20. Bully on 5th Street

Those who fail to understand the lessons of history are doomed to repeat it.

Days after returning from Palm Springs, I stood at Benny’s well. He practically jumped back when he saw the wry grin on my face. I could hardly contain my excitement. I think that’s what worried him. Instead of overreacting, he kept me humble.

“Did you finally get laid?” Benny asked, then when I didn’t respond. “What got you so worked up?”

I had some tea to spill. “Guess who finally learned his lesson?”

“I know for a fact it’s not you.”

I frowned. He doubled down. “What? you think I don’t know your tells by now? I know when you’re drunk, when you’re brooding, or when you disagree with something a manager says in a meeting. This face, however, it’s new, but I know it well. It screams it’s from someone else’s bad luck. The smile gave it away. So you better make this story quick, Walter’s on a good one tonight.”

It started off as an invitation:

I contemplated the message and debated spending time with its sender. It seems that every time we have hung out, he has nonchalantly told people I was the reason he got fired: “If only he didn’t order that shot of Hornitos, I’d still have a job at Home.” After all my hard work to earn my shifts, his comment just sours the evening.

Now I know how Samara feels leaving that well. Can you imagine her grip strength? It probably takes the bitch seven days just to scale that narrow, moldy passage, only to get knocked back down because Naomi Watts tells you she’s not your fucking mommy. Bitch, I’d be mad too.

Still, I knew I would end up sulking at home, recovering from the post-vacay blues, so why not have a drink, if only to commiserate?

“Want another drink, sucia?” The bartender, Wren, asked.

“I’ll wait for Dominic to get here. He said he was on his way.”

“Unless if he didn’t make some Sniffies stop along the way?” Wren suggested.

“Must be nice to be ready that quickly…top privileges.” I resigned as Wren poured a shot for him and I. “How’ve you been? You enjoy the rest of your time out in Palm Springs?”

“Yeah,” Wren nodded, “then came back here and now my schedule is fucked.”

“Why is that?”

Wren met my gaze. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Sorry, I’m late!” Dominic heralded taking a seat next to me.

Wren stepped away from our spot. All momentum lost as Dominic explained his late arrival. Wren was right. He was already a couple shots in. He stopped by Home, then that bathhouse, Vulcan, and a quick shot at his bar gig at the Bamboo Lounge before coming here, forty-five minutes late. He sat next to me. Jameson and lube clung to his aura as he leaned in for a hug.

“I invited Patrick to come too.”

“Who’s Patrick?”

“Some trick I met over at Vulcan. He wanted to meet my brother. Oh, here he is.”

“Bar brother.” I clarified.

“Right. That’s what I meant. Usual shots?”

“Yup.”

Dominic flagged Patrick over. The man was beefy, even the leather vest could hardly contain the skin yearning to break free. He extended his large paw out to me. I shook it while Dominic ordered the shots.

It’s always fun to start a conversation with someone new, especially when you know they too have a sticky and sweaty coating around them. How does one even start a conversation with a stranger who was fucking in a dark corner of the bathhouse?

“So you two met at the Vulcan.” I daydreamed asking. “How were the slings this time of year?”

Before I could break the ice, Dominic beat me by showing off with one of his favorites. It’s a new one, but sure can strike a chord. “Oh, Pablo’s the reason why I got fired at Home bar. Cheers.”

We swallowed the shots. Patrick kissed Dominic before he excused himself to go to the bathroom. I sighed in relief, as I could seize this opportunity to confront him.

When he has dropped that bomb in the past, there was always some random third party in the mix. So, either I bring it up, kill the conversation, and risk embarrassing myself, or perhaps wait for a moment when we could be alone…like this one.

Stand up for yourself. I heard Benny encourage from a Palm Springs bungalow.

“Hey, can you stop making me as the reason why you got fired?”

“It’s true.”

“Did I order shots? Yes, but we also drank before work with dad. Or did you forget that?”

“You could have reminded me to close out your tab.”

“You’re a big boy, ain’t you? Or is Patrick here as your life coach so you can adult properly?”

“You didn’t have to order those shots that day.”

“I didn’t. Damien didn’t. You poured them. I won’t be your scapegoat any longer. You arrived to work drunk. You bullied Cameron and Pedro when you boasted that you could easily outsell them, and both of them complained about you that night. Then you used their numbers to start a tab for two shots.”

Dominic stayed quiet.

“I still love you and you’re still my bar brother, but I won’t stand for being the reason why your life sucks. Take responsibility.”

“Oh, like your affair?”

He tried to hit me where it hurts. I smiled and nodded. “Perfect example. I’m correcting that mistake. You gonna start sometime soon or do you like the taste of your scabs?”

If things were different, it would have been easy to be vulnerable. The last time we had an honest conversation was our first drive to Palm Springs, where he told me about his exile to live in San Diego. He built a whole life with hard work and making the right connections. Is it terrifying to fall from such great heights? Of course it is, but we all love a comeback story. He doesn’t want people to know when he is hurting because it makes him vulnerable to attack.

It could be the reason why I drink so much. I wanted to feel numb. I want them to be tomorrow’s problems. I cope with reality in the form of tequila and vodka in the same way Dominic is fucking, a moment to indulge, to disassociate just until the buzz wears off.

I was —and perhaps, still am — afraid to get too close because he might use it against me, especially when he is drinking. Being called out was the realization that I could easily take my leave. We don’t work together anymore; all that hangs on our friendship is a text thread, and this shot is in my hand. I stayed because I wanted to work through this mess. It may not be my creation, but I wanted to help us pursue new avenues for our friendship.

Which is why he softened up. “I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“It’s just, I just got told Bamboo is closing. They will shut down and reopen as a new concept, Brick Bar.”

“Good thing you still have that bakery. How’s that going?”

“Good. They want me to run the district.”

“That’s good! You’ll do great there!”

“Yeah, but a part of me wishes I didn’t fuck up. Maybe we could open a bar together.”

I could only respond with a warm smile to humor a fleeting thought but also delivered a solid “no.” Norma Desmond would be proud.

I did not wish to go down that rabbit hole. I can barely keep the pulse alive on my credit score. Even a succulent died in my care, the one plant that, I was told, was impossible to kill.

“I think the days of managing and running a bar are behind me.” I said.

We continued talking, as if trying to find the banter within our jokes. After a couple duds, we found it. Soon, we were laughing about some dumb thing Hudson did last Saturday. I missed it. I stayed with him until I got a text from one of my coworkers. Shemergency. Meet at Number 1’s?

Be there in twenty.

Anytime I have trouble opening up a jar, I often recite this mantra to get things unstuck: “I’m an independent woman. I don’t need no man.” Nine times out of ten, the jar will unlock. Validated, I will heave a sigh of relief before resuming my cooking. Things will get unstuck if you cry hard enough. Just like that butch queen incantation, I felt an immense relief standing up for myself. To quote Trixie Mattel, “Not only do I don’t need no man….I, like, don’t need no man.”

I walked down University Avenue with an extra pep in my step. As I approached the patio at Number 1’s, I saw a group of bartenders standing around a familiar face: Chuck’s. At first glance, it was like staring at a Renaissance painting of a group lamenting over Jesus. I haven’t really seen him at Home following our Baja adventure. They caught my gaze and smiled. One of them, my coworker Oliver, sent me the Shemergency text.

Oliver works Saturday shifts with me as a server. By Damien’s decree, he too is from the House of Diablo, first in his name. Not only is he quick with some snappy retort, he also worked with Damien when Home was open during Lockdown. Against Dominic’s opinion, he is the eldest.

A fun game to play while working a Saturday shift is betting how long into the shift until he starts bitching about the shift. “Marsha P. Johnson threw a brick at Stonewall for some faggot at 217 to complain about how long it took for him to get his chicken strips? Get fucked.”

Oliver flashed a look my way. Like shit, tea doth trickle downstream.

“Who died?” I asked.

My fellow bar sisters looked at me, disgusted. Have you no class? Their faces seemed to ask.

“My career!” Chuck shouted. “I can’t fucking believe them. It’s these stupid sensitive kids these days.”

I was confused. “Something tells me I’m gonna need a shot for what’s next. Want one, Chuck? Oliver?”

“I’ll go with you.” Oliver agreed, linking arms with me and whispering, “biiiiiiiiittch…” in my ear as we approached the bar.

Oliver caught me up on Chuck’s dilemma. Charley’s fired him for creating a toxic work environment for barbacks. Three barbacks came forward, complaining that he was rude and impatient, and berating his support staff to tears. To avoid a lawsuit, the owners of Charley’s decided to cut their losses and fire their star bartender. This is what Wren was trying to tell me before Dominic arrived.

“…my schedule is fucked. How’m I gonna pay rent?”

We stepped back outside. The group remained close to Chuck as I handed him a shot. Despite Oliver’s explanation, I wanted to hear it from the prize-winning horse’s mouth. “What happened?”

“Some people aren’t cracked up to be in this industry.” Chuck explained. “All I was doing was preparing them. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, like you didn’t do anything wrong in Baja?” I asked.

Now Chuck was the one to flash a disgusted look my way. “Whose side are you even on?” He asked.

It’s always in times like this when several things happen at once. In that moment, everything stopped. The music was between tracks, the world took a pause, just long enough for everyone in the bar to hear what you just fucking said.

“It just screams you didn’t learn your lesson from before. You run your mouth, as if whatever you will say will classified as funny. Or, even if it is mean, they’ll just excuse it for you being ‘sassy.’”

“That’s because I’m a funny person. People love me. They come to my bar specifically for me. Has that ever happened to you?”

“Fingers crossed, it happens this weekend.” I said, schluffing his words off. “I got rent to pay.”

Perhaps this is what I get for doing one too many shots…or maybe it was the byproduct of standing up for myself. Or maybe, Damien’s hazings prepared me for this very moment. I felt alive. In my drunken delusions, I wanted to be the patron saint for barbacks who also identify as victims of the mean things said by this Dollar General version of Regina George.

“I just don’t know where you found the right to have an opinion over me being fired.” Chuck scoffed. “It’s insensitive.”

Chuck’s friends agreed, consoling their friend. Still, I kept going.

“C’mon, you remember, right? You said some mean things to Johnny on his birthday. How he’ll never be a bartender? Did you apologize then?”

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up over all of this?”

“I’m not.” I was. “I find it fascinating how you appoint yourself the victim when you failed to learn your lesson. Your words hurt people, even those excused as you being “sassy.” You can’t even answer my question without misdirecting it. You’d make a great politician.”

I saw the humor in his folly. Those unwilling to change history are doomed to repeat it.

“Sorry, I’m wasting my time. This isn’t your first time getting fired for this, is it?”

“He’s been fired from most of the gay bars for this reason, Pablo.” Benny later explained. “Then he said that shit to Johnny and it’s no wonder why he’s now out of a job at Charley’s.”

“Which bars are even left?” I asked.

“Probably Sausage Party or that straight bar up the street.” Benny replied. “He could get a job at Les Bros, but he’d have to apologize to Johnny. ” Benny replied.

“I’m sure your husband would love to hear this good news.”

“Oh he will. He’s still at Les Bros if you wanna stop by on your way home.” Benny added. “I gotta get back to work. But I’m proud of you. My boy’s growing up.”

I smiled, racing out the door to make it to Les Bros before they closed down.

I don’t know why I got on this soapbox of self-righteousness. Of all people to be critical, I make the worst example. Perhaps I just got tired of people scapegoating others to paint themselves as victims.

We’ve all had a playground bully—someone who rules the space with an iron fist and a commanding voice. During recess, we caved into the bully’s demands. He wants to be on that particular swing. Move. You did, because you didn’t want to be made fun of for crying in class after he slammed your head into the sliding pole.

Funny how one day you wake up tired of his bullshit. Push someone far enough, they are bound to come back swinging. Is it burrowing unhappiness, or is Benny’s wisdom truly rising to the surface? No matter the playground, office space, or small town gay bar, I now refuse to be made small so others can feel superior. Did it take a whole lifetime to dismantle my upbringing to get here? Yes, but better late than never.