9. Karma’s My Barback

It’s a kink for some, a warning for others. It is sung by all great musicians. A sadomasochist’s or a Cenobite’s wet dream. You can leave the leather, the poppers, and the Lament Configuration at home.

“Karma” is defined by an executed work or deed. That which transcends that action circles back. It’s the one thing most religious texts have in common. “You reap what you sow” (Galatians 6:7–9); “Whatever good deed man does that is inside the Vedi; and whatever evil he does that is outside the Vedi”( Shatapatha Brahmana 11.2.7.33); “…whatever energy a person puts out into the world, be it positive or negative, will be returned to that person three times” (Wiccan/Neo-Pagan Law of Three); or, in modern meme-culture, “fuck around, find out.” Which is exactly what happened on a quiet Tuesday at Home.

Karma=mx+b

Since starting his barback journey, my bar-kid Marco has found his groove. It’s the best thing a bartender can have with his barback. You can step away to the bathroom, go smoke, or pick up another side of ranch for 929 and feel confident that your barback’s got you covered. It’s why I tip Marco extra each night. It encourages him to keep up the good work. Like a good neighbor or a good car, karma also applies to tips.

That is, until this past Tuesday when I found him suddenly interested in detailing, rearranging, and restocking the prep fridge. At first, I applauded Marco for taking the initiative to detail the refrigerator on a slow night. When he spent fifteen minutes studying its contents however, I knew something was up.

The prep fridge on the patio bar contains backup fruit garnishes, cans of nitro espresso, and chilled bottles of Rumple-Minz, Jager, and Fireball. Any barback could quickly glance, see what was missing, and promptly restock. Unless you pull the mats and wipe them down, there is no need to spend more than a few moments in the fridge. Tonight? Marco was two kneeling steps away from making the prep fridge his home. He buried his face, steeling an occasional glance towards the outside, like some fettering meerkat seeking refuge from predators.

“Hey, you okay?” I asked, noticing his weird behavior.

“I’m hiding.” Marco replied.

“Since you’re hiding, can you be a dear and hand me the lemons?”

He handed me the lemons without a word.

“Is someone here making you uncomfortable?”

If there is one thing where Marco excels, it is commanding the attention of the room. The moment he removes his shirt, folks from all walks of life look his way. He is our handsome little otter, a lean man with body hair. Today, he was a skittish little squirrel, paranoid of any sudden movement.

“Not here. She’s outside. Her name’s Denise. My stalker.”

I looked outside and saw a woman who was the living version of Kristin Wiig’s Lawrence Welk character from SNL. She was perched outside at the host stand. Her face cradled in her hands as she leaned over the desk. She wore a small backpack that looked like two press-on toenails glued together. I kept wondering what someone could possibly store in that small bag. Judging by this woman’s appearance, she looked like she was still committed to finishing the Watermelon Lip Smackers chapstick she got on her 13th birthday… ‘cuz she probably ate the Dr. Pepper one thirty years ago.

I watched her more closely. My bar-dad mode went active. She was at the host stand because it gave a clear line-of-sight to our bar. Like Marco, she too glanced inside, searching for her long-lost beau, Marco.

“I don’t recognize her.” I admitted.

“That’s cuz her eye-candy usually hangs outside the restaurant. She always chooses one. Since I started barbacking, her obsession for me got worse.”

“Wouldn’t you moving in here just make her want to move on?”

“Nope. She goes to the coffee shop next to my apartment complex, waiting to wave and say hi as I walk to work. Some occasions, she’s even walked me to work.”

I looked outside again. Her hands cradled her head as she leaned in, wholly engrossed in a conversation with the host and the security guard. Sure, she makes those weird, creepy glances my way, but my homeschooler brain pitched a question: What if she needs a friend? Sure, her appearance may be off-putting, and that giant press-on-nail bag certainly isn’t doing her any favors, but she could still be a decent human being, right?

It got me thinking about my awkward homeschooler days when my efforts in establishing a connection or starting a friendship were self-sabotaged because I came off too strong. His name was Jake. He was the son of a private jet pilot and, like me, spent most of his years homeschooled. He sat next to me in homeroom, 9th grade English. It was nice to know another homeschooler was enduring his first year. Even after first period, he was doing much better than I. By lunch, he was the most popular boy in our class; this was among twenty students. Still, I was obsessed with this guy. I thought he was funny and wanted to sit next to him in every class. Yup, even Mr. Allen’s science class.

Everyone knows you’re gay…

It was that rumor that sent my hypervigilant side into overdrive. Everyone needed to know–without a shred of doubt–that I was not gay. My efforts made it more prominent and merited me into the “awkward, weird kid” category, which meant my lunches were spent with some guy named Milton who wiped his runny nose on his shirt, reuniting his phlegm with the dried food stains.

I later learned how to read a room by trial and error, copying people’s mannerisms and interests and integrating them as my own. I was desperate to have a friend in probably the same way as Denise. Only difference between us was I wasn’t doing it while ogling at the eye-candy at the host stand. Not when he conveniently seated next to me in homeroom.

Despite my urge to write her off, I tried to find mercy and forgiveness to understand her. I related to her predicament because I was also seeking the same from someone who wanted to keep his distance to heal.

only for a moment. You wrote.

“She subscribes to my YouTube channel and my Onlyfans.” Marco added.

Okay, that’s a bit much, even coming from an awkward, weird kid. It’s like finding your friend on Grindr and messaging them whenever they change their profile. Can’t you find other social sources to interact with?

“She used to mail me love letters to my apartment how I was the one for her. We eventually tossed them into the trash without reading them because she was the only person who used cartoon stamps.”

And paying for postage? An unparalleled monster.

And yet, despite his explanation of how she creeps him out, he concludes it by saying, “I’m gonna go say hi.”

“Oh no, you’re not. Go hide in the back…” I reasoned. “Maybe restock or organize the liquor room. I’ll text you when she’s gone.”

“She’s just gonna stay there until I say hi. Might as well get it over with.” Marco replied.

“You’re still new to all of this. Saying hi is the dangling carrot she needs to follow you home. She’s gonna want more.”

I say it because of personal experience…Yup, we’re now in my awkward college years, I stalked my first ex-boyfriend. Much like wanting a friend, I was desperate to belong. When he broke up with me—mind you, during Finals week, I felt myself cut off from the one thing that made me feel human: the queer community. Without it, I was back to some awkward homeschooler on the verge of expulsion because I came out to my university therapist… who recorded and relayed this information to ResLife. Frightened to traverse a gay bar alone, I went to the places he visited, hoping to find him. Every time he saw me at the bar, he came over and said hi.

My heart fluttered. He still likes me. It shrill-screamed when he hugged me. This gesture only encouraged me to cling onto him harder, until he would make out with someone else on the dance floor.

Y’all, I swear, I’m better. Promise. Now I use my stalking powers for good, like combing through the net to inform guests when they forget their card at the bar.

Oh god, why is he hugging her? Sweet bar-child of mine, have I taught you nothing?

Yeah, you like that? Damien’s voice asked me. Not so fun on this side, is it?

The imaginary Damien in my head doesn’t need this win. He also doesn’t need to be proven right either. I brushed off his voice from my head as I watched Marco and the host, Leroy, move the host stand inside the restaurant. For the bar, this meant two things: the kitchen was closed and we were thirty minutes away from last call. Trailing behind them were the security guard and Denise, the whole group chatting like they were best friends.

Marco returned to the bar. I greeted him with a sour, stern look on my face. Both of us were unaware of what followed close behind. Denise. She sat herself at my bar. Instead of taking some far corner of the bar where she could be alone with Marco, she sat right in front of my well.

“This is Pablo.” Marco announced. “He’ll be helping you out while I close.”

The fuck I will. I grimaced, setting a napkin down at my service well.

After a year and a half of working at Home, karma has looped around to bite me in the ass. Penance to suffer in the same way as Damien when Galadriel professed her undying love for her bartender. The only worse punishment than entertaining someone oblivious to social cues was facing this woman sober for the next thirty minutes.

I could feel Damien’s karma hit me full swing. Who is this unruly woman? She ordered a Diet Coke. She spotted some cherries poking out of the garnish tray and helped herself.

“Sorry,” she apologized after I scolded her.

“It’s fine. If you want a cherry, I can set some aside for you. Just ask.” I replied, setting a shotglass of cherries her way. “I don’t know where your hands have been.”

It’s not just a pet peeve of mine; it’s also unsanitary. At least, that’s what I say to anyone who tries it. You could have been fisting every hole in Hillcrest from what I know and now you gonna help yourself to my garnishes? This ain’t your local Hometown Buffet, Carl.

Marco struck up a conversation with her while he took stock of inventory. I wanted to tell her to find a spot away from my well, but no one was approaching the bar, not at last call. After scolding her once, any more of my warnings would just come off as a bully.

Marco looked my way, flashing a menacing smile. “I’m gonna go get liquor to restock.”

“The fuck you will.” I growled. “You brought this here; you deal with it.”

“Marco!” Denise hollered.

“Polo!” Marco replied. “It’s just for five minutes. She’ll be leaving soon.”

But she didn’t. She remained, even after last call. Is that oblivious girl at the bar who can’t read the room? I sure as hell wasn’t going to strike up a conversation with this Alex-from-Fatal-Attraction on the rise. sipping on the remains of her diet Coke at the bottom of her glass and talking with our security guard, Miguel.

“You good if I go?” Miguel asked. “It’s just her at the bar.”

“You can’t get her out?”

“She’ll leave soon. She’s harmless…and weird.”

“Fine, get out of here.”

He hugged me, then flipped me around to massage my back. “You all wound-up, fool!” He said, digging his elbow into my back.”

“I can massage better than him. Wanna see?” Denise said, reaching her hands towards me.

I dodged out of the way. Miguel left the bar, excusing himself for nearly going overtime.

“C’mon. Lemme show you.” Denise offered.

“I’m good, Denise. Maybe you should finish your drink before you head out.”

“Where’s Marco?”

For his sake, doing his job. I thought. “Restocking liquor.”

“I want to wait until I say goodbye. Can I get a small refill until he gets back?”

“I gotta close this bar. Miguel left for the night.”

“Oh, I’m friends with him. He won’t mind.”

I do. I grimaced but stayed quiet. Torn between my obligations as a bartender versus someone who just wants to go home.

Marco returned to find an empty bar. I was closing out our checks. All that remained of our unwanted guest was her empty cup of Diet Coke and her shot glass of cherries.

“She finally leave?” Marco asked, setting a box of liquor bottles down.

“Yup. She got the hint.” I replied. “You gonna be a big boy and tell her next time?”

“Not when you’re my bartender.”

“Yeah, you owe me so many shots for this one.”

“Fine, the Loft once we’re done here?”

“I was hoping you’d never ask.” I swooned.

Thirty minutes later, we stepped into the Loft. “I’ll go find us a seat.” I offered.

I found a spot in the corner, where I watched Marco carry three shot glasses. His gaze wholly focused on not spilling them as he travelled over. What threw him off was hearing a familiar, “Marco!” from where I sat.

He looked up to see me sitting across the table from Denise. There was a seat right next to her. He slapped a quick smile as he set the shots down.

“When did you get here?” Marco asked.

Right after I kicked her out of the bar. “Look, you seem nice and all,” I said thirty minutes earlier, feigning nice, “but I gotta close this bar down.”

“Oh, okay.” She said, crestfallen. “Can you tell Marco I said bye?”

“How ‘bout this….meet us over at the Loft? It’ll give you a good time to catch up with Marco after work.”

Marco handed me the two shot glasses. I took one right after the other before I stood up. “Be right back.”

Marco’s eyes pleaded. Don’t leave me.

“I’ll be back. I drank a shit ton of water.”

Marco watched as I tried the bathroom closest to the bar. Locked. So I made my way outside, where there were more stalls available. Only, I took a little detour. I snuck around the back where there were art installments….and an emergency exit door. It’s a door leading to the trash, but that opened up to the alley.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m home and in bed when I get a text message: you still in the bathroom? It was Marco. She’s getting weird.

I simply sent him a picture of me in bed. Nope, I’m home. Tell her.

Later that week, moved by my gesture of kindness, Denise started to sit at my bar. Every Tuesday. She thanked me for getting some alone time with Marco.

You win, Damien.

She sat in my section for six weeks. Yup, you guessed it. I was her next target, until she fell in love with our new security guard, a muscley-ex-military man, who would later retreat inside at my bar.