Bartending Stories - The Airport
Introduction - Getting a nickname.
For a change of pace…
Once upon a time, I was more about experiences rather than business. Every now and then, I like to share a story from my days as a bartender. Today is one of those days.
With fifteen years of tending bar and nearly 20 years as a patron, I've come to realize that few people open up and share their stories like they do at the airport. I worked in a bar located on the public side of security at an airport for over seven years. Let me give you a glimpse into the kinds of stories I encountered. The city I worked in was home to over 30 addiction clinics, several nudist resorts, and a diverse range of swingers bars and strip clubs. It also boasted several universities, a professional sports team for every sport, and some world-class museums. There was no such thing as a "typical traveler," but there were countless individuals who experienced extraordinary moments during their time between arrival and departure.
People passed through the airport for various reasons—business, vacations, layovers, rehab, conferences, and everything in between. And beyond the travelers, there were those who worked intense overnight jobs in the hospitals, casinos or other hospitality industry spots. Whether it was clocking out at 7 AM from an overnight trauma shift at the ER or dealing blackjack until sunrise, the airport bar offered a rare opportunity to unwind with a drink at that early hour. It was a place where judgment seemed to be at its lowest.
As the years went by, I grew more comfortable discussing even the most bizarre stories with guests. Although the accounts I share may not be an exact representation, they are how I remember them.
When I first started working as a bartender at the airport, I was young and vulnerable. I approached everything with a naive sense of hope and optimism. I always looked for the "greatness" in people, and I expected them to see the same in me. However, my fellow bartenders quickly set me straight. They made it clear that customers didn't come to talk about the bartender's life—they came to talk about themselves. They came to be heard, to confess, to forget, and to remember. Only a few, if any, came to listen. It was always about releasing, not absorbing.
At that age (around 21), bartending was primarily about money, and it seemed like the coolest way to make a living. While some may refer to bartenders as the "aristocrats of the middle class," for me, it was an opening, a means to reach beyond my place in the world.
In those early days behind the bar, my mindset earned me the nickname "Bambi." I was seen as young and gentle. The bar where I worked mirrored many other environments I would encounter later in life. I was the youngest among my peers and stumbled into a career position that I treated as a steppingstone. Nonetheless, I worked hard to catch up, to acquire the necessary skills, and eventually surpass them. The job's true skills were not in the mechanics and recipes but in character and approach. It was surprising at the time, but looking back, that's all any job really is.
Every person I worked with at that bar became a mentor to me in some fashion or another. Each one taught me about life and people, always through the lens of their own experiences and biases. As a student of people, there is always an opportunity to learn.
One of my peers, in particular, was less pleased about my position there compared to others. Even now, as I write this, I believe he would be offended to be regarded as a peer rather than someone my senior. He had waited years to get that job, having worked in nightclubs and countless other bars for over a decade. He was the fastest among us, possessing a deep understanding of reading people. But like most of the staff at that bar, he despised the majority of patrons who passed through. I was his contrast; slower and believed that everyone had a good soul. His different life experiences and his candid conversations with me widened my perspective. He was a former sex worker with stories that seemed like fiction, and he had developed an emotional exoskeleton—hard, fast, witty, intelligent, and cunning.
He, the spider in a web, told me the ways of his world. He should have called me Wilber, but I'm not sure he would ever see himself through such kind eyes. It was during one fateful day behind the bar that he dubbed me "Bambi." I was gently placing an overly ornate garnished drink in front of an older woman at the bar in my first months on the job. There were people standing behind people waiting to get drinks and he gave me a name that would stick with everyone who shared time with us in that place. If I were to encounter them on the street today, "Bambi" is likely what they would call me.
No matter what I did, I was meticulous. This is a characteristic that no nickname or workload could ever make me shake. Though I did gain a bit more perspective and urgency behind the bar and in all aspects of life as time pressed forward. I washed glasses until they were spotless, free of any lipstick stains. I poured drinks with precisely the right amount of alcohol and mixers. I cut the exact number of limes every morning, and I wiped clean every single bottle, boiling pour spouts before closing.
I write this now with pride because, when "Bambi" was bestowed upon me, it meant I worked meticulously. It meant I cared. It meant I listened. It didn't mean I had thin skin or that I was soft, regardless of what may have been intended. Thought the point was made, and I gained a bit of perspective in that moment.
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