Hey, Bartender

Don’t ignore the little people; don’t look right through us as if we are wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. I can assure you that our money is as good, and our thirst as pronounced, as the strapping gentleman, or the buxom female, who garners all your attention.

What am I talking about you ask. Fair question. The other night my wife and I went to a well known music club in Santa Barbara to hear Eric Hutchinson and his band. The place wasn’t crowded when we arrived; we stood at the bar trying to decide what libations we fancied. Two bartenders on duty. One of them, bearded, wearing a white shirt and gray vest, was talking wine with a couple seated at the bar. The other was rinsing glasses two feet from us. Neither acknowledged us or made eye contact. Being polite types, we waited patiently. Surely one of them would raise his head and take our order. Nope. The first guy kept talking, the second kept rinsing glasses. We may as well have been invisible.

I was immediately transported back several months, to the Westgate Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas. I was attending a conference and staying at the hotel, and one evening I went down to the casino and sat at the bar, less than three feet from a bartender who did everything but look at me or acknowledge my existence. I was so stunned by his absolute indifference that I didn’t say anything -- I just sat there and waited, fascinated to see how long he could go without acknowledging me. After seven and a half minutes -- yes, I timed it with the stop- watch on my iPhone -- I gave up.

This happened to me three times at the Westgate, which says more about that crappy joint than it does about me. After the third time I strolled over to the concierge and asked to speak to a manager. An African-American woman listened to my tale, told me that the hotel was under new management, and promised to relay my concerns during the next all-staff meeting. No apology, no chit for a drink, not even a smile, now that I think of it.

I’m not a tall man, I’m a runt, and this I think, more than anything else, explains the troubles I’ve experienced with bartenders. The two examples I note here are not the only times I have failed to get service; this happens frequently, in establishments all over my hometown. My wife is convinced that I bear some sort of secret marking visible only to bartenders. Now, I know that some of you are thinking that this dilemma (which, in the big scheme of life is really, really minor, boo-hoo can’t get a drink,) is easily solved if I adopt a more forceful approach, call out to the bartender, tap my debit card on the bar or wave a fistful of dollars to get his or her attention (to be fair to female bartenders, I can say that they ignore me less often than do their male counterparts). But here’s my point: tall men don’t need to resort to these kinds of histrionics -- they step up and are served -- or are at least recognized.

That’s all I want, really, to be recognized, acknowledged, noticed. As a rule, I’m very appreciative of servers and bartenders and busboys, their work isn’t easy and customers can be a pain in the ass. My wife and I tip well because we are working-class people ourselves. I don’t expect anyone to kiss my ass; I do expect people in service businesses to provide service.

So, bartenders, don’t overlook us short people. Like I said, our money is good.