The Horror Of Bartending

Much of bartending is people watching— watching for intoxication levels as our friends at the OLCC force us to do, looking out for all-around bullshit and tomfoolery and just general voyeurism during our downtime. Alcohol and humans make a fascinating mix. Everyone has stories. I, of course, have seen horrible bar fights, blood, unspeakable things in the bathroom...these stories are the ones that still personally haunt me. There are some stories I can’t tell you about, due to police involvement and open cases. But, some stories I can legally tell you about in print. I’m just one bartender, who’s worked at a handful of bars in Portland. These are some of the scariest things I’ve experienced while working as a bartender.

The Domestic Violence Incident

It was my first week working at this particular bar. One busy night, a very tall guy with the most intimidating eyes I have ever seen was standing next to my water station with his girlfriend. She was petite. Even in heels, she stood maybe 5’4" at most. They were in a conversation. I only was paying attention to them, because of the guy’s appearance. He just looked scary—the kind of guy that, if he was walking behind you on a dark night, you might start picking up the pace into a run. He was at least 6’5", with a massive body and looked like an MMA fighter.

They were standing, talking and it was clear that it was an argument. Suddenly, I see him wrap his massive hands around her throat. He begins choking her. She was so small, she basically crumpled in his hands. Her feet came up off the ground and one of her shoes fell from her foot. I called the police. He did about a year of jail time.

The next time I saw him, I was on the other side of the bar, in my neighborhood. It was just a day off and I was having a drink. He sat down next to me. His figure was like a mountain. He recognized me. He let me know that, because of me calling the cops, he had to do jail time. He asked me why I thought a woman would choose to cheat on a man and why are all women whores? He then asked me why my hands were shaking. A friend came into the bar. I closed out and I made them walk out with me. I will never forget how his eyes looked. He’s the sort of guy, if you saw him on the evening news saying he committed murder, you wouldn’t be shocked. I think about the tiny girl all the time.

I hope she’s gone—far away and safe.

Firearms

Before I got my legitimate bar job, I worked at a place that was a roadhouse. This is a common story for most bartenders. Sometimes you have to work in a shithole that no one else wants to, in order to get your experience and upgrade. That’s what I did. This particular bar was owned by a drug dealer—in a bad part of town—and the clientele reflected this. I worked in there alone.

One night, during the closing shift, a man walked in. He had a strange look on his face. He reached into his pants, pulled a handgun out of his waistband and aimed it at my face. He was looking for someone who used to work there. It was over a drug deal gone wrong, or some other circumstance where he felt he was owed money—something about a large amount of cocaine. The man with the gun walked the entire bar, Glock drawn, insisting the person materialize, with crazy eyes bulging out of his skull. Someone finally called the cops. Something this particular group of people are not prone to do. This guy was not leaving and he was getting increasingly agitated. Out of options, I popped the register open and gave him what was in the till, which was somewhere near $100. He was not satisfied with that. He started asking for patron’s cellphones and wallets.

The police arrived after a few minutes, but it felt like an hour for that moment. The guy ran, but they got him and no one was hurt. I’d never realized how vulnerable you can feel in a room full of people, when one of them has a gun.

The Stalker

I was working a few shifts at a bar I’d never worked at before, to help out a friend. The guy working in the kitchen seemed pretty nice and we spent the slow day shift talking about all sorts of things, but mostly bar stuff. He discovered that I worked my regular gig at a bar right by his house. He wanted to know what it was like working there and I disclosed to him that I really didn’t like closing there, because I’m in there by myself and there’s no real security system. I mentioned I felt like a sitting duck in there, especially because the night shifts were really slow. He said that if he was around, he’d come in for a drink while I close and walk me out. I thought that was a nice gesture.

This guy did just that over the course of the next month. This may already seem like a red flag, but when you’re in the industry, it’s not uncommon to meet other bartenders and such and go drink at their bars. It’s sort of an unspoken custom, that if you serve a fellow bartender and they tip you generously, you should go by their bar and do the same. Anyway, also he was married and talked about his wife a lot. I was grateful to have someone walk me out at night—getting robbed was always a concern with this gig.

One night, he showed up as usual, only this time he was absolutely wasted. Usually, he would be pretty sober and just have a beer. The vibes coming off him that night were very dark. He was the only person in the bar. He told me very calmly that he had caught his wife cheating on him and she had left him and their daughter to stay with the new guy. He said he was going to set their house on fire while they slept. People say things like that all the time, when they are angry and hurt. But, when he said that, it did not sound like a threat—it sounded like a plan. He was quiet for a long time after that. I changed the subject and started to close up early, so I could get out of there. He then, very unceremoniously, asked me if I wanted to go fuck. I declined. He started laughing to himself. I asked what was so funny. He said I looked like a desperate slut who likes to take it any way she can, so he was surprised I didn’t want to. He then stood up and headed for the door.

Before he left, he reminded me that he knew I worked in there alone with no cameras. Also, he knew my closing routine and what my car looked like—he’d walked me to it several times. He then punched the wall hard enough to leave a blood smear from breaking his fist open on it. He left, but left me in sheer terror. If I tell my friend that employs him and he gets fired, will he come after me? I needed that job at the time. My then-boyfriend switched his schedule at work, so he could sit with me during my close every night, until I could find another job. I never saw the guy again, but he’s out there somewhere— probably working at a bar. Maybe, one I might walk into.

The Masturbator

Closing shift on slow winter night, just me and another female coworker—everything is business as usual. A man I’d never seen before came in, sat down and ordered a cheap beer. His appearance was disheveled. His long, silver hair was greasy and hadn’t seen a comb in a while. He was wearing a brown, ‘70s-era polyester suit—non-ironically. The strangest thing about him was that he was carrying a plastic bag filled with what appeared to be bread and bread scraps. My grandparents used to pick up day-old bread like this when I was a kid and take it to the park and feed the ducks. That’s the best way I can describe what was plunked on the bar beside him.

When you work with the public and serve alcohol, you see a lot of different sorts of people. This was odd, but not even the weirdest person I’d served that month. He hung out all the way until last call with that one beer, not saying a word— just fingering and massaging his bag of bread. Time came to kick everyone out. He was the last one and didn’t want to leave. This happens. I got the impression he may be homeless. My coworker was sick of his weird vibes and very tactfully told him to go. He did. We locked the doors. I started counting the till and she began doing the floors.

Suddenly, I hear her scream.

There he was, pressed up against the window, polyester pants around his ankles, staring at us and masturbating. He was smiling too. The creepiest smile I’ve ever seen. Dick in one hand, bag of bread in the other. My coworker and I ran to the bathroom, locked ourselves inside and called the police. We didn’t come out until we heard them bang on the door. They didn’t find him. All that was left was a pile of bread on the sidewalk in front of the bar.

The Junkie

It was a busy Saturday night. The bathrooms of this one bar I was working at were right off the front door. I was pouring drinks for the group of waiting customers, when I see a man come in the door and go straight for the bathroom. I go back to what I’m doing. A while later, I notice a line forming outside of the bathroom door. I pop over there and people tell me that the same person has been in there for a very long time. I knock on the door and ask if everything is okay. I don’t hear anything. I press my ear to the door. Silence. This happens. Sometimes people get drunk and decide to nap in the bathroom. It’s not fun to deal with, but not uncommon. I banged on the door and kicked it. No response. I called for the cops and an ambulance. By the time they arrived, he’d been in there for over an hour. By the time they got the door off its hinges and open, it was close to two. When this happens, what lies behind that door is not anything you want to see. For whatever reason, I looked. The man was on the toilet, pants down, genitals exposed. His face was ashy and his lips were blue. His arm was still tied off. There was blood everywhere from him trying and failing to hit a vein. They took him away—he was still alive.

After they left, I had to clean up the bathroom. It took nearly all night. The horror of picking up and disposing used needles and scrubbing sprayed blood across the wall is one I will never forget.

The Escaped Mental Patient

It was a very slow Sunday night. There were just a handful of people in the bar, all of whom I knew. Sunday night was typically all just regulars. I was working with another female. There was only one person sitting directly at the bar. Someone I knew and have served often—I’ll call him J. J is a quiet type. Not unfriendly, he just likes to keep to himself. A man I’d never seen before walked in and out of all the seats to choose from, he sits directly next to J. In addition to that being odd, there was definitely something off about this guy. I couldn’t tell what it was, exactly. Something about the look in his eyes, I guess. He ordered a beer. It was getting near closing time, so my coworker and I were busying ourselves with our cleaning duties. I noticed the guy was watching us both very intently. I also noticed that he wasn’t really drinking his beer. J looked extremely uncomfortable, but I assumed it was because the guy chose to sit down right next to him.

Like I mentioned before, J likes to keep to himself. I was stocking the beer cooler, when suddenly J leaps out of his seat and runs behind the bar to me. I was shocked. J was upset and nearly in tears. He said the guy was muttering under his breath—every time my coworker and I walked past— about how he was going to rape each of us, with graphic detail of what he would do. He also mentioned cutting off our heads and "playing with them." J was so upset, he could hardly get the words out to tell me what was wrong. I looked up horrified, just in time to see the man walking out of the bar. It was then, I saw he had a hospital bracelet on and he was barefoot—it was the dead of winter— two things I didn’t see while he was sitting down. We called the police and had them escort us out that night, as we were afraid he’d be out there waiting. They drove around looking for him but never found him.