A Septuagenarian Superbowl

I did a lot of bartending this weekend, which is excellent. Most of my catering gigs involve things like passing hors d'oeuvres, and I don't get to pour drinks as often as I would like. So originally I was going to write about Saturday night, where my bartending was going all fine and well until I almost passed out from being underfed, overcaffeinated, and subsequently, dehydrated (note to self: in the absence of food, drinking multiple sodas will help...not at all). I have never been more thankful to have someone working with me than I was when I asked my fellow bartender to hang out by himself while I went and found a quiet bench to sit on and put my head between my knees for 45 minutes until I could a) find the strength to lift my bottle of water to my mouth and b) stand up without wanting to die. So that was fun.

The more important story is about my bartending gig yesterday, where I was told that I would be working at a private Superbowl party. I imagined doling out beers to 50-something men as they feasted on seven layer dip, six-foot subs and other number-related foods as their wives sat around in designer attire totally inappropriate for Superbowl Sunday (after all, poor people don't hire bartenders).

I arrived at my destination and found that I was bartending in the party room of some fancy shmancy apartment building. The woman showing me around said about 50 people had RSVPed that they were coming. I looked at what I was working with – a ton of soda, 18 bottles of wine, and 2 cases of beer. TWENTY-FOUR BEERS FOR A SUPERBOWL PARTY OF FIFTY PEOPLE. I laughed. I cried. I was shocked.

At 5:30 the guests started arriving, and I realized that this was no ordinary Superbowl party. Despite the fact that the party was open to 3 apartment buildings which I imagine house people of all ages, everyone was at least 70 years old (for some, this estimate is generous). Some people even had CANES. I had never worked at a party where people stopped me after pouring a shot's worth of wine because it was too much, and where everyone, when asked if they wanted ice in their soda, said “oh...just a little bit.” The way these people acted towards ice was the way I act towards shots when I know I've had enough to drink – something I want but know I shouldn't have more of. And not even while working at dark, loud parties have I had to repeat myself so many times.

At around 6:45, the hostess started clearing away the food, going as far as to ask if I wanted the leftovers because she was about to throw them away. I was confused as to why she didn't just leave them out, but evidently it was time to set out dessert. Which she did. And then around 7:30, she started cleaning that up too. Except this time she cleaned up the whole party. The tablecloths, platters and decorations were put away, and she was going around trying to pawn the rest of the cookies off on the remaining people – I should mention, by the way, that it was not yet halftime but there were about 15 people left out of the 60 or so who had come through. The only way I even knew it was almost halftime is because I had gone to the viewing area to check the score. Not once did I hear so much as a peep coming from the people watching the game.

Then the hostess bid me goodnight, gave me some final instructions and word that the co-host would tell me what to do later, and left. I was confused.

I then prepared myself for the inevitable halftime drink rush, when my 15 soldiers would surely come up to the bar to get refills. The half ends, and everyone gets up...and goes straight out the door.

By the time The Who got on stage, the party consisted of me, the host, 2 old women sitting at a table and nursing their ginger ales, and one lone man watching the television. The host said, “Well, everyone's gone, time to clean up.” And so I did.

I helped him put 10 unopened bottles of wine and 19 untouched beers into the trunk of his car, and I was done. It was not yet 8:30 and the Superbowl party was over. I imagine that most of the guests were fast asleep by the time I got home at ten to 9.