheer insanity of being a tender can be daunting in so many ways, but also-comical, tragic, and downright ludicrous. 

You probably want to hear a story, right? 

Well, okay...if I must. 

This will actually be a series post-so gird your loins, the jackfuck lunacy is coming your way. 

Friday will now and forever be "Dirty Laundry Friday"-where we will be airing out our unmentionables from the past. 
Where we hang our polka-dot fables out on the line for all to see and read. 

No cap. (don't make fun of me, I'm trying to seem-relevant) 

These are all 100% true tales of comedy, tragedy, shock and awe. 

Good times. 

Storytime #1 

Sully's-Peoria, IL. Circa-1990

To be clear, I was not a bartender at this job. 
1. I wasn't old enough to be a bartender yet. 
2. Sully's-being the misogynistic, good ol' boy, Irish pub where typically (now always-but, often) do not employ females to work behind the bar. Buncha' bullshit, but it was what it was. 
Side note: I did barback there when they needed me. But, rarely was I allowed to stay behind the bar for any length of time. 

I was a cocktail waitress. Or, as my ex-dumbass boyfriend used to call us-"waittail cocktress" 
I told you he was a dumbass-don't roll your eyes at me. 

So, while I was not behind the bar, we, as cocktail waitresses, had to deal with a great deal of the same clusterfucks and mishaps as the boys did. Trust me. 

Sully's-in it's heyday-through the years of 1989-1999-ish was literally the place to be in my city. Being a college town, it was asses and elbows filled to the brim with college-aged (some legal, some definitely not) assholes, and dingbats galore on any given Saturday night. To give you a good idea, the capacity of the place was a roundabout 200-max. On Saturday night, more than once-the fire marshall was ushering out a crowd of people for safety.
For frame of reference-The beer tubs at the front door alone would bring upwards of twenty five hundred dollars on a Saturday.  

When I say asses and elbows, I mean...sometimes 400-500 plus packed in like sardines. It was a riot-like cacophony of drunken, slurring, moronic, Greek-type idiots, dancing around on a puke-slippery floor. 
More than once, I cleaned up a pitcher filled with the contents of some nasty assholes dinner leavings that had been carefully placed on the floor in a far away corner. 
The place should have been called "The Liquid Scream", 
 "The Technicolor yawn", or "Eating Backwards Pub and Grub" Sadly those suggestions were always dismissed at staff meetings-no matter how much I pleaded.  

 

The place was preppy nightmare tornado. 
And we...we're right in the middle of it. 
There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...

Another side note-because I feel like it is useful information to the setting, and the overall feel of this place. I had a killer side hustle going while working there. No...it was not drug dealing or prostitution, you jerks. 
I was the purveyor of fake ID's. To anyone under age that needed, I had one. Why did I have them? I didn't make them...I'm not that smart.
So, I would always close on Saturday nights-too much money to turn away, and the after panic, sweep up always, and I mean, ALWAYS rendered at least 2-3 dropped ID's on the floor or in the bathroom. I had over 300 of them at one point, of every gender, race, skin color, build and age...etc. I sold them for twenty bucks a piece. 
Yeah, illegal. It was over 25 years ago-so, I'm safe.
And no...I didn't have a conscience about it. I was young, on my own, and struggling. I did what I had to do. 

So, knowing background now-we can dive head-first into the story, which is a doozy. 

Once upon a time, on a mid-autumn Saturday night there was a group of princesses and princes. 
Well, they thought they were princesses and princes, and treated waitstaff and tenders as such. Because Bradley is a private university-it draws the elite from the North. Every snotty suburb seems to send their bratty, privileged children to this college and my town seems to accept it.
Revenue, shrevenue. 
Anywho, on this particular night the Alpha Beta's and the Pi Delta Pi's (obvious gen X reference, again...ask your mom) were hard at work in the green room of the pub, enjoying many fine spirits (five dollar pitchers of Natty Light) when the Pi's ushered in a fresh-faced newly 21 year old Pi to the party. This Pi-we'll call her Buffy-because I'm a catty bitch and I like labeling Greek girls, was excited to be joining her little soiree. 
Now, Sully's had a legendary list of shots-printed on a menu. There were over 100 shots of every flavor and variety. There was even a special category of shots meant to give to a "friend" to make them hork all over the floor.
And they did, as aforementioned. 
Apparently, the "tradition" of these two Mensa-filled Greek houses was that the birthday victim, erm...I mean, person was given 21 shots from the list to consume to commemorate the occasion, of being a newly full-fledged responsible adult!
YAY! 

So, her "sisters" feed her 21 shots from the list and the night goes on. Around 1am, I notice that her "sisters" are still clinging to these frat boys like cheap velour and the birthday girl is no longer around. I didn't think much of it, figuring that she went off to have regret sex in the parking lot or something. 

About 15 minutes after this realization, another customer comes up to me and says that I should check the bathroom, it's out of TP and smells really bad in there.
Now, this isn't normally a part of my actual job, but the backs were all busy and there was no manager floating around. So, I grab three rolls of paper for the stalls and head in. As soon as I do I am HIT in the face like a brick wall of dead carcass ass in a rotten garbage dumpster smell coming from the back stall. I plug my nose and bend over and there's birthday girl, passed out...face down, curled around the toilet covered in her own puke, and feces. And when I say covered-let's just say she could put a waffle house plate of hash browns to shame, ya'll. 

It. Was. Disgusting. 

So, I open the door, gag...multiple times, trying with great difficulty not to blow chunks, myself. And lightly tap her with my foot, while saying: "Buffy, oh Buffy...you need to wake up princess, your prince is here. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. Wake up, hello." 

Nothing. She's out. Cold as yesterday's lunchmeat. Which she kind of looked like in that moment. 
Seeing this, more importantly, smelling this-I suddenly get VERY pissed. Her "sisters" had just fed her all of these shots and abandoned her for these asshats in pink and green plaid shorts, emblem-clad sweatshirts, and boat shoes. 

Nailed it. 

So, I march my bold, and angry ass over to these garbage humans and demand that they collect their "friend" NOW. 
They laughed about it and made fun of the "lightweight" but, went to the bathroom, immediately. 
As soon as they walked in, they ran out again, just as fast-the smell hitting them as it had done-me. 
They insisted it wasn't their problem, and no way they were touching her! 
My manager got involved and threatened to call the cops if they didn't.

So, they grabbed her up, a few of the girls literally crying from the smell and her weight, and drug her outside. 

You think that's the end, don't you? 

Bwhahahahaha. You wish it was. 

Hell, I wish it was. 

We assumed that we were rid of the entire flock of preppy pigeons, and their smelly birthday victim. We assumed wrong, making asses out of you, and of me in the process. 
Boo to that. 
These sorority "sisters" actually called a cab company, and paid the driver four hundred dollars to take her back to the house and carry her to their door. He was instructed to just lay her down on the front stoop and ring the bell. 
The cabbie actually did this...pretty low for a big tip if you ask me-but hey, he didn't know the girl. 

The dregs of humanity were the friends, who spent another 20 minutes after they handed her off to the cabbie in the men's bathroom which was surprisingly puke-free this night, cleaning themselves up and spraying perfume on themselves while their friend, who could have died, and likely had alcohol poisoning was laying on a concrete slab under two pillars on a nearby college row street. 

Bro...WTF?!

But, no worries...as all good stories do, this one has a happy ending. Their friend Buffy was fine after a three day hangover. Thankfully. She actually came to work with me a month proceeding this debacle. She quit the sorority altogether after being told that her friends had just left her in the care of a complete stranger, and dumped unceremoniously on a porch. I am being honest when I say, she wasn't too bad of a person. But, we never became what I'd call friends. I was just glad she left that garbage behind her, and survived. 
Her friends were kicked out of Sully's that eve as unceremoniously as she was dumped onto that porch. They were also given 5 mops, and a roll of towels and disinfectant to clean the mess that was made. They did so, only under duress and threat of being barred for life from Bradley's favorite watering hole. And that was a sentence worse than death to a sorority girl. They did the job, a few vomiting while doing the job. But, at least they kept it in the toilet. 
Experts at this, I'm sure-considering the five of them combined weighed less than two hundred pounds. 
They grumbled and two of them glared at me while being escorted out but didn't say much. I was angry enough about it and I think they knew they would definitely catch these hands if they said even a word. 

The girls were allowed to come back-sadly. But, I never saw them do anything that heinous again, thankfully. 

The backs had to clean what they didn't-so from that time on, everyone kept a close eye on the bathrooms on really busy nights . 

Tis a tale to be told of lads and lasses and the pukey, disgusting, trainwrecks that they are. 

I'll have a few more stories from Sully's. But, you should know that they closed the place in 2008, or so. Ownership changed hands and the new idiot failed to pay his taxes. 

The Bradley landmark was no more. 

Good for the cops-bad news for the revenue stream. Our downtown area has since become a ghost town, so...it was just a precursor to the tide rolling in, we suppose. 

Horror stories like this are why the bar industry is vehemently not for everyone. 
So, if you are brand new, and thinking of this as a possible thing...you know, it's good to have an understanding of what is ahead.

Glad I could help. 

First Friday Dirty laundry in now off the line and smelling nothing like Buffy's leavings. 

But so fresh and so clean. 

Stay tuned for next Friday when we talk all about the banquet bar wedding blues. 

Until then, give your dad a beer-and let him enjoy it in peace. Happy Father's Day to all of you lawn-mower jockeying, meat grilling, socks and sandals wearing spreader of seeds. 

AC/DC said it best. 

Have a drink on me. 

XOXO, 

T