We fear change

The s.o. and I hung out at the bar last night because one of the employees who's a longtime friend of the s.o.'s was playing a solo show upstairs. Something seemed "off" when we got there...I couldn't put my finger on it. And then I heard the whispers: the head doorguy (who was also a bartender) had gotten fired.

ARRRGGHHHHH! Okay, this is bad. This guy is an institution, and he's someone I have spent a hell of a lot of time talking to because I really enjoy his company--plus he was usually stationed out on the patio, which is the only place you can hold a coherent conversation when there are live bands playing.

I shuffled out onto the aforementioned patio and spent some time talking with the owner. He was not happy about having to fire the guy. He's a friend, a valued colleague. "[Boss's name]," I said to him crestfallenly, "I fear change."

"Me too," he sighed back.

Let's take a tally, shall we? In the space of one month, we have lost/are losing the following people:

(1) The couple we had the going-away party for when they moved to New Orleans. (Technically, only the guy was an employee, but the gal was just as much of a loss. I mean, half the graffiti on the walls of the ladies' restrooms are hers, including my favorite, which says "I'll take the whole team for the team.")

(2) One soundman, a 15-year friend of the s.o.'s, who is moving back to Alabama on the same day the PFB is heading to Memphis.

(3) The PFB. (Have completely lost the ability to contemplate this. Too terrible.)

(4) The head doorguy.

We have also gained a few people, obviously, or we would be in a bad fix right now:

(1) The band-booking woman, who is now also a bartender and is a very cool human being. She's my kind of person and obviously has really great taste in music. Chalk one up for us...this is a good change.

(2) The owner's wife, who in a surprise move has been added to the bartender roster. This is wonderful (I really liked her when I met her at Christmas, and of course anyone married to our owner must be delightfully twisted in some way I haven't yet discovered) but of course it means my "consolation prize" of more money will likely not be materializing. Oh, well. I keep waffling on whether I want to work more hours or not, anyhow. She who waffles...something something something.

(3) One doorguy who seems really nice (and who is appropriately large and tattooed and mean-looking) but whose name I keep forgetting.

So there you have it--I'm not one of the new kids anymore! Never mind the fact that (as I admitted last night to the owner) I still can't remember all the end-of-the-night procedures, because every time I learn them it's, like, a month before I do them again.

"That's cool," the owner said. "It's all written down, anyway--you can look it up. And J. or I can always help you. I'd rather have you admit you don't know than fuck me over."

Words to live by. In fact, I think I have lived by them quite a lot in my time.