6-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #125 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: The hands behind bar who rocked the cocktails)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

Although the serving staff tended to change with the four winds, the bartenders remained pretty much the same three easygoing, cleancut guys: nice heterosexual fellas who were both men’s men and happily flirtatious when it came to women.

Jimmy was the king: a tall, loose-boned guy about thirty-five years old, with a wiry frame and med-long curly dark hair.  He seemed to bounce on his feet and his features were kind of rubbery, His dark eyes sparkled with merriment.  He had a quick comeback when shuttling jokes and comments like ping pong balls back and forth with customers and waitresses alike.  He was into word play.  Jimmy was quick, steady, funny, and just a wee bit superficial.  I believe he’s still working behind a quieter bar this very day, in Soho. 

Greg had sandy, short hair and was quieter, but also steady.  He seemed to be around 30 years old.  Of average height and weight, he didn’t cut an imposing figure but commended and gave respect to one and all.  Greg’s smile was sincere, and he didn’t “flap his gums” incessantly: you could hear yourself think when Greg ran the bar.  I appreciated that. . . so much other noise went on all around, especially in that wild scene.  Greg turned out to be the most decent one there and was my favorite, ultimately.

The last guy, Mark, was another likable young man, around his late 20’s or maybe thirty.  He was built like a football player: tall and thick bodied.  Mark had those blue eyed, med. brown haired good looks of an Irish American firefighter or something -- you could just imagine him doing something other than slinging drinks down the bar to this one or that one.  He didn’t talk as much as Jimmy and his voice was a bit deeper and softer than Greg’s.  When there was trouble, you kind of had the feeling you wouldn’t want to deal with the brawn of a big guy like Mark.

As for whether they also drank up profits, I don’t recall.  Best thing about these bartenders: they looked out for each other and for the waitresses. . .