The loud group of six blue collar workers sat on the bar top chairs made of some cheap rustic wood. Half of them were still wearing their orange safety vest while the other half must have found it unnecessary to remove their company hard hats. All of them still had sweat shining on their necks—an indication that they had just finished their shift. Their rugged pants were all stained with various colors—some with whiter than others and others with streaks of rainbow.
I knew their type. They come in an hour before happy hour and order water for the table, and maybe loaded fries to share, which are usually finished within a handful of minutes. When happy hour starts, they’re the first to chase me down to start a round of Moscow mules. They’ll stay until closing only to line up for the bathroom as if it wasn’t available before I had to begin clearing everyone out. No tip.
Except, I was mostly wrong about them. They didn’t wait for happy hour before getting started on drinks. “My wife’s been talking ‘bout this new drink. Supposed to be that same dark color as Guinness. But I can’t for the life of me remember what it’s called,” uttered the biggest man in the group. He wore a ripped white undershirt underneath his safety vest. He continued determined to convince his coworkers to order the same drink as him: “It’s strong with caffeine like Red Bull but much less sweet.” His older buddy with a mustache as thick as a mozzarella stick joined in: “I’ll never understand people that drink sweet drinks. Especially guys. Drinks shouldn’t be desserts.” The muscular man with the original plan took over the conversation with his louder voice: “This drink is great after work. Something about Martin? Do you know it?” I was in disbelief at what they ordered considering their physical builds but played it cool: “Yes, it’s one of our most popular drinks during brunch.”
I crafted their drinks to the sound of Iron Maiden, at the request of the worker with a fresh mullet. A mouthful of chips with red salsa followed by a random comment about high school transgender athletes ruining the competitive American spirit. The sweatiest of the pack cracked peanuts open with his teeth while screaming in support of the lunatic guest on Joe Rogan’s latest podcast episode who talked about natural ways of boosting testosterone and how estrogen in food is weakening men in this country. All of these conversations were simply to prove to each other how manly they were—that they were rebels against a system that wanted to emasculate them.
I was completely turned off watching them behave like gorillas with their veiny arms. I held a wide smile for them and held back my laughter as I gently put down their macho drinks on the vandalized table. “Here you guys go, espresso martinis for the real men of this country.”