Daily Tart

“We have nothing!”  I kept screaming over the deafening din of club music, but they just kept crashing on us in waves (literally - we were shilling booze at a pool-side bar, level with the water), smashing and splashing against the bar; a drunken, wet crowd.

Imagine, if you will, thousands of topless men and bikinied women in their 20’s and 30’s, L.A. types with their Armani sunglasses and Fendi bags, with their “Gimmie, gimmie more” attitude, with their money and their leisure and their blow-outs and their bottle service all herded into the L.A. equivalent of Neverland Ranch.  They had descended upon Old Lion Manor - owned by the owner of Saddle Ranch - which was gussied up into a jungle themed playland to host the “Come P.L.A.Y. in the Jungle” Charity Event.

Walking up the driveway I meet an elephant, a camel, a lion, oh my!  A table topped with coconut cups ready to hold delightful, tropical libations tempts as I pass by.  At the top of the first set of many rock-laid stairs appears a wonderland: multiple cascading waterfalls flow into the vast lagoon, hiding a spacious grotto (a la Playboy Mansion , but larger in scope, of course).  An upper bar connects to a lower bar which nestles against the lapping water.  V.I.P nooks abound in every corner.

To the left stands the custom-built Manor with a luxurious Country bar feel featuring tanning beds, a game room with personalized poker table and chips, old-school video arcade games, and the obligatory wet bar, and a view of the posh neighborhood that only the Hidden Hills elite could offer.  But the house is off limits to the public.

Outside, stairs to the right of the pool lead to an outdoor basketball court and Casino.  Past the male wet fantasy of “going all in” (on a poker game, you dirty mind), a ramp guides past a brass alligator and up to a floor of sand.  This is the Carnival.  Eight booths house childhood delights: Ring Toss, Bumper Bowling, Milk Jug Pyramid, and more.  The Carnival wouldn’t be complete without an Ice Cream Truck.  So there is an Ice Cream Truck – bearing Big Sticks and, oh who cares what else, it has Big Sticks!  But the piece de resistance, the crowning glory, the end of the line is…wait for it…a Hot Air Balloon Ride!!  Don’t fret – the balloon is tethered to the ground so we can’t escape to San Diego or drift aimlessly over the Pacific Ocean .  We float in the hot noon July air, hotter by the burst of fire above our heads to keep us afloat 2 stories above this Wonderland Ranch.

My first station is a two-person bar, seemingly out of the way, next to the henna tattoo artists and baby kangaroo.  My bartender in partner whispers conspiratorially, “Just between us, I have NO bartender experience – I lied my way in!”  Great, I told them I didn’t want to bartend because I don’t bartend, and now I’m working with a wingman with no wing.  Two bartenders who’ve never before tended bar with a semi-full bar (all the liquors, 10 mixers, and beer), a shortage of ice, and a surprising onslaught of people.

A crash course in slinging drinks, my partner (who keeps swiping tips we’re to pool with the other 14 bar babes) and I throw ourselves into the game.  And the question of handling it flies out the window as I don’t have time for the thought.  “What’s your poison?”  A Vodka Red Bull – Sugar-Free - is the choice de jour.  My hands fly: six drinks at a time, refilling empty coconuts, running out of plastic cups, draining ice from it’s melting pool of water, popping tops of beers, uncorking endless bottles of wine, knocking the skinny tequila bottle but grabbing it just in time - twice, getting spritzed with the soda water – twice, improvising a pina coloda with no more rum, and keeping straight who is next in the crush of the endless thirsty throng.

Somehow I snap into the role and no one knows my novice status.  “You,” I point at the next unwitting victim of my inexperienced hand.  “2 screwdrivers with a splash of cran, vodka tonic, heavy on the vodka, 2 margaritas – 1 regular, 1 strawberry, and 5 waters.  Oh, and 2 beers.”  I scoop the ice, whip out the order, flash a smile, and earn a $10.  “Delish, thanx!” is the best compliment.  My customers are repeat and frequent (though not for lack of a heavy hand; these people are drinking like the fishes).

We’re moving the endless line and I’m in the groove.  Even out of mixers, then beer, then ice, we make it work till some more comes.  The tip jar is looking pretty and I’m feeling good when my boss unexpectedly pulls me to the bar by the water.  Thrown into the fray all alone, with nothing to serve except ½ a bottle of vodka, 2 cans of Red Bull, 1 bottle of tequila and an impatient line, irate from the heat, the wait, and their sober status, baby grows up.  I transform into the commanding, slightly impatient, and totally in charge bartender seen at Hollywood hot spots.  “You!”  “I want blah, blah, blah.”  “We don’t have that.  Tequila or vodka.  You!”

My feet are soaking in a pool of water and liquor 2 inches deep, with shattered bottles to my left, and trash piling to my right.  Sweat traces down my face as I work, alone, until my partner is finally brought in.  Our barbacks bring us what they can when they can as I see the clock pass my 5:30p departure time.  6:30p comes with no relief.  Then 7:00p and we’re officially out of everything.  We have nothing.  Nothing.  Seriously, people, nothing, go to another bar.

7:30p the tips are counted and divided, each of us relieved that our hot, sweaty work will pay off to the tune of $300-500, right?  Wrong.  Somehow those full-bodied tip jars have squeezed out only $75 for each.  For 7 hours of work: $75.  Then I remember the last girl we served; we had nothing, but she flashed $2, so my partner asked me to grab a beer from the lower bar down the stairs and back up, I handed her the beer, she slyly pocketed her $2, handed the beer to the guy who gave her money for us, and he’s none the wiser that she’s a money grubbing liar.  What goes around comes around is little comfort for our short-changed day.

Limping out with my wrinkly, wet feet, my deliberately torn-up-so-it-will-be-sexy-top, and my now stringy from sweat ‘do, we say good night and see you later.  Then I realize – holy shit, I just bartended and I survived, no, thrived.  Who knew?  Not me.  Shit, I’m a bartender.