My first Saturday night.
It was packed.
Lots of ID's from 88 and 89.
Lots of rock show wristbands.
A couple of jarheads bumbled through the door.
Their military ID's looked like flattened grenades.
They were skunk drunk.
I didn't want to let them in.
But I felt I should support the troops.
They were yelling at each other.
"GET ME A BEER!!"
"'EY! THEY GOT A JOOTBOX!"
The first one took a piss.
The other one ordered two fancy beers.
"WHAT IZ THIS?"
He wobbled on his barstool.
He wobbled through the crowd.
He wobbled at the jukebox.
It didn't read his fortune like he thought it would.
Meanwhile at the bar, his buddy took one sip of the fancy beer.
He examined the bottle.
He put it down.
Then he snuck past his buddy at the jukebox and took a phone call outside.
The jukebox hero scanned the room for his buddy.
His head was a broken binocular.
He started for the door with his beer.
"Hey, you can't bring that outside."
He rolled his eyes and placed it by the door.
His buddy was gone.
He opened the door from outside and crouched.
He paused to give me a piss guzzling grin.
Then he grabbed his beer and sprinted down the block after his buddy.
Leave no man behind.
Busy night.
At times we were over capacity.
But everyone played their role.
Brian and Kim served drinks.
The jukebox played music.
People danced, laughed, yelled, kissed.
Good busy.
We split the tips.
I had anticipated a decent reward for our decent night.
It ended up being what I would normally take home on a Thursday.
These hipster kids don't tip.
At first I thought it was because none of them have ever had to work an actual job before.
But maybe BrooklynVegan declared tipping as the new racism.
Verdict: Loss
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