“What’s the cheapest thing here?”
Don’t do it, I plead with myself. Don’t say “you are.” He doesn’t know any better.
“I have Bud Light bottles for seven dollars.”
DO NOT DO IT. DO NOT REMIND HIM THAT HE IS IN AN UPSCALE MIDTOWN MANHATTAN BAR AND INFLATION IS TO BE EXPECTED.
“Sorry, love. I don’t have any control over the prices here.”
“Fine. I’ll just take one.”
He puts down $7 exactly. The last dollar is in quarters.
Now, before I continue, this is not just another “bartender pet peeves” piece. I’ll try not to bore you with my minuscule gripes against the generally ignorant middle-aged white guys of the finance and business spheres. When I left the bar business, I was in the midst of an angst-filled rampage, and I’ve been over all of my industry qualms already with my boyfriend, my other industry friends, and my coworkers from the toxic job I walked out of mid-shift in January.
I try not to quit things, and I had never before left a position before without giving a proper two weeks notice or on negative terms. This behavior was new to me. I dramatically bid farewell to the industry that had provided me a primary source of income over the course of ten years after a last-straw altercation and only after locking down a minimum wage-paying internship; a nine-to-five, a “real” job.
Full Article HERE!