Working in a dive bar is one of the greatest jobs I’ve ever had. In fact, perhaps even more than playing with the Exhibit(s), I’ve felt like a rock star in my nights behind the bar over the past two years. Working just about anywhere else in the bar industry — clubs, where the bone-dusting thump of techno attracts the lowest common denominator of rednecks and Guidos (sadly, Birmingham and New York City aren’t that different — only the names change at last call), lounges with their pretentions that alcoholism isn’t as sad if it’s dressed up, restaurants where the regulars can blame their daily drinking on the call of cheap wings or the widescreen TVs on the walls — just isn’t the same experience, and never could be.

Part of this is the constant near-boiling point that is palpable in the crowd on some nights. You mix alcohol and a large crowd of 20-something guys competing for the attentions of the same groups of women, throw in some live music and simmer for a few hours, you’re gonna get the same recipe every time. Most nights, the bartenders where I work (and at the other two bars nearby that I frequent after-shift, both squarely in the same category of drinking establishment as my place) will watch for a while, with more than a little amusement, as the testosterone levels climb. It’s a break in the routine for us, to some extent. For a few moments, we can stop popping caps off of bottles of domestic swill, cease the mixing of cheap drinks, maybe even pause long enough to down a shot of Jager or Crown for ourselves. Once in a while, you’ll even hear one of us shout out our own challenge to the two (or more) potential combatants; there’s nothing funnier than watching a really cute female bartender, 5’2 or so, yell at two over-muscled drunks that if they really need to compare penis size, surely someone around here can compare the two of them without laughing too hard.

Working in a non-corporate environment is the only way to go, as far as I’m concerned. It’s more dangerous, less stable — you don’t always have money to fix the air-conditioning, for instance, or to get your liquor orders up to par every week. The pay isn’t really an issue — bartenders don’t live on paychecks, so as long as people are tipping, you’re okay there. But the balance comes in the bullshit-free zone that we can place around our bar. Act like a douchebag, get called out on it (something that would NEVER go over in the restaurants I bartended in). Start a fight, harass the wrong person (wrong is defined here as someone that we like), tell your bartender to fuck off — take a walk. We don’t need our manager’s permission — a place like ours, we’ve got carte blanche to do what we feel is right. We’ve earned it, over the years.

The only problem is that, occasionally, people behind the bar will go a little too far with their carte blanche. It doesn’t happen often — and it rarely if ever happens more than once from the same source. Once you lose control behind a bar like ours, it’s time for a vacation from the business, maybe even permanently.

It’s understandable when it does happen. The bar business, on too many levels, is not a place for grown-ups, but if you’re not grown-up enough, you might lack the self-control to handle this level of freedom. We can get as drunk as we want (and often get more drunk than we meant). We can be as nice or as abusive to the guests as they deserve. It’s our responsibility to find the line between just enough and way too much. It’s a tough line to find, and watching people step (or take a running leap) over it is not surprising. It might be something outside the bar that you’ve brought in with you, or a customer that pushes a little too hard, or maybe just one shot too many on the wrong night; whatever the reason, when the line is crossed, it’s time to go. On that stage, we’re no different from the barflies that we deal with day in and day out.

One thing you can take to the bank, though. Anyone that you’ve known that works in a similar bar and makes it two or more years without snapping, who can go night after night never putting on the cowboy hat and firing their six-guns into the crowd — those people can be trusted to the ends of the earth with whatever job you might have for them. They’ve seen the light of temptation and turned happily back to their conversation.

Granted, the conversation probably involved how much they wanted to beat this regular or that with a sharpen pool cue, and it might have been a little slurred, to boot. But in our world, it’s the action that counts, not the thoughts.

If it were, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of bars left for you to visit.