52. Fifty-two
Rocks glasses line the bar as a group of jersey-clad bartenders eye them with skeptical boredom.
“Aside from making excellent cocktails and being someone people actually like talking to behind the bar, the best way to enhance the bar experience for your guests is to add a little flair to how you do it.”
My voice is overly enthusiastic as I ignore the phone that’s vibrating in my pocket.
“This is a sports bar, with actual sports being played while watching sports being played.”
I smile, meeting each of their eyes.
“Consider what we have going on in here. We have people golfing.” I point to two putting greens. “Basketball.” I nod toward the arcade-style basketball hoops. “Ping-pong tables, shuffle boards… whatever that punching bag thing is called.”
My finger bounces through the air and points to more sporting activities than I knew existed. While the covered seating area leads out to a courtyard of games without walls or a roof, the enclosed space around the bar is covered in team pendants and sporting equipment.
It takes the concept of sports bar to a new level. The dull staff? Not so much.
“So… who are your people? Who wants to come here?” I ask with a too-big smile, compensating for their lack of cheer with an abundance of my own.
When the Tampa sports bar owner booked this consultation, he told me there was a disconnect between the vision he had and the way the atmosphere felt. The eight blank faces that stare at me confirm his thoughts. “Anyone?”
“Sports fans,” a girl answers in a monotone voice.
“Good. Sports fans. Who else?”
“Men,” another one says flatly.
“Men. Good, but let’s go deeper than that. Forget about gender or if they watch the Bucs every Sunday. Who are these people?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Competitive.”
The slightest bit of enthusiasm peeks through the answer.
“Fun.”
“Laid back.”
“Playful.”
“Bingo!” I clap my hands. “The people that come here want to play. You might get people who randomly complain about the volume on the TV, but for the most part, your guests come here to have some fun, and play. The bar needs to follow suit. You need to follow suit.”
I drop a bucket of ice on the bar, and their eyes lock onto it.
“Do we get to dump it on the heads of bad tippers?” a guy with a shaved head jokes, making the others laugh.
“I won’t say no, but your boss might not love it.” I smile. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Again.
This time, I pull it out to make sure it isn’t a family emergency before seeing a number I don’t recognize and shoving it back into my pocket.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, refocusing my attention. “If you’re having fun, your guests are more likely to be having fun. According to the sales, your guests are drinking beer and basic cocktails. Specialty drinks make up a very small portion of orders. Fancy cocktail techniques will serve no real purpose. People aren’t expecting fancy martinis when they walk in these doors, right?”
They nod in agreement.
“So, what we are going to do is add some play in how we make basic cocktails—rum and coke, gin and tonic, vodka and cranberry—starting with how we get ice in the cups. We’ll start easy and work up to something harder.”
I pick up a piece of ice with tongs and toss it from behind my back, sending it flying over my shoulder to the front of my chest, where I catch it in a glass.
“Hey-ooooh!” one of them calls with a fist up to his mouth.
I grin and hold the glass up. “Let’s start by just tossing it up in front of you and catching it, then we’ll go from there. Any questions?”
They shake their heads, but instead of boredom, they’re now eager.
“Okay, get to work!”
In an instant, they are tossing ice, laughing at themselves and each other. The owner, leaning in the doorway on the other side of the bar, lifts his chin and smiles before walking away.
The pride that starts to burn is doused out by the overwhelm that comes with the vibration of my phone in my pocket.
Again.
I rip it out and stare at the unknown number before sending it to voicemail.
It makes seven.
Seven voicemails in three hours requesting more information about scheduling consults.
Two weeks after the magazine article came out, my life is being catapulted into an alternate universe. I knew there would be an impact, but I’m drowning as I try to navigate it. Phone calls, emails, and Marin’s social media inquiries blur together on a never-ending to-do list. This is what I wanted, what I got, and now I can’t handle it. It’s a frustrating kind of defeat.
“Got it, Nel!” a voice calls from behind me as ice clatters against a glass, and a cheer follows.
I press my finger against the power button and turn my phone off. I’ll have to deal with it, just not now.
“Excellent! Let’s try it with a partner.”
Then, I toss another piece of ice into the air.
***
“Hey, Mom, how did it go?” Marin’s face fills my screen as I sprawl across the hotel bed.
“Hey—good. It was fun. They were a little dead in the beginning, but I think by the end, they got a lot out of it.”
“You look tired.” My parents flash behind her on the screen with a wave.
“I am.”
My eyes drop to the notebook with names, cities, and dates scribbled across it.
“I have a list of people who have reached out to me and no clue when I’m going to call them or how I’m going to schedule all this.”
She shrugs, saying, “Hire someone.”
It doesn’t make much financial sense yet, but with my sanity on the line, it’s the best idea I’ve got. If someone else can deal with scheduling and emails, I can just focus on the work I want to do.
“I might have to.” I look back to the endless list next to me again. “Where’s Finn?”
“Practice.”
I nod.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
She flips through a book I can’t see on the screen.
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up with a tired sigh. I’m exhausted and doing a shitty job of managing everything. The work is fun, but the logistics are complicated and foreign. After a lifetime of shifts of work where I just showed up at the same place at the same time, this is a problem I hadn’t thought of.
Marin is right. I need help.
Despite being exhausted, I open my computer. While it powers up, I tap the screen of my phone.
Me: Hi.
Ethan: Hi.
Me:I’m wondering if I’m supposed to feel like I’m drowning 24/7?
Ethan: Every entrepreneur would say yes.
Ethan: Anything I can help with?
I swallow hard as I read and re-read the question.
Yes. Fly here. Call me.
As usual, I write anything but.
Me: A warning would have been nice.
Ethan: It’s more fun this way.