Favorite Dives: Western Saloons, Arena Parking Lots, Punk Shows, Mos Eisley Cantina
Type of Drunk: The Embezzler
He doesn’t have a name, and he doesn’t have to. But for right now, let's just call him Tapper. This resident bartender at BAR is here to serve you enough beer that you forget your own troubles and leave him alone. Once you’re out the door, he can forget the collective mugs of his customers by getting his drink on. So step on up! Drink your fill, but leave once fulfilled (the mug is on the house). This bartender’s got bills to pay and obligations to mind for a paycheck. So keep his places of employ profitable, but please STAY BEHIND THE BAR.
Understand that it gets crowded sometimes. Every one of Tapper's FOUR part-time jobs – a wild west style saloon serving surly cowpokes, outside a stadium calming the nerves of alcoholic athletes, providing watered-down poison to a bunch of punks at a (very badly designed) rock music venue, abating alien animosity at a spaceport – sees increasingly heavy patronage as the night goes on. So be patient. There’s no need to hurl Tapper down the bar, even if you’ve had to wait a minute to get your next drink (after guzzling your round in under 3 seconds). He has enough pressure from his boss after all.
Your poor bartender’s job is threatened with every glass break! So while you and your fellow patrons carelessly slide your empties back towards the momentarily abandoned end of the bar thinking it’s a novel way to gain his attention, the indentured servant of inebriation is sweating bullets over whether or not he will have a place to come back to in order to keep his apartment! Ok, maybe his delay’s not all in your head.
The barkeep does sneak a round in-between rushes, a pint to allay workday aggravations. Hell, the security cameras have even caught him celebrating by breaking a mug on his heel of his own accord after successfully clearing a rush and shrugging off the blatant disregard for glassware. Guess the boss never actually counts the mugs or leaves as soon as all the customers are gone. But embezzling one measly pint per shift is hardly grounds for judgment, is it? Sure, he didn’t really have the time to listen to your troubles. He’s no Sam or Woody, and let’s face it: no-one can be Coach. But he got you your brew (probably several times), so why the animosity? Pity the wage slave. After all, even the bartender’s off-time is enthralled to participating in Budweiser-sponsored shell games that usually leave him wet with the very suds he slings in his waking hours.
So lift your glass with me, and let’s toast the bartender from Tapper (and for heaven’s sake don’t slide it down the bar once it’s empty). He’s been slingin’ beers for three decades now to numb your daily pain, and all you do is edge closer and closer, yelling louder and louder, to catch his eye and coax his pouring hand. Just this once, raise your glass, say thank you, put your mug back down on the coaster, and make a dignified exit.