I love to talk. When I’m not talking, I’m usually writing stuff that I’d like to talk about. And when I’m not talking and I don’t have anything to write with, I’m usually thinking about stuff that I’d like to write about or imagining conversations with people that will probably never happen. And when I’m not talking, have nothing to write with, and am not thinking about talking, I’m sleeping. And in my dreams I’m talking. Or having weird make-out sessions with Jean-Ralphio from Parks and Recreation at a pizza parlor.

    All right, so that was one time. I still feel uncomfortable about how much I enjoyed it, though...
    Anyway, as much as I love to gab, there are just some conversations that…to say it with no expletives, I could do without. I think about them a lot, and I think about all the stuff I should have said to end the stupid conversation sooner. It’s the classic case of discovering the perfect comeback hours after the fact. Just the worst, right?

     My absolute least favorite conversation happens when someone is clearly just talking to you because they have some weird tick that forces them to speak, and anything you say is just a rude interruption of the monologue they are apparently giving to you, the unaware audience. I’m talking about conversations like this:

Me: That’s a cute wallet. Where did you get it?
Lady: Next door.
Me: Oh cool, really? I used to work there. For seven years, actually.
Lady: Yes, they sell wallets and things with this design. It’s a sugar skull, a Mexican tradition.
Me: Yeah, I know. When I was working there, we got a lot of that in. Isn't it cool?
Lady: They have it on t-shirts, wallets, pictures…
Me: Candles, tapestries, flags, I know.
Lady: Yes, they have it on little prayer flags that you can hang up. They come in all colors.
Me: …I know, like I said, I worked there for seven years--
Lady: They also have a lot of jewelry at that store, just so many unique designs. Lots of rings, and earrings. I see that you wear a lot of rings. You should go check them out over there.
Me: This one, this one, and this one are from there.
Lady: They also have a lot of necklaces...

    This conversation actually happened with a lady at work (yes, this work). She had just ordered her drink, so being drunk was not an excuse. Besides the obvious annoying reasons why conversations like this make me wish that my hair was longer so that when I ripped it out from frustration I could braid it into a noose and murder the other person with it, I hate conversations like this because, as I've pointed out before, I'm not very smart. There is a lot in this world that I just don't know. Like where things are, or how they work, or what they do. Or anything beyond the most basic math problems. I'm not being coy, here; I'm not looking for compliments on my intellect in the same way that some might say that a dress is unflattering to get a reassurance of quality ass size (me. I would do that). But lets just say that if my life depended on how many Jeopardy questions I could answer--unless there was a category about literary theory, penguin trivia, or movie quotes--I probably wouldn't live very long.

    So when people talk to me about stuff that I actually do know as though I don't know it, I get really pissed. It becomes less of a conversation, and more of a list called, "Look at all the stuff I know!" I paid people for six and a half years to tell me stuff that they know, because I didn't know it yet. It's called college, bitch. Also, when I say that "I paid," I really mean "My parents and the government" paid. Obviously.
    But when I'm in a conversation with someone and I actually know enough of the subject matter to be a knowing contributor, I get excited. Then dumb people like Lady up there pop my balloons and verbally piss all over my parade. I imagine that it's the same feeling a redneck would have if the government finally collapsed and the gays and feminists and atheists came raiding his land to steal his guns and his women, and he finally gets to use that assault rifle he's been hoarding. Only his wife bought the wrong bullets on her way back from the supermarket. You finally have something useful, and no one can appreciate it. I promise that there was a shorter metaphor for that. But, again.
    There was one time, however, that a conversation like this happened that I actually had to appreciate, in a twisted, disconcerting way. First of all, it happened over AIM, which is AOL Instant Messenger for all of you little bastards who never had to wait for the god damn dial up orchestra to announce a cease-and-desist for phone users just to send a message via writing. This was in the later days of AIM, which gives you a nice nostalgic feeling for my story.

    So I was tra-la-la-ing along on AIM, probably looking for a new romantic quote to put into my profile or some hot celebrity to make as my buddy icon (remember those?!), when I got a message from a high school classmate. I was maybe a year into college, so the changeover from AIM/Myspace to the all-encompassing Facebook was just beginning to bud. The last I'd heard about this sort-of friend was that he had been discovered in the bed of his not-yet-legal girlfriend by her parents, who had called the police and had him hauled away to jail.
    As fates would have it, he was placed in a cell with an old family friend, who was there for reasons much less disturbing. They realized that they both knew me, and had some small talk. We all like to think that people think about us when we aren't around, and maybe they even talk. We hope that they say nice things. In this case, what was being said about me is irrelevant. The focus of that conversation is the location. Which was jail. This was shocking because I didn't think that I knew anyone in jail well enough to become a subject of conversation; it turns out that the number of convicted criminals I know makes up for that. Who knew!
    Because these are real people with real lives and real families (and real Facebook accounts that might unfriend me and send me nasty messages), I'm going to call the first jailbird Marty Martinson, and his cellmate we will call Barty Bartinson. I'll spare you the shitty abbreviations and the quippy ScreenNames and streamline the conversation for better reading. Here is how the conversation went down:

Marty: hey
(What I wanted to say was, "Oh, they have AIM in jail?" But I didn't.)
Me: hey
Marty: how are you?
Me: good, you?
Marty: good
Marty: so you know Barty Bartinson
Me: yeah, how do you know Barty?
Marty: he was my cell mate
(At which point I realized that he was no longer in jail and I felt stupid)
Me: Wow, small world. I basically grew up with Barty, our parents are best friends.
Marty: we talked about you
Me: Oh
Marty: yeah we realized that we both know you
Me: Um...cool.
Marty: he lives in [town]
(Should be obvious that I know this already, but whatever.)
Me: I know, I've been to his house dozens of times.
Marty: he got arrested and went to jail a few months ago
(Again...obvious...)
Me: I know, his mom came over and told us all about it.
Marty: he got drunk and tried to rob a liquor store
Me: Yes, I know. Like I said, his mom and my mom are really close. I've known his whole family for years.
Marty: it was the middle of winter, he was caught walking barefoot home
(At home, with my short temper, I was flipping the fuck out. Thankfully, there was the computer as a mediator.)
Me: Yes, Marty, I know. His mom told me. Like, right after it happened. She told us all about it.
Marty: he knew you growing up, he's been to your house before
(FUCKING DONE.)
Me: Yup. I've gotta go.
Marty: okay bye
Me: Peace out
(Because I always ended my conversations with "peace out" back then. How cool was I? The coolest.)

    Being a bartender is a sort of fantasy for all of those college students romanticizing the starving-artist lifestyle. Doesn't it just sound edgy? Doesn't it just seem like a job stuck out of time, like it was from a century grittier than our own, rife with possibilities of self-discovery? A time when one could just wash away the grime of life's suffering with a cheap drink and easy conversation? Just imagine yourself, cracking a beer with the local hairy weirdo who wastes away his days mumbling to himself on a park bench, feeding pigeons from boxes of Russell Stover chocolates, to hear that he actually carried his entire platoon out of the bullet-ravaged jungles of Vietnam after being shot (in the ass. In this fantasy you're serving Forrest Gump after Forrest Jr. finally got sick of being raised by a man-child and ran away). Or maybe some hot-shot hyper-masculine chauvinist punk comes in and starts talking shit about how well you serve because you're a woman and demands a sandwich, and you challenge him to a drinking contest, and the two of you pour back shot after shot until, through your vodka-soaked vision, you see him finally collapse from his bar stool, and you win a victory not just for yourself, or the bar, but for all of womankind.

    But here's a fun fact that they don't mention in movies: it is actually illegal to drink on the job as a bartender. And if someone gets too drunk from your serving, and they drive home and get in an accident, guess who's to blame. Not the driver for still being too stupid to be able to say "enough" after over 21 years of life. Not that pesky telephone pole for being so inconveniently placed in the driver's path. Nope! It's yours. I hope you've also romanticized jail, because you'll need those warm dreams to get you through those chilly, prison nights.

    Obviously,  the no-drinking-on-the-job rule is one that most places get away with regularly breaking, but unfortunately the bar I work at is not one of them, for various unfortunate reasons. So let me paint you a picture of what my job is like a lot of the time: think about the last time you were a designated driver. Now imagine that, instead of being responsible for two or three friends, you're responsible for fifty. And none of them are your actual friends. And in addition to making sure that they don't puke anywhere or get into any fights, you also have to serve them. All night. When put that way, how much fun does it sound?

    And my bar is not just for the roving packs of horny college students. It's also the kind that old, racist people go to to feel at home. I can’t really call them out on their bullshit because it’s essentially pointless because they’ll never learn. This is not the type of place where change begins; this is the type of place where their brand of outdated ignorance comes to die. And I’m broke and fresh out of college so I’m banking on their filthy, racist tips. I’ll feel guilty when I can finally move out of my parents’ house.

    "But Johanna, why are you telling us all this?"
    I'll tell you, random Facebook friend who noticed that I had posted about my blog in my status update but really meant to click on the Buzzfeed quiz of what your hidden talent is (I got painting. Apparently, guiltless late-night snacking wasn't an option). I'm telling you this because there are so many shenanigans that happen at that place, shenanigans that will probably wind up being worth writing about. Like these shenanigans, for instance. And anytime I mention going to the bar, or being a bartender, I don't want you to picture some young, charmingly broke post-college bohemian who values living more in her head than in a career, getting through her struggles with the drunken version of Arabian Nights. I want you to have the right idea about the bar I'm at. It's tiny, it's grubby, and every possible surface is covered in graffiti that is 45% penises. I do very much enjoy my job, and I'm grateful to even have a job so quickly out of college, but it has the pitfalls of any customer service job. Only with alcohol.

    Here on out, you will know what I'm referring to in the future when I mention "my job." Also, you can stop telling your bartending friends how jealous you are of their job. I have fun, but besides all of the shit I mentioned earlier, I now get to live through the bullshit of being asked my by relatives when I'm going to "grow up and get a real job." It's like that girl you went to high school with who was always jealous of her married-with-children friends, until she threw herself at the first guy to say yes and wound up with six hyperactive shitty monsters that she resents for stealing her youth. Mentally replacing the shitty parts of your job with the awesomeness of being a bartender is similar to that woman's desperate attempts to replace the shitty memories of her family growing up with a new family of her own. A lot of it will be shitty no matter what, because life.

    One more thing, while I've got you here: stop asking your bartender friends to give you free drinks. That shit is stealing. Every store has its product, and the bar's product is booze. Know that, a lot of the time that they give you a "free drink," they're the ones paying for it. Because if they didn't, they'd be thieving. Robbing the establishment and giving it to the sober, like Robin Hood for broke college students.