Buffy: “So on a scale of one to a million, how much are you hating me right now?”
Willow: “Zero. You were scared, you kept a secret, you know? That’s-it-it’s okay. I mean, secrets aren’t bad. You know, they’re normal. They’re better than normal. They’re good. Secrets are good. Must be a reason why we keep them, right?”
– Buffy and Willow, Revelations, season 3, Buffy The Vampire Slayer
I’ve worked behind the bar for quite some time. I’ve already told my boss: when I reach ten years of pouring, I expect a badge. Or an MBE. I’m not fussy.
Roll on September.
Anywho, in my time behind the bar, I have been told secrets. Big secrets. Huge secrets. Massive, universe-exploding secrets. I’ve been told small secrets. Eeny-weeny secrets that somehow seem enormous, probably because of the number of years they’ve been kept. Whether big, small or indifferent, these things are not mine to report. They will not appear in my books. That would be cheating.
It’s the code of the bar-person. No bar would have kept me for nearly ten years if I couldn’t watch myself. And I would hate to be the one to break the accidental trust we all place in our barmen. The trust might only have been placed because of tequila, but I don’t want to be the one to spoil it.
From time to time, someone will come into the Club and say, “Oh, my God. I’m going to explode. Did you hear about (someone)?”
Chances are, I have, but I can’t say that. Instead, I say, “Possibly.”
Unperturbed, they’ll carry on. “Well, which bit did you hear?”
“No, no, no,” I reply. I like to think there’s a glint in my eye, but it’s probably Southern Comfort. “They don’t keep me here for decoration.”
“Well,” and then the story will fall out them because they simply have to tell someone. I’ll pour the drink and never say a word about it.
But really, I would recommend bar work to anyone who wants to write anything. You learn so much about people by serving them drinks.