The owner, Chad, ignored my incompetence, trusting me—a deferential and eager Englishman—to do my best. I did, but I also allowed myself some “slippage”—what the industry calls the profits lost to sneaky bartenders.We all stole, as it was easy money: Chad spent more time drunk in front of the bar than measuring the liquor levels behind it. Add to this the tips and $10 an hour, and on good days I’d come home with several hundred bucks and hands covered in chalk from hours spent practicing. It was my perfect job.
Then I got fired. I hadn’t been caught, but one of the other bartenders, a charming Southern actor, told Chad I’d been calling him an asshole.
The irony is that “asshole” was flattering. Without overstating things, Chad was a neatly goateed, beady-eyed, hockey-fightloving, egomaniacal, mid-life calamity of a white-and-wealthy Connecticuter. He said his last name could be traced back to the Mayflower, and he was often open about his racism, raising the price on “black” drinks (like Hpnotiq and Alizé), removing hip-hop from the jukebox and shouting: “I hate niggers” more than once.
Unfortunately, he was attractive—and predatory—so he did well with the ladies. One morning he entered the hall hungover, but happy. “Hey, last night,” he gleamed, “you know that girl I was talking to? The cute one? We went back to hers and while I was fucking her she started crying.” That, apparently, was funny.
After sacking too many other employees, Chad got desperate and rehired me, warning me never to insult him again. Six months went by without incident, until one night some lesbians complained about their bill. “Go home and lick some cunt, you fucking bitches,” he yelled as they left. Moments later he looked at me, holding his large whiskey glass askew, and slurred, “You saw me, right? I acted with restraint.”
I mumbled something, unable to hide my contempt.
“I see,” he said, conspiratorially. “I see what’s going on here.”
Chad left for the bathroom. Fearing the worst, I put my cue back in its case and told my opponent I was heading home. Once there, I turned on my cell phone. One voicemail: “Bring back your key, Nick, you’re fired.”
Standing outside the hall, minutes later, Chad’s apologetic monologue was heartfelt. “I love you…I’m proud of you… You’re an intelligent guy—not as intelligent as me, but, you know, more intelligent than the others… I just want you to respect me… I’m rich enough for that…” Eventually he wrapped me in his arms. I was employed again.
Despite the misery of working for a guy who used the word “respect” disproportionately more than “please” or “sorry,” the benefits were too good to leave. After all, Chad provided the kind of pleasure one gets from watching trains crash on YouTube. Also, I was making a bunch of off-the-books money, and Chad even sweetened the deal by promoting me to “house pro.”
Any amateur player in New York would tell you that there are a hundred people here who could crush me. Thankfully, Chad had such a bad reputation no self-respecting sportsman would work for him. Suddenly, just because of my new title, I was considered to be some kind of authority, teaching for $35 an hour and doing trick shot exhibitions for $100 ($500 for bar mitzvahs). I launched on an inexcusable ego trip.
But it wasn’t to last. One day I didn’t say hello to Chad’s mother. He thought I’d insulted her, but actually I’d indirectly insulted him—I’d find it difficult to talk to Barbara Bush or Charles Manson’s mother, too.What would I say? “You must be very proud”?
A couple of days later he sent me this text: “You are done at MY pool hall.You smug arrogant English Prick!!!!!” And that was that. I don’t miss it. Since then I’ve been building a new career, one with prospects, adventure and fewer escapists. Last time we met he threatened to punch me, but still I’d like to relay to him my gratitude for setting me free. So, Chad, if you’re reading this, thanks—you asshole.
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