BAR EXAM: Another Day at The Office

Humanity might seem down, but don’t count it out yet

Phil Hagen

The Mayor has just clocked in at The Office and already he's pissed off. Somebody's supplies—keys, cigarettes, matches—have staked a claim at his spot near the corner of the bar. As he reluctantly takes up residence two stools down, the bartender comes over to assuage him.


I'm sitting at a nearby table with my friend Trixie. We're nursing long-necks, and prior to the ruckus, had been shooting the breeze at the close of a hot summer's workday. My back's to the action, and if I keep turning around it would be way too obvious, since there are only six customers in the old tavern on Paradise Road. And it being my first time here, I'd like to avoid The Office politics, if possible.


So Trixie gleefully does the play-by-play for me. "Oh, he's not happy," she says, spying through the corner of her eye. "The bartender's trying to calm him down, but ..."


"Oh f--k that!" I hear the Mayor say.


"Oh my," Trixie says.


We wonder where this mysterious one-man coup d'etat is and can't imagine the wrath he'll face upon his return. With Trixie keeping a weather eye on the storm system, she and I return our attention to analyzing the joint with "The Lowest Prices in Town!"


I had bought Trixie's beer, a Miller Light, while she freshened up in the ladies room, and I'd picked out a Coors heavy for myself. They were $2.50 each. Rather than question the research they did to come up with the Lowest Prices in Town, I asked the bartender if they had happy hour. "Naw," he replied. "We tried it once. It didn't work."


I recount the incident to Trixie. "How does a happy hour not work?" I say, then launch into my usual homily. "Hardly anyone has happy hours anymore, and if they do, it's a shitty happy hour."


"I know," my faithful choir leader says. "I know."


"And what bartender ever says, 'Hey, this one's on me'? None. Doesn't happen anymore."


Trixie asks if I remember the name of that place on Sunset and Pecos. "It began with a P ..."


"Panini," I say. "They had a great little bar."


Panini was a nice Italian restaurant that had a side room with a curvy, stained concrete bar top, a little waterfall and friendly, generous bartenders. During happy hour, you could scratch a card to see how big a discount you'd get. Sometimes regulars were extra lucky, if you know what I mean.


Come to think about it, no wonder Panini closed that fall.


Bargains aside, Trixie and I decide we like The Office because it's got that quaint, lived-in, basement feel. I love the 20-year-old Budweiser signs. Trixie points out the far wall, which is a lit-up showcase of takeout booze.


"I love bars that sell liquor," she purrs.


"Definitely," I say. "There's something romantic about that."


"Uh-oh," Trixie interjects, and I turn around to see a small, fiftysomething man patting the grumpy bull of a Mayor on the back, trying to mend a fence.


"The Mayor's been demoted," he jokes. "I'm the Governor!"


"I don't even want to hear it," the Mayor snaps.


My beer's empty. I get up, and as I lean into the bar to order a second, I notice a series of taps hiding down at the other end. I ask the bartender what Sunshine is.


"It's a wheat beer," he says. "It's good with a lemon slice."


Ah, hefeweisen, my midsummer's dream beer. I get a pint, and into the golden brew the bartender plops a brown, pulpy chunk that I quickly remove. Fortunately, Sunshine works without it.


We came to The Office on a whim, not to try new microbrews. That, and in fond remembrance of a friend who used to joke that he wanted to open a bar called Work, so people could go to the bar and say they were going to Work. The Office obviously was a little ahead of him on that idea, as are a few other versions around town, such as the Office 2 on Desert Inn (no relation to this Office).


This place is a rebel, sitting amid the Fruit Loop, a series of gay bars in the odd area where Paradise swings to the west before, um, straightening out. Trixie hasn't been to any of those places, but she has been to the Double Down across the street. In fact, while you've heard people say they've "crawled out" of bars before, Trixie and a friend literally crawled out of the Double Down once, when a full-blown brawl erupted, with stools flying and pool cues snapping.


Trixie has no idea how it started. She pauses, and we both look over to see how the new chain of command is working out. The Mayor gets up, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and grab his supplies.


"Maybe he's been 86'd!" Trixie says. "No, wait ..."


The bartender transfers the Mayor's drink to the spot adjacent to the Governor's corner, leaving the two officers to share the 90-degree angle. Seems a compromise has been reached.


A few minutes later, Trixie confirms this: "Look, now they're friends." Sure enough, the Mayor and Governor are engaged in deep conversation, settling in for what we predict will be a long night of solving the world's problems.


Ah, harmony. It makes me thirsty.


And once Office harmony takes hold, it must be contagious, because, a few moments later, when I order a fresh Sunshine and the bartender brings it over, he utters words that will forever affect me—as a bar patron and as a person who too often makes snap judgments against humanity.


He says, "I got this one."


Phil Hagen studies bars the way other men study the law, but with tastier results. E-mail him at
[email protected].

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