Fifty One.

So, my pops was a bartender for fifty-one years. 
Yes. Fifty-one. 

He started out selling jukeboxes and bar-top poker machines to taverns around the area, which put him "in the know" with bartenders and owners alike. 
It wasn't a difficult transition for him since he was already well-liked and had the "full of shit" personality for the job. He was promised some better than average cash and did the math-it could lead to more money than he was making as a commissioned salesperson. So, there he was. 
He was another unicorn in so much as he was like me-a mostly non-drinker. An IRISH non-drinker. When I say we are unicorns, I mean that shit.
We are multiple generations deep Irish...as in his parents came over here from the Isle. And to couple it with a barkeep-well...if they could put a price on it, we'd be auctioned off at Christies or some shit like that as a very rare and precious find. Like a virgin at a titty bar. 

We're rare birds. 

So, because he wasn't an experienced drinker-his learning curve behind the rail was: from scratch.
But, he had spent enough time in bars-schmoozing the bosses and watching these old timey tenders mix em' and set em' up often enough, that he realized pretty quickly he had absorbed more than he assumed and it didn't take him long.
After a year-he was a certified expert. 
So much so that they asked him to be an instructor at the local school. He turned that down, obviously. It was the idea that he was such a Bonafide badass so early-he found it all very appealing. 

Not to mention that my old man was a grade-A+ skirt chaser of younger women. He was a hound of epic proportions.
So, being behind the bar left the pretty little cocktail waitresses at hands reach, and my dad...reached. A lot. 

This career was for him.
All day.
He loved it, was spectacularly good at it, and did okay for himself financially. He died-penniless, but...that was his own irresponsibility. Money was his goal, and everything he made-which was pretty sizeable for a non-degreed career choice-he spent. 
That's a story for another time, and...another blog. 

The only reason I am covering this topic today is because tomorrow is Father's Day. And, skirting around the bad spots of my dear old dad, today we celebrate him and talk about this rich history and the legacy he gave me. 

First of all, he was married five times. Five seems to be the common variable, fifty years, five marriages. All of these marriages were credited to the bar biz. 

He married the love of his life first-and had one son- but she divorced him because my mom looked dope in a cocktail waitress mini-skirt. 
Let's just say that cycle went on-and in the process, his little angel who could do no wrong was born. I mean, you can practically see my halo from space, people. 
And thus, while the old man wanted a princess, he got a warrior woman, with tattoos, a trashy mouth, a penchant for musicians, and a legacy of bar-talent. 

Me. 

I could mix a martini when I was eight years old. 
No. I'm not making that up. It's the truth. He lifted me up onto the barstool and showed me exactly how it was done. Then he watched me do it. I was a natural. 

I once got into a lot of trouble at school for re-telling a joke he told another patron in my presence for story time at in 4th grade. 

Yes, I know you need to hear this joke. Keep your panties on, I'm getting there. 

Guy walks into a bar and there's a big horse in the corner of the room with a bucket around it's neck and a sign on the wall above him that reads:
Make me laugh, win the pot. $5.00 a try. 
So naturally, the guy saunters over, puts a fiver in the bucket and leans in and whispers something into the horses ear. 
The horse begins to laugh hysterically, tears sliding down his muzzle. 
The guy grabs the bucket and buys a round for the house, finishes his whiskey, and leaves with his cash. 
The bartender is astonished. There was over a thousand bucks in that bucket, and no one in months had been able to do what that guy just had just done. 
So, thinking he had to safeguard the contest, and his profits-he changes the sign. 
About two months later, the till is full again and the same guy comes walking in. He sees the horse again, orders a drink, and starts to walk over to the horse. The bartender stops him and explains that the contest has been changed. The guy reads the sign: Make me CRY, win the pot. $5.00 a try. 
The guy just shrugs, pulls a fiver out of his wallet and puts it in the bucket and stands in front of the horse with his back to the bartender, but says nothing this time. No whisper. 
The horse loses it. Starts crying hysterically. Falls to his knees with grief.
He grabs the bucket, buys the bar a round. He heads over to the bartender to pay his bill and the bartender is pissed off. He has now lost over two grand! 
So, the bartender angrily says to the man-"You're not leaving here until you tell me how you did that, both times. I'm out a lot of money!"
The guy just smiles at him, takes a last swig of his whiskey and says-"Oh, it was easy. The first time I told him my dick was bigger than his...The second time-I showed him."

Early adult education 101. And almost got me thrown into a "special school" No kidding. From that moment on, dad prefaced every joke he told with-"don't you dare tell your mom this joke, or anyone else-until you are older." 
I obeyed, and absorbed every joke he ever told-often regurgitating them to my own regulars later in life. 

That legacy thing was solid. 

My pops was an absent father-and again-not getting into the generational cycle of trauma psychobabble, here-just saying it to set up the next little ditty. 
He didn't come to softball games, conferences, graduations etc...He was always working. And frankly, he just wasn't that kind of dad. So, the tradition was, whatever country club he was chained to at the time, on birthdays-I was required to come and have dinner there. 
That was life for me. Told you before, I grew UP in this shit. I was born for it, bred for it-between my mom who spent her life waiting tables and working her way up slippery ladders to management jobs, to my old dad, who was content to hold the bar up.

Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's service industry dysfunction. (hair toss, lip pucker, martini shaker, wink...)

So, the year I turned 20 years old, dad says...come in and have a lobster tail on me. Dutifully, and never one to pass on the word: FREE, or LOBSTER-I went. 
I go in with a friend, and we order drinks. Cocktails galore. We're half in the bag before the salad course. 
(I don't drink now, and drank very rarely back then also...But, this was a rare occasion, I'm getting to the point, hang in there) 
So my friend and I are getting stupid wrecked, and my dad is just going along with it. We have eaten half the menu and dessert, followed by a handmade brandy alexander, and a grasshopper. 
Shitty, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and snarky. 
So, as we are leaving the country club-my dad asks if I had a good twenty-first birthday. My friend and I both laugh, hysterically. My dad is not getting it at all, but assumes we are just tipsy. 
I could have left it there, and called the cab he offered to pay for. But, this is ME we are talking about. 
When he asked what was so funny, I said..."Don't know how much I'll enjoy my twenty first birthday, dad....it's next year"
My friend and I laugh more, while my dad is doing the mental math in his head. 
He was PISSED. 

I told him that's what he gets for not knowing how old his only daughter is, and walked to the road to wait for our ride. 

He forgave me for it because he knew he was a shithead for forgetting. 
But, that was kinda our relationship. 
For better, or for worse. To be completely honest, he was probably more concerned that he could have been fired for serving two under aged people more than anything else, and THAT was precisely why I did it. 

Don't cringe. That's a core memory for me with my dad. Like I said, he wasn't around enough, neither was my mom. I did things independently, often-and my big brother was really the person who raised me. Poor, Poor, guy. 
So, the point is, this was how we did things, and it's precious to me because it happened. As messed up as it was, it's my moment and a moment that I'll remember until the day I die. 
Just like the joke telling, and the way too early cocktail making lessons, and the poker lessons-which I didn't mention earlier, but they happened. 
I was cleaning out tables by the tender age of twelve. 
This was the practical education I received from my pops. 

And why I am the Bonafide badass behind the bar that I am today. (or was) I'm a high school teacher now. 

LOL. Quick, hide your children!

I'm too fat, and old, and lazy to go back at 51 years old. 

Did you hear that, old man? That's FIFTY ONE, NOT FIFTY TWO. 
I have been alive for the same number of years that my dad spent behind the bar and it needed recognition and love, and most of all, respect.
Wait for it...

Legen...

Dary....

And tomorrow would be my dad's 65th. YES-Sixty-Fifth, Fathers Day. 

Whether he's still on this plane of existence or not-he deserves a tip of the hat, a metaphorical kiss on the cheek, and hug around the neck tomorrow-for doing the best that he could by me, giving me practical lessons in survival, teaching me a skill that I could never have learned in school, telling me jokes for days, and how to win money, make friends, and influence people. 
I owe all of my charisma to my dad. And all of my mad skillz. 

Thanks pops. Happy Father's Day you old curmudgeon. I love you a bushel and a peck. 

The one thing he did attend, my college graduation as a single mom. Which I did-on my own, while working full time. This was the thing my dad gave me. Tenacity, independence, and work ethic.

To all of the fathers out there and any parent pulling double duty, it's your day. Have a drink on me. 

Much love and dysfunction, 

T