The Picador Book Room

This week Picador is publishing Bill Loehfelm’s The Devil She Knows, a “gritty and lyrical” crime novel set in the seedy underbelly of Staten Island. To celebrate we’ll be featuring the book here on the Tumblr for the rest of the week. In the mini-essay below, Bill describes his many years in the service industry, a place his heroine, Maureen Coughlin, knows all too well.

One of the things I enjoyed most about writing The Devil She Knows, was writing about the service industry, where I spent many years, and about the things, good and bad, that I learned about people. Below are some things good for those being served to know:

We see you: If the bartender isn’t serving you yet, it isn’t because she doesn’t see you, it’s because it’s not your turn. What we’re doing might seem random to you, but there’s a system, a modified first-come-first served-system tempered by variables such as manners, tipping habits, and familiarity. Some of these are discussed below. And always remember: Nobody jumps up and down at the bank, waving their checkbook and hollering, “Yo, yo, over here, real quick, I just need to make a deposit.” At Burger King, nobody jumps up and down at the back of the line waving money and yelling out their order. You know who else sees you doing that shit? The bouncer. And the redhead you’re going to try pick up in an hour. You’re already blowing it.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Have it. Not only for your server, but for yourself and your fellow customers. Know your order when your turn comes or you end up at the back of the line. You’re not getting the call to kill bin Laden, he’s already dead, so put your phone away or the bartender is permitted to go Seal Team Six on you. And here are three phrases that make magic happen in a busy bar: Please, Thank you, Excuse me. Fellas, I spent a lot of time behind the bar, and the best pick-up line I’ve ever heard, is “Hello, my name is …” Unless you follow it with, “Want a Jaeger Bomb?” Then, you still suck. And don’t ask me to “make it strong” or to “hook you up.” Unless you can name my last three ex-girlfriends, we’re not “boyz.” I don’t go the car dealer and say, “I only have enough for a Kia, but hook me up with that Benz and I’ll take care of you later.” If you pull that game where you wave the hundred dollar bill, order a Bud Light then try to pay with your debit card, you’ll learn a very popular service industry term: Eighty-six.

Yes, we saw COCKTAIL, no, we don’t do that shit with the bottles. This isn’t Vegas and we’d get fired mid-shift for spilling all that liquor. Plus, you really want to hang out in a bar where two bartenders make one drink at a time between them?

Tipping is not only for cows: Bartending is fun, but, except for your drunk uncle at the Memorial Day BBQ, nobody does it for free. We do it for cash money. No tip is too big, but some are too small. Anything smaller than a quarter, keep it. And no tip, no matter how big, buys you permission to be a douchebag. And, chances are, my idea of a big tip is different than yours, Mr. Five-Figure Millionaire. There are some things money can’t buy. The verbal tip (You’re the best bartender ever/We’re so gonna take care of you later, etc.) is death. Dropping it at any time other than after you’ve tipped sufficiently in cash, will kill any chance you had of getting good service. I’ve got my mom to give me compliments. Everybody together now: cash money. On the flip side, tipping well on the first round is a foolproof tactic. Even if you intend to run a tab with a credit card, pay the first round in cash and leave a good tip – we’ll remember.

Closing time: “Closed” in Barland means the same thing it does on Earth. It means we’re not selling any more stuff this evening. If you walk into a bar and the lights are on and the music is not and all the chairs and stools are upside down, the bar is closed. The door is unlocked because the waitress’s boyfriend is picking her up and the bar back is talking out the trash, not because we were waiting for your drunk ass to stumble in for “one more beer.” And when I tell you the registers are closed, please don’t tell me I don’t have to ring it up. I don’t steal for people I know, I’m not doing it for you. If you are begging for a drink and can’t find an open bar to sell you one, that’s the universal sign for “Go the fuck home.”

It’s been a pleasure serving you. Have a nice day. 

For more of Bill Loehfelm’s life lessons, head over to his Tumblr.

This week Picador is publishing Bill Loehfelm’s The Devil She Knows, a “gritty and lyrical” crime novel set in the seedy underbelly of Staten Island. To celebrate we’ll be featuring the book here on the Tumblr for the next three days. Below, Bill describes Bay Street, a small strip of Staten Island bars that inspired the world his heroine, Maureen Coughlin, calls home.

A walk down Maureen Coughlin’s Bay Street (my Bay Street, really) is indeed a walk down memory lane. Not much of the Staten Island strip of bars and clubs that I knew remains. The nightlife lives on there, I’m sure, but the names of the guilty have changed, and I’m sure the innocent remain few and far between. I will say that I had a better time out there than Maureen did. 

The Haunted Café, site of one of Maureen’s first Bay Street jobs, was a true hole in the wall whose enormous tuxedo-wearing bouncer inspired the Narrows dapper enforcer, Clarence. I used to see the guy at the gym. He lifted all the weights. The Haunted burned down some years ago, though I hear the site is still haunted. What haunted the café in the first place, I never knew. I’m pretty sure I never asked. It is, after all, a place where I willingly participated in karaoke. Lucky for the other patrons, I counted several musicians among my friends and I was wise enough to stick to singing back up.

The Dock of the Bay was both a favorite hangout of mine and is one of the key inspirations for the dark and nefarious Narrows. It has been any number of other venues these past years – including an all-ages thrash metal club. Not a band has played there, though, that can touch Full House & the Brooklyn Horns, Maureen’s main moneymaker and the first band to really school me on R&B and funk. A friend and I found the place by accident, looking for someplace “classy” while out on a double date at the Choir Loft. In those days, table seating and cocktail waitresses were our idea of classy and the Dock had both. The girls weren’t impressed, but the boys and I became regulars. It was one of those special places that if you’re lucky you find in your twenties. One of those places you’ll always tell stories about. 

Even the Cargo Café, a real place that sponsored our Sunday morning beer league softball team, and site of much conspiring and commiserating in The Devil She Knows, has finally succumbed to the ravages of time and change and capitalism, re-emerging briefly as a similar café under another name and a new paint job before going under once again.

Even the old all-night White Castle is gone, which is probably for the best.

One of the glories of fiction, though, is it lets you keep the past alive, in any you want it to be. 

For more of Bill Loehfelm’s memories of things past (and future), head over to his Tumblr.