Did I mention I got my barback a job at my fin shop? He's not taking my job--no, the boy is interviewing for that tomorrow. My barback is the shop assistant, so now we work together several times a week, instead of once a week, which has served only to demonstrate what an excellent companion he is. Not only is he drop-dead handsome, hilarious, charming, and considerate, but I have never been less attracted to anyone in my entire life. No awkward crush! No obligatory friendship! Only partnership! It's so great.
He called me today to let me know that we got a note from closing the bar on Friday night. Notes are notorious; they are the bar boss' way of letting us know how we fucked up, but they're usually remarkably petty, so they serve only to annoy.
He called to warn me what was in the note, so that I wouldn't be thrown into a horrific mood at the beginning of our shift tomorrow.
See? So considerate.
I don't take this note stuff personally anymore. I used to. I used to go into work after I woke up and fix all the things I hadn't cleaned properly the night before. Then I remembered: I don't get paid to do that. In fact, all of the bartenders get paid less than minimum wage from the bar to do everything that we do, including attend meetings on the weekends, meetings that last a minimum of two hours and, at most, six, meetings for which there is no reimbursement.
I used to work really hard at that job. Then she cut my pay in half by hiring a barback, forcing me to pay out half my tips. I like having a barback, but being a bartender is a JOB, which means that I'm in it for the bottom line, not the friends, not the notoriety, not the power trip, not the satisfaction of providing a roomful of people with good beer and decent tunes.
I do it for the same reason I work at all of my jobs: because I like money more than I like free time.