Bartending Stories - The Airport

Check it at the door.

Like a young person experiencing so many things for the first time, I was falling in and out of love. The nick name Bambi was probably as well earned in my personal life as it was with my approach to hospitality. I was a boy raised by women; a household in my youth of two older sisters, my mom, and me. I wore vulnerability on my sleeve and was transparent about everything. So later, when I would go through a very angry breakup with my first college girlfriend, it was all over my face. I came to work with a visible and youthful depression.

On a day that was slow in the airport bar, I shared a shift with one of the few female bartenders.

Not the most senior, not the oldest, she was still the leader if there was one. A mother with a young child, she had a wisdom and a patience about her. Amid that patience though was an ability to be ruthless that was implied. Like all great mothers, no one dared cross her and yet, she was a support mechanism for everyone. She guided the management and the ownership. In the early 2000’s when the economy was booming, this airport bartending job could have been a career position for anyone. She made a point to take me out for drinks when I joined the team. She embraced me and guided me when she could have easily ostracized me. We were all competing for the best shifts. She was a leader and a mentor. Confident, and sure.

Noticing my morose disposition, she pulled me aside and spoke to me. She took time out to hear what was going on and assess the situation. I explained the break up and the illness with the expectation that she was about to provide sympathy and kindness. I expected what had been given before, which was empathy and comfort. Looking back, the patience it must have taken to listen to me drone on was already more than most people would dare to bear.

She paused at the end and then asked me which door I had walked in that day for work. Pointing to both the side and the front. Disarmed with the distraction, I pointed like a little boy showing where he fell and scraped his knee. She nodded, and then she continued to be warm, and comforting. She accurately described the feelings I was having in a way I hadn’t processed yet. She was clear and concise in identifying what was happening inside. She knew that feeling. Then, as we had connected on exactly what that emotional baggage was and identified it specifically, she said, “Now take that feeling, and set it down right outside that door before you walk in.”

Her message was clear but she made sure I understood.

“Leave that at the door before you walk in here. No one wants to hear about how sad the bartender is. No one wants to feel worse after sitting at a bar. You leave that out there and you pick it back up when you clock out if you want but it doesn’t come to this bar with you.”

And at that point she grabbed my arm directly between the elbow and shoulder, and she firmly but slowly pressed me towards the front end of the bar.

“Now go flirt with those old ladies at the end of the bar and make us some fucking money.”