When in Rome “Her Smile, I’m sure, burnt Rome to the ground”
Russell Crowe walks through the rusted, squeaking doors into the punishing sunlight. Under the weight of thousands of hard, staring faces, he barrels headfirst into an ironclad group of adversaries intent on gutting him, and in less than fifteen seconds, graphically defeats them all. In the abrupt moment of dead silence that follows, Russell, eyes bulging out of his head, screams at the top of his lungs, “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? IS THIS NOT WHY YOU ARE HERE?” Pause right there. This is me after every interview.
In the complete confidence that years of hands-on experience can inspire, and with the professional charm-meter turned all the way up to eleven, there is not a question I cannot answer. My brain is a garbage can – I mean filing cabinet – of obscure technical bartending knowledge. You want to chit-chat highland peat? Shall I interpret the fall ’69 weather report of the Maipo Valley? Maybe you’d like to watch me pour some beer into a mason jar, or recite a poem about the multifarious applications of mezcal? I give new meaning to the word slay as I legit decapitate these interviews, and yet, somehow, here I am: a panting, sweating, bloodstained crazy person in a Gladiator’s blue skirt and strappy sandals, screaming ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED at the fucking world.
As a published, multilingual adult with more than half a brain and a list of glowing references, who has never burned a bridge and watches Game of Thrones for the sole purpose of generating conversation with customers, I am perpetually baffled when I more than meet all the qualifications for a job… and don’t get hired. I’m well spoken, punctual, and intensely loyal to an occupation that many people describe as disposable. Every day of work for the past ten years, I have been reminded that I, as all restaurant staff, am not irreplaceable, and not special, but when I apply for a job, interviewers always want to know “what makes you special?”
In the name of journalism, I reached out to some bars in an effort to find out why I wasn’t hired. My inquiries were met with what can only be described as a jubilant willingness to wax poetic on why I am a big stupid reject. Interestingly, there were only three repeated reasons from the several (million) hiring managers I contacted.
The first reason is simply that some of them were looking to hire a man. This is really real. I’m too exhausted to even begin to tear this apart.
Some people say I’m overqualified. When asked to elaborate, I was told again and again that a bartender with too much experience is immediately flagged as someone who knows how to steal. It doesn’t seem to matter that experience teaches lots of things, like how to deliver good service, and how to be responsible, and how to make drinks. It doesn’t matter that I don’t steal. I have enjoyed happy tenures at many bars, and so I am a thief. I am being penalized for excelling at my job.
Finally, I heard repeatedly that I “wasn’t a good fit.” I have to love an industry where a person can still not hire you because your tits are too small. I was told (and I’m quoting) that I’m too rock-and-roll, too clean-cut, too edgy, didn’t have enough tattoos, too old, too young, and not blonde. While I can understand not fitting an aesthetic, I can’t be all of these things at once.
All this research, and all I’ve learned is that nothing I know matters, my hard work is worth jack shit, you can’t please anybody, and I must be a screaming masochist.
Now I’m flat broke and I work in a bar where bartenders go to die, a place where I imagined myself in ten years. There’s no beer list, we don’t serve mojitos, and I can relax and be the miserable bitch I always knew I was. The regulars are happy, unpretentious, and nonjudgmental, and my coworkers are young, fresh, and optimistic. Is this the happy ending I’ve been looking for? A girl can pretend.
