Eleven Types of Bar Customers – Part 1

1. The Eagle: The Eagle is not satisfied with occupying a single bar stool or standing at the bar, consuming one person’s allotment of premium real estate while you’re in the weeds. The Eagle is intent on dropping his gym bag on the stool to his left and the afternoon’s shopping bags on the one to his right. If he can’t find stools, he’ll stand at the bar “spreading his wings” to cover 3 spaces – cockblocking any attempts by other customers to approach the bar.  The Eagle has a massive misunderstanding of “personal space.” He believes personal space means he’s at home and other guests should never be so bold as to step within six feet of him. If a customer dares come beside to order a drink or ask if a stool is taken, you can bet a argument will ensue.

2. The Wall Flower: The Wall Flower is the dude who comes in every single night to fraternize.  He gives the security staff the obligatory ‘Bama/Bro fistbump and spends a few minutes catching up with them. He makes the rounds doing the same with every bartender, every waitress and every floor manager.  However, The Wall Flower never buys a single drink. He does, however, make it a point to eavesdrop on private conversations and invite himself kindly to after-work staff functions and outings.

3. Da Mayor: The Mayor is an “elevated” version of The Wall Flower only, The Mayor actually drinks but tips like shit. He’s a wall flower and booze-hound who believes every F.O.H. is his best friend and will talk you to death if you let him.  The only way to escape his grasp is to throw your fellow newbie F.O.H. under the bus by gesturing him over and making introductions. You deflect Da Mayor’s attention to said newbie while abruptly making your escape. Da Mayor is a customer who illicits endless one way responses on your end like: uh-huh, yeah?, really?, and head bobs. You don’t actually interact with The Mayor in real conversation. It’s all one-sided. He loves to hear himself speak – incessantly. He’ll drive all your customers out the door by beating them senseless with his wit-stick and annoying banter. It’s best to ’86 this clown if possible.

4. The Escort: Every bar has one. She’s a not so thinly disguised prostitute. In my bars, she’s always an obscenely well endowed, skinny, over made-up, boisterous coke-head who bounces around the bar from one group of guys to the next soliciting – uhh – “business.” The Escort believes no one can see her game.  She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed but she gets the job done. The Escort often works in conjunction with, or can be confused for the Gold-Digger (#11).

5. The Photographer: Each bar I’ve worked at has one of these dudes.  They’re always some creepy 50′ish year old guys. They’re lurkers but actual photographers – scraggly faced with smoke-stained hands. The Photographer rarely drinks alcohol on occasion but prefers about 8 cups of coffee over a 5 hour span. He must keep lucid and be on point. His game is to creep on hot chicks – waitresses and barkeeps half his age on the premise of free or cheap head-shots. That’s his only “in” to potentially getting some young, hot ass. The Photographer plays the numbers game.

6. The Misanthrope: Complain, complain and complain some more is the name of his game. Nary a smile is ever given or kind word exchanged. From the moment he approaches the bar, he puts on his best bitter beer face and goes off mumbling incessant bullshit about how life sucks, the idiot next to him sucks, the food sucks and how you suck as  a bartender. The A/C or heat is never quite right for him and he’ll let you know it – repeatedly. The floor is wet. The bar-top is sugary. Something is off with his drink but he can’t put his finger on it. The music is too loud. The music is not appropriate. The bathrooms are disgustingly filthy. The weather sucks today. He constantly asks you how this place has managed to stay open so long in this condition.

7. The Smile Police: This is one of the most annoying idiots at the bar. She’ll stare at you non-stop for an hour, order a few Ketel and Sodas, and engage you in useless conversation – trying to throw you off your game. She’s partially cute but is nothing more than a tease. She smiles all teeth, all the time while she imbibes and is insistent that you must do the same too. She’ll rattle of insanely annoying lines like (a) Why don’t you smile more?  (b) You look so cute when you smile! (c) Your dimples are beautiful – let’s see  your teeth and (d) why do you look so sad? Every week is magically her “birthday” or some other special celebration and she requires you do a shot with her to “cheer you up.” You restrain yourself with all your might to keep from smacking this dummy with a swift backhand.

8. The Unibomber: Rarely speaks. Drinks very quietly and always alone. Stops by regularly. He often rocks a Jesus beard and plaid shirt. He blatantly stares at your super-hot coworkers with eyes transfixed in a terrifying way. One can only imagine what he’s thinking. If only he could snatch one of them, bind and gag them, have his way, then finish the evening properly by making some elbow soup and leather dress. He mumbles and inexplicably takes 15 minute bathroom breaks, returning to finish his melted drink. He never pays with anything but cash lest his real identity be traced.

9. Ignoramus:  She approaches the bar but never hears or acknowledges your greeting and subsequent asking for an order. That’s because she’s blabbing on her iPhone at an annoyingly high volume and can’t be bothered to respond to your plebeian demands. She’s not hearing you. You’re not worthy of being heard. Heaven forbid her diamond-encrusted iPhone and Coach bag come into contact with some spilled beer though; or you screw up her Martini by not making it dirty (you did ask – but received no answer).  All of a sudden, she’ll be in meltdown mode.

10. Mick O’Leary: The stereotypical loudmouth drunk Irishman or Scotsman. He’s a great guy (sober). Mick can put ‘em down however. He’ll order seven Martinis, five Heinekens for good measure, and a couple of Bushmill shots in between to keep him well lubricated. Halfway through, you suggest perhaps he should “slow down.” This serves only to irritate and anger Mick and you become the victim of a severe tongue-lashing. The same story plays out nightly. Mick stumbles and smashes into tables, falls asleep – head down on the bar, can’t remember to pull his belt up, yet somehow makes it back the very next evening to fight another day. He doesn’t believe in credit cards – rather, he leaves a fat pile of [wet] cash for you to pluck from at will throughout the evening.

11. The Gold-digger: Yeah. You know her too, don’t ya? She’s the insanely hot chick who actually holds down a good job, making decent money. Yet, her game is the same nightly. She’ll even talk about it openly in an office pre-planning session with her gaggle of other hot gold-digging teammates and that one token ugly chick. They’ll talk about which bar to target, how they should skip the ATM altogether, which eyeliner to slather on, how to best display cleavage, etc. The Gold-digger’s game is clear from the onset. She’ll sashay into the bar in hot pumps and throw her hair back repeatedly. She’ll then saddle up to the first group of suits and flirt hard. Sure enough, she’ll get her free drink on and maybe a few appetizers.  The Gold-digger’s tactics include, but are not limited to: blatant rubbing, playing with ties, straddling legs, sitting on laps, whispering in ears, and grinding on the dance floor. However, it’s all a tease. Once the gig is up or the corporate card tab has been closed, she quickly moves on to the next group of college bros, doctors or traders and resets. Net net: the Gold-digger hasn’t spent a penny the entire evening but has gotten her drink on, has been fed, had a great time, and hasn’t even dropped trou. Gold-digger: 1, Men: 0.

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