“Do you like working here?” is the dumbest question you can ask someone whose job is to feign enthusiasm. And yet, it’s probably the one I hear most frequently as a bartender.
I’m standing in front you, wearing a bowtie with slime all over my face from the 6th lobster I just cracked for your family.
I’m standing in front of you with bandaids covering my cracked, bleeding hands and bleach stains all over my shirt, trying to hold a conversation with you as my boss barks orders at me like a drill sergeant.
I’m standing in front of you wearing a halter top with a pushup water bra hanging from my chest like an albatross, muddling my 500th mojito for the night while pretending not to notice the male management staff lurking in background, leering at my ass.
I’m standing in front of you and it’s midnight. I’ve already been standing here for 8 hours and I’ve had to pee for the last 6. The drunk guy next to you is pounding the bar and barking like a dog to get my attention while a pack of girls across the way keep calling “Sweetie? Sweetie?” at me.
“Oh yes, I love it!”