Microwaved Turkey and Tiny Dancer on the Bar: A Dive-y Thanksgiving for All

Bartending on Thanksgiving was not as bad as I thought it would be, except that I was a little tired from getting up early to see the parade (I have wanted to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade since I saw Miracle on 34th Street - it was like a dream - I felt like I was 8.  I saw Kermit!!!).   The bar gave out free microwave turkey dinners, and customers actually came to enjoy the mushy goodness (I did not partake, due to a fear of what happens to plastic when you microwave it).  At its busiest, the bar had about 15 people, at its slowest, 5.  When there were 8 people in the bar, I comped everyone a round of Washington Apple shots for Thanksgiving (rye and sour apple topped with cranberry – tasty little guys).

I bet you’re wondering what kind of people go to a dive bar on Thanksgiving?  I was wondering what the cat would drag in too.  Customer profiles were as follows:

• Three regulars all in a row – “J”, “E” and “P” – who only know each other from being regulars at the dive bar.   I had gotten into a long conversation with “J” the first time I met him because we both write.  He got really drunk that time, and did not remember me, but was amazed and astounded that I remembered him and his interest in writing.  I had also gotten into a long conversation with “E” the first time we met because he claimed I was the only person he had ever met who pronounced his name properly right away and knew the scientific definition (his name means a particular type of atomic particle).  He was also really drunk the first time we met, so was also amazed and astounded that I remembered him.  I remembered “P” but not his name – as it turns out, “P” was by far the best tipper (although they were all fine), and so I will definitely remember “P” the next time I see him.  
• One solo 30-something Jack & soda drinker who looked really sad
• One very nice, solo 60-something gentleman with long curly grey hair worn in a half-up-half-down style, similar to:

          Although, obviously without the earring.

• A very infatuated couple.  The woman was blond and gorgeous and kept ordering herself shots of SoCo and lime and ordering her boyfriend PBRs. 
• A regular named “G” who is definitely gay and/or trans but keeps hitting on me.  His voice is exactly like Michael Jackson’s.  
• A group of three 20-somethings playing gin, and drinking PBRs and Maker’s Mark on the rocks. 
• A solo 20-something PBR drinking boy who ended up leaving with two 20-something cute-as-buttons hipster feministas.  
• A drunk doctor who has wanted to go home for Thanksgiving for the past three years, but hasn’t done so, despite the fact that he is from PHILIDELPHIA (it is a 2 hour drive, less than an hour flight).   I felt kind of sorry for him because he bought a round for the bar, but bought everyone well whiskey, which is where the quote of the night, as tweeted, came from (“J”:  “Can you get me a PBR to wash down that turpentine you just gave me?  What was that?” Me: “Whiskey.”  “J”: “Tasted like turp . . .”).  Needless to say, people didn’t exactly show the kind of gratitude he was hoping for.   
• An expat Ukranian photographer who looked like the oldest boy in Hanson, except with longer hair.  
• A very slow-drinking PBR-drinker. 

Toward the end of the night, there were only five customers in the bar for about two hours:  the slow PBR-drinker, the gin players, and the Ukranian, who kept insisting I should give him my phone number, and finally offered to get me Bon Jovi tickets.  I said if he brought me Bon Jovi tickets, he could have my phone number. 

There was nothing for me to do but throw on as much Gretchen Wilson and Shania Twain and Madonna and, of course, Bon Jovi, as possible and dance around.  One of the gin players, the only woman, got up on the bar and did shots with me.  

Then, about half an hour before my shift ended, there was a rush of three shot&PBR-ordering hipsters –who were clearly from Williamsburg – two guys in plaid wearing Pilgrim hats and a girl wearing a feather headdress.   She insisted I wear the feather headdress and got up on the bar to dance to “Tiny Dancer.”  Hold me closer – I heart you hipster chick. 

The highlight of my evening actually came after I kicked everyone out.  I tried to tip out the cleaning guy – this lovely, 40-something-Hispanic man who is so mild-mannered and gentle and looks like this cherubic Hispanic actor whose name I can’t remember.   He was so sweet, and shook his head, and said, “I know you didn’t make very good money tonight.  You don’t need to give me anything.  Really, I’m happy to help you.”  He was so sweet.  I felt like he had given me something.