by Erin Gibson
Hola! Bonjour! Hello! Welcome back to my Sexy Slave letter collection! If this is your first time reading, it's no sweat - we're only on letter no. 2. I'm not gonna catch you up on what's going on here, because Letter No.1 explains it all, and I hate repeating myself (...sometimes). So, as promised, I give you Letter No. 2: “Go Fuck Yourself.”
Dear "Help, I'm a six-year-old trapped in an adult's body" person…
Hi! Or rather, hi-yeeeeeeee! (That's how I greet my six-year-old niece, so I figure it's appropriate for you too.) Yes, I see you. How could I not? You've clearly never been in a bar before, let alone interacted with a member in the customer service industry. How can I tell? Simply by the awful or annoying way you order your drink. Let's review all the ways you, or people like you, order in a way which might suggest your true age.
When you stand on the stool or foot bar in order to appear freakishly taller than you are, just to draw attention to yourself, and wave down a bartender.
Not only would someone have taken your order anyway (it's our job to help EVERYONE at the bar, short or tall), but there are other people who have been standing there, waiting for much longer than you have. And they're waiting like patient adults. The only thing you're drawing attention to is your potential intoxication. When someone makes big body movements or has no general sense of the space around them, let alone their effect on others, you have to assume they're probably drunk. Remember that.
And that means you're not getting an alcoholic beverage. So please sit the fuck down. And no—letting your tits rest on the bar to expose more cleavage will not magically draw me over to you. I see boobs all the time. They are actually less nice when you use them for evil. So sit your tits the fuck down. Please and thank you.
When you wave your goddamned money at us.
Just because we make eye contact with you, doesn't mean we're actually ready to take your order. We're typically looking around to see which faces have been there the longest, so we can help them next. Believe it or not, your pain is not our pleasure. We know it sucks balls to wait forever.
Also, waving money at someone may work at the strip club, but at the bar, it's straight disrespectful. Did you see it on an old 80s flick (I blame you, Cocktail) and think that it's how things work out in the real world?
Guess what, idiot? Everyone has fucking money to spend. That's expected if you approach the bar. You give money in exchange for drinks. It's called a transaction. But I guess if you're a child, you're not as familiar with such things.
This also applies to the person who, while I'm in the middle of making a cocktail, expresses to me that they'll give me a good tip if I take their order next.
Jesus. Where to begin… In this country, it's customary to tip with every drink you order. That's how bartenders and servers make money. Mostly everyone fucking knows that. Except for you, I guess. Not everyone does it all the time for one reason or another, and that's understandable. Some people really actually can't afford to. No worries, we've all been there.
But to try and dangle it in my face as if you're doing me a favor—helping me pay off my mortgage or put my kids through fuckin' college—is slap worthy. On top of that, it's likely you'll just tip me what the standard amount is anyway. That happens like every time. So take your goddamned $2 tip, your impatient ass, and your smug fuckin sense of entitlement and piss off. It's gonna take you just as long to get that drink with twice my attitude.
When you learn my name and use it like it's a fuckin' safe word during some freaky BDSM session.
I am a friendly person. I will be mostly nice unless you give me a good reason not to be. So when you ask my name and I share it, I'm being friendly. That said, I am not interested in teaching a baby it's first word, having that word be my name, and then listening to that same dumb baby yell it every 15 fuckin minutes. And, upon getting my attention, asking me how I'm doing (again), or telling me a dumb joke, or trying to get my opinion on some dumb matter you're discussing with the stranger you think you just made friends with. Definitely not when I'm hella busy.
I'm not your new thing to be summoned for entertainment or a sense of comfort because you ventured out to the bar by yourself tonight.
Yes, use my name if you're ready to order and you see I'm potentially free to help. Use it after you say thank you, or when you say hi. Building rapport with my customers is one of my favorite things.
Don't abuse it.
It's good to practice using new words, but do me a favor and practice silently. I know when you play “house” or “restaurant owner” at home with your friends, it's just that: play. But here at real work, I really don't want to play with you.
When you interrupt me while I'm mid-sentence, helping another customer.
This one is almost as embarrassing for me to address as it is for me to experience at work. And I mean embarrassing for you.
I'll tell you the way my mommy would tell me. I'm gonna be nice about it, but I want you to really listen. Ok? Ok.
When two adults are talking, you have to wait for them to finish. You can't just jump in because you suddenly have a thought run through your brain and you want to share it. Especially when that thought involves me getting you something.
What do we do? We wait for the two people to stop talking and then politely say, “Excuse me.”
I guarantee the shit you have to say to me isn't more important than the shit the person I'm currently helping has to say, and it can fucking wait. It's not your fuckin’ birthday at Planet Fun. You're not the king or queen of BarLand; you don't get to just have people listen to you whenever you feel like it.
It's hard, but sometimes we all have to shut the fuck up. This is one of those times. So practice shutting the fuck up. If not for me, for yourself. Because if you forget again, I'm gonna wanna slap you. Again.
When I've already gestured to you that I'll be right with you, and you say “Can I get some service over here?". But when I come over, after trying to ignore that snide, bitch-ass comment, you don't know what the hell you want.
So you remember The Boy Who Cried Wolf, right? Well, this is sort of the same thing. It's like telling an adult you need something from them, and when they finally do listen you don't have anything to tell them at all. It's almost like you weren't getting the attention you want, so you pretend you really need them, but when you finally get that attention you don't know what to do with it. See how that's not very fair? Especially when that person is really trying to listen to you and believe you when you say you need them. And especially when that person is sweating her tits off running around a busy bar and trying to remember the previous seven drink orders.
It makes that person not want to believe you again, and it makes them want to—yes, I’ll say it again—slap you. It's like a baby crying: Sometimes if you just leave it alone, it'll stop crying by itself. But you're a different kind of baby, and it’s my job to babysit, so I have to fucking help you.
With the risk of giving too many instructions, I'll stop right there. I know that children have malleable minds but short attention spans. Hopefully your strong and unrightful sense of entitlement will now dissipate, after having learned how truly un-special you are. You are only as special as everyone else around you, which isn't special if you want to get Zen about it. Just act as though the space you're in and the people in it are affected by the things you do and say when you do negative and obnoxious shit.
There's a reason a lot of parents go to bars instead of Peter Piper Pizza when they want to relax: No Kids Allowed. Please at least respect that and stop acting like a goddamned child.
The Sexy Slave Behind the Bar
*These thoughts and feelings are my own, and not a reflection of the bar for which I work. I don't want anyone to feel as though the bar is a place where you have to censor yourself or worry too heavily about pissing off the bartender, creating a cold environment. The rules are really simple: Respect us, and we'll respect you. You'll get service no matter what, but it's nice to have some warmer exchanges and a place where everyone knows your name. No one wants to know your name if you act like a dick or treat us like shit.
About the author: Erin Gibson slings drinks and babysits adults for a living, but she most enjoys talking shit on paper. Painting, reading and travel keep her sane and curious.