My advice to you: Don’t get old. Not even a little bit. Now that we have that out of the way, we can begin. I say this because once again the demons crept in on me at work last night. The little devils who whisper in my ear, “You can’t do this forever. How long can you do this for? Are you going to be behind this bar until you’re 50? 60? What does the future hold for you? Where will you end up?”

What is the deep seed of regret that haunts The Aging Bartender? When was it planted? My journals from the early days of waiting tables in New York, when I first started in the front of the house, tell me I wasn’t too happy back then either. I had arrived at an odd place in my life. Moving from Vermont to New York, from green, open spaces and all my family and life long friendships, to a giant, grim, filthy megalopolis was a bit of a shock to the system. No, I’m not being honest enough. It was a lightning bolt of pure weirdness right down the middle of my spine, zapping my central nervous system into a torpor.

When I first moved to New York I was afraid to take the trains anywhere. Being underground scared the living shit out of me. The whole place was intimidating. The massive foreboding buildings of the Upper West Side. The hellacious winds blowing through the avenues. I would look down and see row upon row of brown apartments as far as the eye could see. How? I often asked myself. How is this all possible? I still ask that question about Los Angeles. At what point did all of this get so out of control? These enormous swaths of human development that formed like bacterial overgrowths overnight? Wonderful and puzzling all at once.

Could I even exist in some sort of green again or am I so far gone now, a soft city boy, that living in a place with trees and grass is beyond me now? Would I get bored being in the woods? Where would I work? In some podunk bar with a jukebox full of country music and Bud Light on draft? Yes, these are more of the demons haunting my thoughts. LA. Goddam LA. Am I doomed to live here and tend bar until the wheels fall off or at least until I qualify for social security?

Five minutes before service started I was rearranging the bar shelf in the walk in, these particular demons buzzing me, and all of a sudden I heard two crashes. Yes, a bartender’s worst nightmare. Two quart size delis, full of sherbet, both found their way to the floor. One, lime, one blood orange, respectively. I just stood there, frozen in place, and watched them ooze out and spread over the red brick colored tiled floor, knowing what a hassle the clean up would be.

Jacob opened the door and handed me a mop, a grand gesture of kindness, and I proceeded to mop and rinse, mop and rinse, until the walk in floor was clean (it still stuck to the bottoms of everyone’s shoes like the proverbial movie theater floor for the entire evening, sorry guys). But wait, more clean up awaited me. Blood orange sherbet had found its way onto the tops of many lexans and I had to do the careful shuffle of shame through the kitchen to the dish pit and switch them all out.

Afterwards, my mind swimming, I completely lost a precious pint of fermented Kyoto carrot syrup that I swore I had finished on Wednesday. Nowhere to be found. Angel and I combed the walk in. Nothing. Under my breath I cursed the kitchen. They must have used it for something. They threw it out. Many thoughts blaming others coursing through my head, I asked Chef and she said she knew nothing about it. Then, I began to think I was the crazy one. Did I actually finish prepping the syrup or did I imagine or dream that I did?

Service began. I stared at the near empty bottle of Kyoto carrot syrup we use in a mezcal cocktail called Cardigan Phase. I could squeeze out maybe two orders. Of course, the only thought in my head was Murphy’s Law. We’d get blasted with Cardigan Phase after Cardigan Phase all night simply because the syrup was low. Now, to any non restaurant workers, this seems insane, but it actually happens–whatever ingredient you’re lowest on will sell the most. Yes, it’s true.

And so I committed a culinary sin. I took the Kyoto carrot syrup, popped the pour spout off and with a look of total shame in my eyes, took the bottle of simple syrup and added a healthy dose, enough to take us through the night if need be. Minutes after this, Chef came behind the bar holding a full pint deli and asked, “Is this the carrot syrup you’re looking for?” What the hell? Angel and I looked at one another in disbelief.

The funny/unfunny part of it all. We ended up selling zero Cardigan Phases all night. Usually a pretty popular cocktail. Fuck you, Murphy.

And so, the point of this whole weird blog post. We went out to Sonny McLean’s for Tyler’s last night. It seemed like a great idea around 9:30. Wings and beer. Believe it or not, I rarely go out at all. I’m old. I get up real early. People are always surprised by that. They think I’m some sort of rolling stone. Out all hours going from one bar to the next and discussing mai tai specs with other bartenders in the wee hours of the night. Nope. I have a two year old son and wife to be. He gets up around 6:30 most days which means we also get up around 6:30. If I get home and into bed by 11 it’s a good thing.

The instant we arrived at Sonny’s at 11 I knew it was a bad idea. The fatigue had already set in but goddam that first cold Miller High Life went down like a force carbonated fevered dream of lost youth. The spicy wings, fresh out of the fryer, dipped in blue cheese dressing. Some laughs, discussion of work among my compatriots. Unforced smiles. Just being out and unconfined. Oh man. I needed it. I went and bought another round for me and Angel and as the second beer funneled down my gullet I realized it would be the one to make my following morning somewhat painful.

I started this post by telling you not to get old because when you do you’ll find out the hard way that even two late night beers will make you toss and turn at night, churn your guts, rip your ass apart, especially while roaring amidst a cruel stew of fryer oil, barely chewed chicken, and Frank’s Red Hot. The bloat was real. As I walked home, I thought to myself, “Did my father ever do this?” Stripping down for bed I looked at my naked body in the mirror, my belly distended, stretched taut like too small yoga pants over enormous butt cheeks. A man, somehow eight months pregnant.