Job Description: BARTENDER

After working five years as an editor and translator in New York, I decided I needed a change of pace. That's why I picked up my family (a wife, an 18-month old daughter, and a Samoyed husky) and moved to Townsend, Vermont (Pop. 729), about 30 miles north of Brattleboro (where my wife and I would occasionally go for dinner and a movie).

After a two-week job search, I was hired as the night bartender -- 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift -- at Rick's Tavern, which, for a guy who had just been living for seven years in Manhattan and Brooklyn, qualified as a "back-woods bar and pizza joint."

At Rick's, the night bartender's job was to take the tops off of long neck Budweiser bottles and make the occasional disgusting cocktail: Cap'n Morgan and Coke, Seagram's 7 and 7-Up. The bartender has to keep the bar clean, serve customers at the bar and provide beverages for the wait staff in the restaurant. He was also the last person to leave the restaurant early in the morning, so he had to count the till, put it in the safe, lock all the doors, and turn out all the lights.

So you can better understand the ins-and-outs of a night bartender's life, I'll describe the three main aspects of my job:

• Peacekeeper 
• Babysitter 
• Enforcer

Peacekeeper

Alcohol, guns, and emotions are a volatile combination -- and sometimes they get out of hand. It's the bartender's job to keep the peace so that all parties remain civil and safe. 

Clyde was an affable man who came to the bar once every couple of weeks. Trouble started when Cheryl, the woman Clyde was dating, and who worked as a ski pro at a small ski resort down the road, also started seeing her manager at the ski resort. One night, Clyde stumbled in drunk, asking whether Cheryl had been there. I said I didn't know, and Clyde shouted, "You're lying. Just to show you what I think of you, I'm going to take out the entire bar with my Uzi. I've got 500 rounds of ammunition in my van." When I expressed skepticism, Clyde said, "Come on out and see for yourself." A friend took over the bar while I headed to parking lot, looked in the back of Clyde's van and determined he was telling the truth. I talked to him about the importance of using his firearms appropriately, that Cheryl was clearly not worth his committing capital offenses and getting put behind bars for life -- or worse.

I won't lie and say I wasn't scared for the rest of the evening, but around midnight, Clyde came in -- sober now -- ordered a Coke and thanked me for the good advice. As far as I know, Clyde never used his Uzi on girlfriends or bartenders he was angry at.

Babysitter

Inevitably, part of a night bartender's job is to care for his customers and make sure they do not cause themselves or others undue harm. 

At 21, Kyle was already a depressive alcoholic. Kyle's drink was the aforementioned Cap'n Morgan and Coke. I was always nervous about serving him after a certain point in the evening, when he would climb into his AMC Gremlin and somehow arrive home alive every evening, and return the next night not having killed anyone.

I was so relieved after working at Rick's for several months when Kyle traded his Gremlin for a Rottweiler, whom he named Hagler. I'm terrified of dogs, and especially mean ones named after boxing champions. But Hagler was different. He became both Kyle's babysitter -- relieving me of my duties in this regard -- and mine, as well. I always felt safe when Hagler was curled up at my feet behind the bar.

Enforcer

Kyle was also the youngest of eight in a family dominated by his father, who had been an amateur boxing champion in Vermont. He felt he had a lot to live up to. His biceps were the size of my waist before I developed a beer belly.

One night, during the holidays, Stacy, a girl Kyle had liked in high school, stopped by to have a drink. "What will you have?" I asked. Before Stacy could reply, Kyle said, "A pitcher of Kamikazes, on me." Right after Kyle asked for the second pitcher of Kamikazes, Bart, a classmate of Kyle and Stacy's, stopped in. Stacy's face lit up. I could tell there was going to be trouble. Bart and Stacy had gone off to college, and were home for winter break. Kyle had traded his car for a dog.

At some point during the second pitcher of Kamikazes -- contrary to my fears, the trio seemed to be getting along as they reminisced over old times -- I had to go downstairs and change out the Genesee keg, which had tapped out. When I got back upstairs, Kyle was holding a chair over Bart's head and Stacy was screaming for Kyle to put the chair down. I strode over, put my hand gently but firmly on the bicep Kyle was using to hold the chair and told him to put it down and go home. For half a second, he looked like he'd bring the chair down on MY head. Instead he put it down, whined "It's not fair," and after glaring at Stacy, walked out of the bar. He and Hagler returned the next day as if nothing had happened.

It was the year that the Patriots, the Red Sox and the Celtics all went to their respective national championships. They were all teams that my patrons at Rick's Tavern followed. Songs the patrons wore out on the jukebox were Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," Heart's "Barracuda," and Jefferson Starship's "We Built This City."

Passive Sentences: 2%
Flesch Reading Ease: 71.1
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 8

My 18-month old daughter, Sarah, 
and our Samoyed husky, Daphne. 
Townsend, Vermont