Notes from a winter behind the bar

a short season of secrets, strangers, and cigarette breaks

I worked as a bartender for two months to survive during the early days of the pandemic because I had abruptly left my first job out of college, but the reasons for that are irrelevant in this story.

Times were a bit slow then. People weren’t really out and about until mid-2021, which was not the worst thing for a new bartender. I still made enough money to pay my rent that December.

This isn’t really a story about working in the service industry, but I guess it could be. It’s about the mystery of the place itself—and the people in it. About the strange pattern of people telling me things you wouldn’t expect anyone to say out loud.

I worked at the Kirby location the first week or two. I had a crush on a moody musician who worked there and we got close fast, but that’s not the point of this story either.

Each location had a quiet, seductive vibe. Dim lights, tea candles, red velvet sofas, risqué portraits in every room. It was a place built for flirting, drinking, and whispering things you wouldn’t say anywhere else.

The bartender I trained with—let’s call him Jason—once walked in on someone attempting to film a porno in one of the back rooms. He said that kind of thing wasn’t uncommon. I never saw anything too strange, but the stories didn’t surprise me after a while. The place had a rhythm to it. Something slightly off.

Once I was at the Montrose location I met more staff and settled nicely into a friendly dynamic with my co-workers. They were all pretty laid back and we knew just the right amount about each other.

There was the barback, Ernesto. He didn’t speak enough English to bartend, but he was really good. I liked him because he had an innocence about him, he must have been about my age, but probably a little younger.

He always shared his cigarettes with me at the end of our shifts together and in one of those late night chats, Ernesto told me he had come from Guatemala and hadn’t seen his mother in over a decade. He couldn’t go back for some reason and when I asked if that made him sad, he shrugged and said he’d had to adapt. There wasn’t another option.

And then there was Luis. He handled inventory and seemed close to the owners—people I never met, but often heard whispers about.

He was charming and had the kind of smile people trust, but something in his eyes told me not to.

Stay tuned for part two.

this is the only photo I seem to have left from my. time bartending.

p.s.

All names in this story have been changed from the real life characters AND I posted a YouTube video about my Fourth of July.

Nola