Most of my job depends on situational awareness. Knowing how people are acting, what they might do in certain situations, how they behave with friends. How they behave in public.

It would be nice if customers had 1/16th of that awareness.

Or, let’s face it, any amount.

UPDATE: This is a COVID-era Story

A group of 14 people came to the bar all wanting to get in at the same time (which hasn’t been able to happen since March 2020) and I said pretty bluntly that it wasn’t going to happen. I told the birthday girl she could go in, order a shot tray and and bring it to her group that would be accommodated on the outdoor patio. I’ll send a few in at a time for grab & go drinks and food orders if they wish.

After a tense deliberation period that felt like hours, they agreed to terms and I spaced them out in three groups of four or five. The next steps are very simple. Go inside. Order a drink or shot. Take a snap or photo for the ‘gram if need be. Leave.

Leave.

LEAVE!

Seriously people, it’s the inside of a dive bar, not the atrium of the Bellagio. Get your shit and go. I’m not letting you wait until all 14 of you have a drink. I was very up front about this.

Deep breaths.

After the last of the big group went in, the birthday girl was still at the bar. Why? Well, she was snacking on some pretzel sticks. I snagged a to-go clamshell and packed them up for her. One of her friends came up and asked if she could go inside and wait for her food. One more followed suit, not 20 seconds after.

Both women get their food and head outside. Here, I lose track of time here for 5 minutes to catch my breath, gulp down some water and listen to the jukebox because I’m pretty sure somebody is playing the end credits to Tron: Legacy, my second favorite movie.

After a quick jam out to Daft Punk, one of the girls comes up to me with a problem.

“I need to go back inside. You guys made my sandwich wrong.”

“What kind of sandwich did you get?”

“A grilled cheese.”

“How did we mess up a grilled cheese sandwich? It’s bread, cheese, and bread, made hotter.”

“But that’s not what I ordered.”

My brain broke. I went into a tunnel vision stare like Keir Dullea near the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Just a blitz of Kraft singles, fur coats, black dresses, and toasted bread blinding me at the speed of light.

“Ok,” I said after I snapped back to reality. “What did you order?”

“I ordered a grilled cheese with bacon, but I got a regular grilled cheese. My friend over there (pointing to another girl in a nondescript black dress sitting on the patio) ordered a normal grilled cheese but hers has bacon in it.”

You, a smart person, know what’s unfolding.

“So, you ate each other’s sandwiches?”

“No, you made them wrong.”

“So, what’s your friend doing? Does she not want hers anymore?”

“No, she’s eating it.”

Like, right at that moment. She was actively eating the grilled cheese sandwich, with bacon, without a care in the world.

“And did you finish yours?”

“Yeah, but-” I raised a hand and stopped her.

“I’m not going to let you back inside and have us make you free sandwiches because you just ate each other’s grilled cheese sandwich. That’s not gonna happen. Why would I let that happen?”

“But…”

“No.”

She paused, maybe realized she wasn’t going to win this argument even though in her mind we still totally made the wrong order.

“Well, my friend (the birthday girl) asked to go inside to get a water and you wouldn’t let her!”

“You mean your friend that’s standing right next to you with a water in her hand? That friend?”

None of them spoke to me again.

Two weeks ago after cleaning, we were rustled out of our seats when we noticed a husky young man in an Aloha shirt rearranging our patio furniture from its torn-down and put away state. He removed one table to create an L pattern and took two chairs from the stack and placed them upside down on the tables.

I think he was building a fort.

We rushed outside to tell him off, but he got the first jab in.

“Fuck off,” he said, clearly drunk.

You’re on our property, sir. I’m the one that tells people to fuck off.

“Step off the patio! What’s the matter with you?” I yelled, partially in disbelief. Most drunkards try the door at least. Hardly any of them want to touch the furniture when they’re patrons.

“I have half a mind to call your mother.”

And then the tables really turned.

“DO IT THEN,” he said, waving his phone toward me. “SHE DOES CRACK AND METH AND DOESN’T CARE ANYMORE!”

Ok then. You do you. Good talk.

A few minutes later, some friends on rentable scooters came and corralled him. One of them asked if we could grab him a water. We said no, as he already told us to fuck off 45 minutes after the bar closed. Plus, it sounds like he needs a lot more help than a water.

Maybe he needs a grilled cheese sandwich, like moms used to make.