Ms. Robinson

"We'd like to know
A little bit about you
For our files."
Simon and Garfunkel

          Yesterday I saw an old bartender friend who I knew from the Bacchanal heydays. We shot the crap about old times, and the old bands, and the old staff, and we wondered where they all are now.
"Bob Speth sailed back from Fiji and opened 4th and B," I told him. "He rehired Rick, Billy, Margaret, and Jeff. Doorman Terry runs Cheetahs now. Bartender Lisa owns a coffeehouse in Point Loma. Bartender Steve has a Wednesday gig at Qwiigs. I haven't seen Nathalie in forever. And hey, remember Pam?" I asked. "Whatever happened to bartender Pam?"
"I heard Pam still lives in San Diego," he answered. "I heard she likes your column."
"Really?" I said. "I'm so glad to hear that. There's something I always want to tell her."
Pamela Robinson was one of a small group of bartending mentors who trained me when I was first thrust -- sink or swim -- behind the infamous Bacchanal bar. Pam was the eldest, the street-wisest -- the hardest, of the crew.
We worked together briefly. Then she disappeared. But in that short period of time she taught me many things. And I never got to thank her. And I never said things that needed saiding. So I'm saying them now. Here's to you Ms. Robinson. This column is dedicated to you.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
        Dearest Pam. I've worked alongside some revolting bartenders in my day, but you, my friend, were one mercenary twat.
Remember when I caught you switching our tip jars? You ripped me off and smiled as you covered it up. I guess you thought I was stupid. I guess I sorta was.
Damn, you were some greedy salamander, man. Remember how you blatantly stole from the club with that slimy caper of yours?
Case History: Pam places her empty cigarette purse on the bar near a pre-selected customer who is usually a friend or a good-tipping regular. She then lavishes the chosen customer/s with free drinks and special privileges. Eventually, the customer slips a fat tip into her cigarette case, which she retrieves, and later pockets. Repeat five times.

"God bless you please Ms. Robinson,
Jesus moons his hairy ass at you. Coo coo coo."

Remember when that drunk gave you a hundred dollar bill and forgot to take his change? You bragged about how we scored eighty dollars.
"Shouldn't we give it back to him" I asked.
"If he's stupid or enough to leave it behind," you assured me, "then he doesn't deserve it. And since you don't want it either, I'll just keep it for myself."
The saddest part is that I let you do it: I let you switch our tip jars, I let you steal from the bar, and I let you steal from customers. You were Ms. Robinson and I was the googy-eyed Graduate. I didn't realize how diseased you were.
Case History: Pam may be my Ms. Robinson, but she's no Anne Bancroft. Where the original Mrs. Robinson was the essence of sensuality, Pam is sensual as a bucket of bleeding rats.
Still, she is not an ugly woman. She may be a tattooed-teardrop shy of the trailer park, but she attracts men in droves. As moths are swindled by the lie that is a flame, men are swindled by her blonde hair -- which she savagely bleached into course, lifeless wads of steel wool. She plasters rouge and red lipstick all over her pale face, speaks with monumental ignorance, and wears jeans so tight it pinches out more camel toes than Mongols marching over Khyber Pass.

"What's that you say, Ms. Robinson?
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away.
Because you stayed."

I still remember your lectures. You warmly espoused such golden nuggets of advice, like: "Never put the rum in frozen daiquiris." You said the customer won't even notice and therefore doesn't deserve any alcohol. "And oh," you added. "Don't forget to raise the price a dollar and drop it in the tip jar for your troubles."
You must have snowballs for ovaries girl.
But you were the elder, and I believed you. So I served some poor girl a rumless daiquiri, charged her six dollars, and put one in the tip jar for my troubles.
When she walked off I was horrified. "My god," I thought. "I just charged somebody six dollars for a drink with no booze in it -- and then tipped myself with her money."
What sort of fiend have I become??"
You know Pam, I shudder to think what kind of bartender I might have been had you stuck around longer. And I wish I had the balls to tell you how much I loathed you. But I didn't. So I'm telling you now. Are you listening? I hear you are.

"Here's to you Ms. Robinson,
Heaven snubs its nose at hags like you.
Their mamas too."

EJD 7/02