‘Oh I thought you might be leaving for, forgive me, a proper job’. I have heard three versions of this since I announced that I was leaving one pub job for another. To each person I smiled and deflected with something along the lines of ‘oh no, you won’t get rid of me that easily!’. They chuckled in response, but their eyes betrayed their disappointment. They are disappointed not because they want rid of me, or at least I hope not, but because they want what they deem as more for me. I have never been able to make tangible what ‘more’ means in this context. More money? Stability? Respectability? The answer that rings closest to the truth is conformity. They want for me, what they have had. In some part out of genuine affection for me, for which I am grateful, but in another, to justify the choices that they themselves have made. However, as someone who has stood behind a bar for a decade listening to people bemoan their soul crushing nine to five, how on Earth could I ever covet such misery? I have thought about it of course, at the nadir of my ennui, but I always come back to the same question. If not this, then what? Wanting to give this question more consideration, and with too many distractions at home, I head to the pub.

I have purposefully chosen a pub I don’t frequent very often, in order to be alone with my thoughts. It is 2PM on a weekday and my entrance brings the amount of punters in to a solid four. The others being two blokes in high vis near the darts board, and the customary old boy overspilling a lone barstool perched in front of the pumps. He is chuntering away to the vibrant young man behind the bar so fervently that he barely notices my presence, which comes as a relief. The young man tears himself away momentarily to take my order, but his focus, and toothy grin remain on his charge. 

As I walk into the backroom I can’t help but think that the bloke sitting at the bar reminds me of my secondary school music teacher, whose name escapes me, but whose rather cruel nickname (sausage fingers) stays with me still. He would passionately slam his sizable digits down on an old piano in our music room, frequently incapable of hitting just one key at a time. I did not go to a good school. One of very few redeeming features was my geography teacher, Phil, without whom I do not know who or where I’d be today. Phil was a former football hooligan who, like us, had attended the same shitty school in the same deprived area of Birmingham. He was an incredible teacher; relatable, funny and passionate. The first ‘proper job’ I can remember wanting was to be a geography teacher like Phil. I even went to the same university as him, studying Geography, but when the time came to it I knew I could not pursue teaching. I’m the youngest sibling of four, the eldest being twenty-one years my senior, meaning I grew up surrounded by nieces and nephews. I was tired of solving childish squabbles and cleaning up abandoned half finished games, going into a school environment felt like more of the same. I liked the idea of educating but dreaded the more pastoral aspects of the job.

There is shouting in the other room, which is soon stifled by the firm but friendly tone of the bartender. He has hurried over to diffuse whatever spat the two tradies are having, before returning to the bar and apologising for having momentarily strayed out of earshot. I take my seat in the backroom, on one of only two clean tables. Taking the first precious sips of my beer, I gaze around at the litter of empty glasses and half filled crisp packets on the tables surrounding me, evidence of a lunchtime rush which has long since returned to the office. 

I’ve always known I could never be them. Office work has never been on the agenda, the thought of it passing through me and leaving nothing but apathy in its wake. So when it became apparent teaching was not the way forward, I searched frantically for options that lay outside of sterile, high rise office blocks. 

I was a theatre kid from a young age, I was in most of the school plays, took A-Level theatre studies, and joined the performing arts society at University. It was only natural that I considered a career in the arts. There was one clear problem with this however. I was terrible. Well terrible is probably slightly unfair, but I was never good enough to make anything of it, and I think I always knew that, but I loved it; a consequence of being self assured and greedy for praise. I even dabbled in drag for a short while, but this was more of a feeble attempt to curry compliments for my physical appearance, at a time when I despised my body. In the end though it was the escapism that kept on drawing me back to the stage, the desire to abandon earthly worries and play at being someone else, even if only for a couple of hours.

“Ey up” the old boy greets me, on his way to the toilets. “Ey up mate” I reply before lifting my head to smile at him, but he is already past me, his need to relieve himself far surpassing his desire to talk to me, for which I am grateful. Through the serving hatch I see the, now quite tired looking, young man hastily rolling himself a cigarette, which he pops behind his ear and ducks out of the door. He passes a young couple with a dog, who were not there before, on the way out. I hear the lavatory door swing open and dive my head back into my notebook, as to dissuade any unwanted attention. He passes without incident however, clearly eager to return to his perch. 

The only other career that I have considered was psychiatry. Several of my closest friends and family have suffered from depression and I myself had a torrid time with bulimia. A life devoted to helping others avoid the pain I have seen and experienced seemed so rewarding. However it was never really more than a distant reality. Firstly, I knew that I simply hadn’t got it in me to go through seven or eight years of med school and specialisation, I am far too lazy for that, and almost certainly not clever enough. Secondly I was aware that my empathy would render me wholly unable to avoid the emotional pitfalls that a job like that would entail. I would become too invested and I would drive myself into the ground trying to help others. 

A dog barks in the other room, and I glance up to see that the stool at the bar has been vacated again. The stool’s recent occupier has wandered away from the unoccupied bar to pester the young couple near the door. I can sense their discomfort, a capacity that he seemingly does not share. After a minute or so of rambling and awkward chuckling the door opens and the young man returns from his cigarette break. I watch as he slips behind the bar, registers the situation in front of him, and resigns himself with a shutter of the eyelids and a deep intake of breath. “Greg! Do you want another one?!” his raised voice stops short of shouting. I see him then for the first time, no longer an effervescent young man, but a prisoner, set free, who has just willingly handed his jailer back the keys. Greg vocalises his affirmation as he returns to his stool-cum-guardtower, and the lad serves him his pint of Guinness with a smile. I glance at the young man, expecting to be overcome with empathy, I have been in his situation countless times after all. Instead I find myself merely mouthing an acknowledgement of ‘that’s the job’. 

Caregiver, performer, healer, all in one. That is who we are.

Bartending is a game of transference that goes far beyond the exchange of drinks for money. As a bartender you offer up your energy to the weary, your ear to the lonely, and your smile to the forlorn. You do so willingly but like the bottles in the fridge behind you, there is a limit to that which can be drawn from you. Like with those bottles, there are those that are greedy and will tilt their head back to the sky desperately trying to trickle out the last drops of what you have to offer. This is why the camaraderie of a bar team is so pivotal. When you are running on fumes, you need someone who will decant unto you. A stupid joke that makes you snort so loud the whole bar goes quiet, or a quick moan in the walk-in fridge about an annoying customer. This is how we replenish and are able to carry on dispensing parts of ourselves day in, day out. It is these precious moments that make the intolerable tolerable and which keep us anchored to this industry. 

When I think back over my last ten working years, it is these moments that play in my mind, like a montage from a bad film. Gabby shouting “scrambled eggs!” instead of ‘goodbye’ to customers as they were leaving, because she was thinking about what she was going to eat for lunch. The look of instant regret on Karl and Gina’s faces when they tried to deep fry a Cadbury’s creme egg. Begging forgiveness from an elderly couple whom I had just asked if they would like some ‘coffins’ having accidentally smashed together the words ‘coffee’ and ‘puddings’. Stolen kisses in the staff room, and tears when the kisses stopped. 

I finish my pint and leave. I have not found the answer to my question, but it now feels redundant. For as long as ‘if not this’ seems so inconceivable, what good is it to think of ‘then what?’.