Wild Men

Where I work is a special place. Special good, special bad. For instance, I'm currently sitting at the bar before my shift tonight to utilize the wi-fi while I apply for more real jobs and start this blog properly, and one of the local bums, Wild Man, walks in.

What's interesting about my bar is that we allow bums in. On principle, I'm actually mostly okay with it. Just because you don't shower and smell, doesn't mean that you can't enjoy a beer at a bar with proper payment. If we banned all smelly and homeless patrons, our hippie following (and friends) would also be banned. The issue, though, there is that, as a server, I need my compensation. Our solution: go to the bar for service. It's not worth our time to hurry to get your cheap pitcher or shot of well bourbon for no addition to my measly $2.13 wage. Bartenders act as managers here, so their sextupled wage is worth losing a dollar to the homeless. On Sundays the bums from down the BP come in for $5 High Life pitchers all day. We've taught them to go to the bar after months of no tip.

Wild Man is my favorite of our bums. He's respectful to everyone, doesn't call me "baby," and always has money to pay his tab and tip his bartender. Granted, I can barely understand a word he says besides his shouts of "Wild Man!", but he's still lovely as he marches out the door is camo pants, volleyball sweatshirt, and combat boots. Then he waves to some person or car on the corner. Completely atypical of my experience with bums on the Atlanta streets and inside the restaurant walls.

Despite our sketchy patrons, I still like working here. It's the most laid-back and only independent restaurant I've ever worked in, and, to boot, I love my coworkers. When I'm not working, I'm often sitting here with them or making plans with them. They make nights worth working when I walk home from a fourteen-hour shift with fifty bucks.

However, as my two-year mark has eclipsed, I've felt the need to move on. I need to stop smelling like stale pizza and alcohol when I hop in my car, and I need a job where I'm respected.

And, at that, it's time for me to change into my smelly shirt and jeans for a night of college football and cheap shots.