Chapter 21
Finn
Forty-three applications.
We’d posted the bartender position less than twenty-four hours ago and already had forty-three applications. I was relatively certain that said more about the Tampa job market than it did about our bar, but a win was a win, right?
“How is this possible?” I said to no one in particular.
“How is what possible?” Priya emerged from the bathroom in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban.
She didn’t work until the evening shift, giving us a rare morning at home that she was savoring based on the coffee mug in her hand and the complete lack of urgency in her movements.
“We posted a job opening yesterday afternoon for another bartender. I just can’t believe how many people have already applied.”
“That is good, right?” She dropped onto the couch next to me.
“Is it?” I scrolled through the list. “Some of these have to be spam. Or bots. Or—” I clicked on one at random and immediately regretted it. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“Listen to this.” I cleared my throat and read aloud.
“‘Dear Hiring Manager, I am writing to apply for the bartender position at your esteemed establishment. I have over ten years of experience in mixology, having perfected my craft in the underground cocktail scene of Miami where I studied under the tutelage of a former CIA operative who taught me the art of creating drinks so powerful they can extract secrets from even the most hardened individuals.’”
Priya choked on her coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It gets better. ‘My signature drink, The Waterboard, has been described as life-changing by those brave enough to try it. I am also proficient in fifteen languages, three martial arts, and can juggle flaming bottles while reciting Shakespeare.’”
“That cannot be real.”
“His name is listed as ‘Dimitri Volkov, Mixology Assassin.’” I showed her the screen.
“Mixology Assassin?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Hire him immediately.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But think of the entertainment value. He sounds hot.” Priya was laughing now, nearly spilling her coffee. “You could have a CIA bartender. He could make drinks while doing karate.”
“He sounds completely insane.”
“Probably, but imagine the Yelp reviews. If someone one-stars you, Dimitri could show up and ‘eliminate the problem.’” She said that last bit in the worst Russian accent ever uttered, then gestured at my laptop. “What else? This is fun.”
I scrolled down and clicked on another. “Okay, this one: ‘To Whom It May Concern, I saw your job posting and think I would be a good fit. I have never bartended before, but I have watched every season of Bar Rescue and feel confident I could bring that energy to your establishment. I am also very good at yelling at people who make mistakes. References available upon request.’”
“Bar Rescue?” Priya repeated. “The show where that guy with the sunglasses screams at people?”
“That’s the one.”
“So this person’s qualification is . . . watching a TV show about failing bars and yelling.”
“Apparently.”
“Hard pass.”
“Agreed.” I kept scrolling. “Oh, here’s a good one.
‘Hello! My name is Brad’—oh God, his name is Brad—‘and I would love to work at your bar! I don’t have any bartending experience, but I’m a fast learner and also I’m super hot, so I think that would bring in customers.
I’ve included several shirtless photos to demonstrate my qualifications.
Please let me know if you need more pictures.
I’m not afraid to show you my shot glass, if you know what I mean. ’”
Priya leaned over to squint at the screen. “Did he actually—”
“He attached six shirtless mirror selfies, all from different angles. It looks like he’s trying to create a 3D model of himself to feed a printer.”
“That’s . . . wow. Nice arms.”
“The last one is from a bathroom at what I think is a Planet Fitness.”
“Definitely hire that one, but tell him he is never allowed to wear clothes.”
I closed Brad’s email and moved to the next. “Wait, this person’s entire resume is written in Comic Sans.”
“No.”
“Yes. And it’s neon green text.”
“On what background?”
“Hot pink.”
“That is a hate crime, not a job application.”
“It really is.” I kept reading. “Their special skills include ‘being really good at beer pong,’ ‘knowing all the words to Lizzo songs,’ and ‘can open a bottle with literally anything, even my teeth, though I don’t recommend that anymore because dental work is expensive.’”
Priya doubled over so fast the towel almost fell off her head. “Make it stop. I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, there’s more. Under previous work experience, they listed ‘Professional Spring Breaker, Panama City Beach, 2019 to 2022.’”
“How is that four years?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they never left.” I scrolled through more applications, most of which were variations on “no experience but willing to learn” or “worked at a bar once in college.” Then I found one that looked decent. “Okay, wait. This one might be real.”
“What does it say?”
“‘Dear Hiring Manager, I’m applying for the bartender position at Barbacks. I have five years of bartending experience, most recently at The Guild in Tampa. I’m experienced with craft cocktails, beer selection, and high-volume service.
I’m comfortable working independently or as part of a team and am looking for a new opportunity after my previous establishment closed last month.
References available. Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely, Morgan Hayes.’”
“She sounds . . . normal.”
“Suspiciously normal.” I opened the attached resume. “Five years at The Guild. Before that, three years at a place in Orlando. This says she attended bartending school and has references. There’s no mention of CIA training or shirtless photos.”
“Hire her.”
“I’m interviewing her.” I created a new folder and moved that resume into it.
I scrolled through the rest of the emails. Most were immediate rejections. One person had somehow attached their tax returns instead of a resume, but I found a few more that looked promising:
Benji Kwon - seven years’ experience, worked at several upscale bars in Tampa, specialized in whiskey.
David Kim - four years’ experience, previously worked at a sports bar in Clearwater, emphasized teamwork and high-volume service.
Sarah Morrison - six years’ experience, craft cocktail focused, recently relocated to Tampa from Atlanta.
“That is four decent candidates,” Priya said, reading over my shoulder. “Not bad out of forty-three applications.”
“If you ignore the CIA operative and the Bar Rescue enthusiast and Shirtless Brad.”
“We will never forget Shirtless Brad, will we?”
“Absolutely not. That’s dinner party conversation for the next decade. Who knows? Maybe we’ll need a dancer at some point. He sure looks the part.”
Priya snorted. “A dancer in a sports bar?”
“A gay sports bar. There can never be enough bouncing cleavage or swinging Richards.”
She wheezed so loudly I couldn’t understand her words.
I started composing interview invitation emails to the four actual candidates, trying to schedule them all for Saturday afternoon before the evening rush. Morgan could come at two. David at three. Benji at four. Sarah at five.
“Four interviews in three hours,” Priya observed. “That is ambitious.”
“We need someone by next week. Chase asked me out, and I told him I had to figure out staffing first. I can’t take a night off without someone qualified to fill in.”
“Oh my God.” Priya set down her coffee and turned to face me. “You are hiring a bartender so you can go on a date?”
“I’m hiring a bartender because we need another bartender.”
“And because you want to go on a date with the hot lawyer.”
“That’s a silver lining.”
“That is your entire motivation and you know it.” She was grinning now. “This is adorable. You are restructuring your entire business plan for a boy.”
“I’m restructuring our business plan because Mark is right—we can’t work seven days a week indefinitely. The Chase thing is just . . . coincidental timing.”
“Sure it is.” She grinned and folded her legs onto the couch, wrapping her arms around them.
I sent the interview invitations and closed my laptop. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I am enjoying it exactly the right amount.” Priya unfolded herself, stood, and grabbed her coffee. “I need to get my day started. Try not to accidentally hire the CIA guy while I am gone.”
“Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you about it. CIA and all.”
She giggled all the way down the hall and into her room. I sat there on the couch, staring at my laptop.
My phone buzzed.
Chase: How’s the hiring going?
Me: I’ve learned that there are people who consider “professional spring breaker” a valid career.
Chase: I’m sorry, a what?
Me: Don’t ask. How’s your day?
Chase: Currently reviewing a prenup for a couple who wants to include custody arrangements for their hypothetical future children, dogs, and cats. The woman mentioned a goat, but her fiancé put his foot down.
Me: And they say we’re causing the decay of marriage?
Chase: Ha. Right. Family law is 90% sorting through painful details and 10% people crying in my office.
Me: That sounds terrible . . . but not too different from being a bartender.
Chase: Wait. I spent years and a hundred grand on law school to study what you learned working in a bar?
Me: Okay, maybe it’s not that similar. LOL. You love it, though?
Chase: It has its moments . . . like when I get texts from bartenders who are hiring professional spring breakers.
Me: I’m NOT hiring the spring breaker.
Chase: That’s probably for the best. Hey, client just showed up. Gotta run. Just wanted to hear your voice.
Me: Uh, Chase, this is a text chain.
Chase: Fine. I wanted to see your words.
Me: Lawyers are weird.
Chase: Can’t argue that. See you soon.
I smiled and set my phone down.
Tomorrow. I’d find someone tomorrow. Someone competent. Someone reliable. Someone whose entire resume wasn’t written in neon green Comic Sans.
How hard could it be?