By: Andrew Monteleone
For this bartender, the silence before the rush walks in is riddled with futility.
The rags are piled awaiting the inevitable remnants of Grasshoppers spilled by ill-equipped antennae. The threetops are ready to stage trios of clergy debating the same unrectifiable complainings of their weekend congregations.
I can already hear the rise and fall of arguments about ethnicity and race and the perpetuation of every stereotype as if it were the height of originality.
And although most patrons find these rituals amusing, at the end of the night, all I long for is a singular moment of cleverness or wit.