No Oprah

Tuesday night at the bar was bizarre. Right off the bat, no Oprah, which is my little treat to watch if it’s slow when I first open. They (you know "they"... the great anonymous, omniscient They without whom so little could be vaguely attributed) had been working on the roof and had to disconnect the cable connection to the bar. So the TVs provided only loud, annoying static—similar to what I dole out regularly. No Oprah. Damn! But it was nice not having those noiseboxes blaring for the rest of the evening. No American Idol at 120 decibels like last week.

It was a pleasant and slow/steady evening. I had almost all my side work done and was looking at maybe actually getting out at 11. Then at 10:15 a dark and exotic-looking guy sat down at the bar. He sounded British, but was from Austria. After delivering his Grey Goose and tonic, I got an earful about the impending break-up with his girlfriend. Their trip from LA to Cincinnati last week in which the bitch gave him no peace, constantly nagging about his driving while he was going at a perfectly reasonable 100-110 mph. The fights. The Memphis hotel room where she vandalized his stuff. It was like listening to Vogon poetry, and not unlike Douglass Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide protagonist, I was ready to chew off a limb to escape. But where my customers are concerned, my bar is their confessional, and I am paid (and tipped) to listen.

If the bar isn't busy, I can give last call at 10:45, well before legal bar time. That blessed moment finally arrived, and I gave last call, hoping against hope for refusals. The only other people in the bar—two very sweet and slow-drinking ladies—ordered two more old fashioneds. Damn it all! I knew then I was looking at another hour of listening to Tales from the Bowels of Relationship Hell. Made another GG and tonic for Matthias, and as I suspected, he continued his litany—as though I needed further verification that he and his girlfriend are both disturbed neurotics bordering on the psychotic, if not psychotics bordering on the insane.

Another half hour dragged by, and before I had the wherewithal to lock the door, John, one of our VIPs who stays at the Rad frequently, slipped in. John is a great guy, but serving him meant that I had to give everyone else yet another opportunity at last call. And Matthias and the two sweet but slow-drinking ladies without exception called my bluff and ordered another round.

John immediately got that Matthias was a nutcase, and tried to buffer me by engaging him in conversation. Matthias was only too delighted to add another member to his audience, and slurred through another rendition of the girlfriend woes. I had locked up all the liquor after making John's drink and had also given everyone their checks. By this time it was 1:00 a.m. As Matthias was getting ready to sign his credit card slip, he kept trying to manipulate me into making him and John another drink. "If I give you a big tip, will you make another drink for John and me?" No. John didn't even want another drink. Matthias was unrelenting with blah-blah-blah, big tip, make John and me another drink anyway. I told him I was not going to serve John against his will, and that he had had enough, and thanks, but NO. So he signed the slip, and had still given me a $100 tip on a $30 bar tab. He kept wheedling. I cracked the whip back with "NO. Don't push it!"

When Matthias finally went outside to smoke, John said, "He's going to be a problem. I'll go out and take him his stuff [he'd left on his bar stool]. You lock up." Good by me. After that M came to the door, and I opened it a crack (I have this sad loyalty to my parishioners—er... customers)—and he whined about how misunderstood he was, did I even appreciate the tip (oh absolutely!)... I told him it had been a pleasure visiting with him and that I hoped he and the gf worked it out. Quickly re-locked the door. Then he kept hanging around right outside the (glass) door while I was balancing my bank and finishing the closing process. Definitely creepy.

When John went back to his room, he told the front desk Matthias was a potential problem, so Patti the night auditor came back to the bar and walked with me to do my cash drop and put the bar bank bag in the safe. Thankfully, Matthias had gone back to his room—or had at least gone away.

I finally got home at 2. No Oprah. But I did get a night that qualifies me to be a guest on her show.