REAL STORIES FROM REAL BARTENDERS >>>

I've been a bartender for a long time. I have met countless freaks, jerks, pervs, sweethearts, rockstars and crazies. Even though it's a physically and mentally exhausting job, these are the colorful people that make it all worthwhile. Well, that and the tips.

I'd like to share with you some of my personal experiences behind the bar, along with the stories from some of my fellow bartenders. Each week - under the clever heading of "Behind Bars" - I will dig into my memory bank - and the incident log books that all bars keep - to bring you some of my favorite stories.

Names of bars, bartenders and patrons have been changed or withheld to protect the innocent.

And the not so innocent.

Cheers!

This week...

The Missing Toilet Paper

After a two-week vacation from Behind Bars, I wanted to come back with a kicker of a story. I wanted bring the bartender side of Gov. Christine Greigore's refused entry to Hannah's bar and Grill in Olympia. I wanted to crack jokes and get a good read. 

But, it flopped. Plus, that was so 2008 anyway.

So, instead I bring you the story of the missing toilet paper. Which, mind you, I haven't told a soul about - until today. Normally, I have no shame. I've told stories of mixing white Russians with my breast milk. I've told stories about having sex on pool tables, and punching people in the face. But, one thing that does embarrass me is - shhh!  - my period.

So, here goes.

It was a rainy, busy night downtown. I was doing my thing, slinging drinks, flirting, you know, when I felt my tampon bleed through. (Sheesh, did I just say that?) So, I grabbed a quarter and headed to the ladies room. Of course, we're out of tampons.

Now, rather than snoop around and find some woman who might be carrying a cotton torpedo, I simply did what every woman has had to do at some point in their menstruating years - I wadded up a ball of one-ply toilet paper and wedged it into my panties.

Work carried on through the night, and at the end of my shift, I went to relieve my bladder. To my horror the wad was gone. Not in my pant leg, not in the toilet. Gone.

As I buried my face in my hands, my mind raced with all the possibilities. Oh no! What if it had shimmied down my pant leg right when I was reaching to serve that cute guy a drink? What if it had landed on the floor, its white and red in stark contrast to the black mats? What if it had escaped over the top of my Converse while I was picking up dishes - its stained surface taunting me as I left it behind for all customers to see?

I had to look for it. So, I swept high and low that night, keeping my eye on the floor. But I never found it.

It still mortifies me today - and creeps me out to think of why I couldn't find it. Maybe someone else stepped on it, tracking it into the night. Maybe some weird sexual sociopath picked it up and added it to their collection. Who knows?

Well, thanks for listening to my story, dear readers. Telling you was rather cathartic.

Until next time, cheers!

LINK HUB: The "Behind Bars" collection