Barback Blogs: The Bartender wants his mommy.

For the most part, taking care of The Bartender has been quite easy. When he complains about the pain I give him another happy pill; when he gets cranky, another happy pill; when he gets surly, happy pill; when he’s content, fuck it, happy pill. Better to keep him in the fog of narcotic bliss.

Since his surgery last Monday where they removed his two gargantuan tonsils he has eaten 3 gallons of ice cream and a few pints of assorted sorbets, which may not seem very significant except that that has been all that he’s eaten. I tried to feed him hummus and he spat his stinky clotted spit on me and yelled for more chunky monkey, and because his uvula is as big as grown man’s thumb it sounded like, "chunee! moneeee!". The faithful barback that I am, I obeyed his command with a smile and skipped off to kitchen where I served up a bowl Chunky Monkey and painkiller sprinkles. As a barback, one must be able to read his or her bartender’s mind; to know instinctively when they need more ice or red bull. I knew The Bartender needed another painkiller, several in fact, without him even saying so. The bartender and the barback are nature’s perfect team -two symbiotic creatures that without one, the other would surely die. The Bartender may be a hard man to work for. He’s mean, and doesn’t tip me well, but I know I’m getting a good education for when the day comes that The Bartender retires he will pass his mighty bar key to me and I may become a bartender. The hope of all barbacks. Nursing The Bartender back to health has taught me a few things. First of all, strong men also cry. In the drug induced stupor after the surgery The Bartender cried out for his mother. Blood staining his teeth and dribbling from his mouth he begged me to get his mommy for him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had passed away a few years ago. The nurses just about cried. And these are hardened, public hospital nurses, by the way, who have seen real tragedy. The nurses got over it pretty quick and with the narcotics coursing through his veins The Bartender was over it pretty quick too. The nurses called the liquid painkiller in the syringe "mother." It reminded me of liquid jesus. The second thing that I learned is that no matter how badly you want to see what somebody’s severed tonsils look like, don’t ask to see them, because they will show you, and it will make you want to vomit. When The Bartender looked closely at his severed organs: a kind a grayish pink chunk of flesh that had been filleted into a long, curly strip. I could barely keep myself from vomiting. The Bartender calmly noted, laughing a little bit in a momentary lapse of agony, "It looks like that damned cobra-juice that got me in this mess in the first place."