Getting drunk and leaving things behind in a bar go hand-in-hand. Most people wake up the day after, check all their things and feel like they won a prize—breathing a massive sigh of relief that they somehow made it home with all of their personal effects. You may have a horrendous hangover, but you somehow remembered to close out. Usually, you didn’t. You look for your scarf or that beloved water bottle and realize it’s not there and that you must have left it somewhere. Where, though? You were at four different bars last night...at least, four that you remember. Now, you have to decide, how much do you love that item? Are you willing to call every bar to try and locate it, get back to that bar and retrieve it? Especially, if you cabbed all the way to another part of town. I can tell you, by the dictionary-thick stack of debit and credit cards sitting at the POS in my bar, that most people wake up and do the math on whether or not they should just cancel their card(s) and have a new one sent out. Most just say, "fuck it" to most items left behind and a bar’s lost-and-found can quickly look like a Goodwill annex—especially so in the winter. I don’t know a single person who works in a bar that buys their own scarves or hats. After a while, they’re free for the taking. The rest, we donate. It’s just all a part of keeping a public place clean. These are tales of some of the strangest things I’ve found in my bar. I’m just one bartender. All of us have stories.
In this particular bar I was working in, we had a big event that we would host once a month. It was a big deal. The bar would be packed way beyond capacity, and sometimes, we’d need to rent porta-pottys to supplement the volume of thirsty folks ready to dance and party. It was an intense night, but those of us who worked it looked forward to the event. It would be crazy—we’d be rolling in sweat the entire time. The vibe of the people that showed up was really positive and we rarely had any sort of problem or negativity with this event. That was surprising, considering how many people were squeezed inside together, without proper, licensed security of any kind. This event also paid all of our rent in one night. It was hard work, but fun and worth it. Closing was the worst part. We would have to have everyone out the door by 2:30, we wouldn’t be leaving until the sun was up and this is a bar that didn’t allow after-hours drinking—even for the employees. That was at least four hours of solid cleaning. You’d feel like you got hit by a bus the next day whenever you woke up, but that’s what it’s like. You’d rather be slammed than slow.
During the extreme cleaning, all sorts of shit would turn up. A lot of clothes, as it would get hot. And, as inhibitions went down, the temps rose and the clothes came off. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be fully nude at this party and simply walk out into their cabs that way. We found drugs, bottles of snuck-in liquor, knives, jewelry, hats, even sex toys. All the things you’d expect. Barf in the corners, turds on the patio (because the bathroom line was too long), soiled underwear...it’s all part of bar life. None of it ever made me think, "Hmmm, that’s weird," until I found the soup. At least, we think it was soup. It could have been a stew, a gumbo or maybe something even worse.
We found the soup sitting on its own chair, that was pushed into a corner. It sat alone, somehow undisturbed, even though just minutes before, people were pressed into the bar asses-to-elbows, sweating up the windows. It was in a large, 2.5 gallon-sized Ziplock bag. The bag was so full, the sides of it were bellowing out like an over-filled water balloon. The contents were brown, with cut vegetables and potatoes inside (so we think). The thing is, what made this so strange, is there was literally no way to open the bag—even a little bit—without everything flowing everywhere. It was that full. It was so full, we carried it to the trash like a bomb about to explode. What made this so weird was, first, how did they fill the bag that full, zip it up and not get it everywhere? Next, why would you bring it to the most packed dance night in the city? Sure, it could have been someone’s shift meal they wanted to take home...but, bags of any kind weren’t allowed at this particular event, and it was the middle of summer, so a large coat was out of the question. It was filled so full and was pressurized so delicately, I can’t imagine it being concealed anywhere, in any way. We threw the soup away, but the questions still remain. How? Why? Was that really soup?
Don’t worry, no animals were harmed. This is a sad story, however. I worked at a bar where I worked alone on shift. This is never ideal for a woman, especially closing. This bar was a dive—the kind that opens at 7am and serves all the way until illegality. The sad sort of place, where you see the kind of drinkers that are dead-people walking. Zombies (not all of them, of course). I spent a year at this bar, made a lot of friends and learned a lot. It was definitely a style of bartending I’d never done before. I also saw a lot of dark shit. A story for a different article, maybe...
One night, I was closing. I can’t remember exactly what had happened before I got the last person finally out and turned the key on the door, locking myself in. I remember I was over it that night. I remember just wanting to clean, do the till and get the fuck out of there. I wanted my shift drink, too. As I did every night, I took the big flashlight we had and looked in every booth, on the floor and in the bathrooms, to make sure there wasn’t anyone still in there or hiding. As a woman working alone, this is a big safety concern. No one was there and to my surprise, the floor looked pretty good. I started to close up. As I did then (and, as I still do now), in complete silence. After being shouted at, talking over everyone and music blaring, nothing fills me with more peace at the end of the night as complete silence.
I was counting out my till and I heard something. I was well-accustomed to all the little noises this bar makes. The fridge, ice machine, etc. The noise was quiet, but definitely not a normal one. It was a very small, high-pitched squeak. "A fucking rat." That’s what I thought. We call them "bar kittens" and they are nothing out of the normal. I got the flashlight and followed the sound. The closer I followed the little squeak, the more it didn’t sound like a bar kitten. Possum? Squeaky gear in the equipment? I shone the light under a cabinet that housed our towels and I got a reflection of two eyes looking back at me. What the fuck is it? I got a piece of cheese out of the fridge and offered it to whatever was under the cabinet.
A small, black animal appeared. It was a dachshund puppy. I had no idea how long he’d been under there. We didn’t allow dogs and I definitely didn’t see one on my shift. He had a collar, but no tags. I thought maybe he snuck in, undetected and was scared to leave because of all the people. I got him water and made him a little bed. By now it was 3:30 am. I couldn’t leave him there. I decided I’d take him home for the night and my own jealous dog can just deal with it. I’d post fliers and online ads first thing in the morning. He was scared, but so sweet. I was sure he was someone’s new puppy that somehow got out. He was so tiny, I could see him squeezing under a fence or running out the door without detection.
I was turning off the lights of the bar and doing my last walk-through, about to set the alarm, when there was a loud bang on the door. I was scared. We were long closed and I was alone. It was a woman with wild hair. I grabbed the bar weapon and approached the door. I yelled, "We’re closed!" She yelled back that she had left her dog there. I was pissed. I cracked the door and I asked her to explain. She was wasted—beyond wasted, with eyes that couldn’t focus. She said she was drinking at the bar earlier in the day and left her puppy there. She had just woken up and realized what she had done. I told her to wait. I called animal control. There was no answer. It was 3:30am. I called the police. They advised that if the dog looks in good health, I should release the animal to her with reasonable proof of ownership. The entire time I was on the phone, she was drumming her fingers on the door. I asked her for proof of ownership. She showed me pictures from her social media on her phone. I took down her name and gave her the poor dog. How fucked up do you have to be to leave your dog? I later filed a police report and a report with animal services. I hope that little guy is okay.
I was working a pretty routine night. A customer came to me and told me that I needed to look at the right hand bathroom. He looked a little grossed out and didn’t want to say why. This happens a lot. People throw up, forget to flush some atrocity, or sometimes, worse. I thanked him and got on my "bathroom kit." This consists of rubber gloves, industrial-strength bleach, towels, container of water, trash bag and a dab of well vodka under each nostril (to block smells). I went in expecting the worst.
In my time at this particular bar, I had cleaned up every horror imaginable: blood, shit, countless gallons of piss and vomit. I’ve gone in and had to help someone who has passed out with shit running down his legs. Heroin addicts tied off, with the needle still in their arm. You literally never know what you’re going to see, when you open that door. That night, I saw a clean and pleasant-smelling bathroom. Cautious, I looked around. I opened the toilet tank lid, as upper-deckers weren’t uncommon. Then, I saw it.
Someone took off their colostomy bag and sat it rather unceremoniously on the toilet paper dispenser. I had never seen one before, but I knew what it was. It was full of urine and the hose attached was dripping on the floor. This shouldn’t be part of the job, but it is. You can’t just leave it. You can’t put an "out of order" sign on the door and expect someone else to do it for you. If the bathroom gets fucked up on your shift, YOU deal with it. I put my gloves on and prepared to throw it away. I grasped the bag and it was still warm. It then occurred to me, people who need this, need this. This item is for medical assistance. Sometimes for serious issues.
Since it was still pretty warm, I could reasonably assume that the person was maybe still in my bar. This proved to be a problem. I couldn’t make an announcement. I couldn’t leave it in there, because people would be weirded out. I couldn’t profile the customers, go up and shoulder tap, asking "are you missing a bag?" What do I do? Someone is quickly going to be in need and is probably going to be very embarrassed. I don’t know how much a colostomy bag costs, but if I know anything about the American healthcare system, this bag of pee is probably worth $1,000. I took the trash bag out of my clean-up kit and bagged the thing—tying it very tight. I put it behind the bar in our lost-and-found area and told my coworker. What else could I do? I looked at it all night. I worried about the person who left it. Yes, it was gross. No one came for it. Normally, we keep lost items for 30 days. Not this time.
I would say it’s not terribly uncommon for a bartender to find a gun. Maybe it is in Portland. When I was a bartender in my hometown, it was quite a bit rougher, with tons of gang activity and guns happened on occasion—I hate them. My dad was a Vietnam vet and a member of the N.R.A. We won’t get political here, but I don’t necessarily agree with the right to bear arms. Anyway, I was working in a real shithole. The kind of place you don’t enter if, you’re a normal person. The kind of place where if someone won $40 or more on the lotto machine, they were likely to get followed home and get stabbed for the jackpot. I say that, because it happened. I was desperate for a job and I took it. Many shady things transpired there, but the strangest for me, was at closing time, finding a black revolver in the toilet. It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. I leaned my face in to peer at it, to see if it was real. It certainly looked real. I got a pair of gloves. I stuck my index finger into the ice cold, fetid water and nudged it. It had weight—definitely not a toy. The side of it had been filed down. Freshly filed. Debris from the gun’s surface was floating in the water.
Listen here, I’m no cop and I hate guns, but I’ve watched enough true crime shows to know that the serial number was filed down. There are few reasons to have a gun and even fewer to have one with the serial numbers removed. I wasn’t fucking with this any more. I called the police. When they heard what bar it was, they certainly took their time. It was a shady spot, full of shady people. It took almost two hours for them to come, but I waited—scared to death. They photographed things, interviewed me and took it away. It was later used in a high-profile case against a local criminal. I quit that job the very next day. Not because of the gun, necessarily. Because of the environment. This was just the final straw. To this day, I don’t know if that toilet present was used to take anyone’s life.
