Brian walked into Crossroads and headed back to the bathroom to change his shirt into the Crossroads uniform. A black T-shirt with a stylistic typeface spelling CROSSROADS across the front. On the back was a drawing of a man and a woman standing at an intersection with their hands on their hips looking up at a road sign with four arrows pointing in different directions.

He made his way back to the front of the place and crossed through the waitress station and went behind the bar. Jack gave him a towel.

“Brian, you have to remember that the best bars are microcosms of the world. You get all walks of life in a bar. From the richest of the rich to the homeless person who just scrounged a dollar for a happy hour beer. No one is better than the other. Once you learn to serve each one with the same respect and thoughtfulness, once you learn to talk with each person in their language, only then will you truly be a good bartender, a good business partner, and quite frankly, a better person. It’s the main reason I left my corporate job and opened this place. I was tired of answering to a boss, a company, and a brand I couldn’t support. So, I scrounged every dollar out of my savings. Borrowed from anyone who would back me and opened this place. I call the shots. Literally. It could be many years before I own the place outright, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to get rich. I’m here to serve.”

Jack gave Brian a big pat on the back.

“Before we open the doors, I just need to show you a few things so you can function back here. Remember, Kelly and I are here to help, so if you have any questions, just ask.”

Jack quickly showed him how to use the register for the evening, where all the bottles were set up behind the bar, where all the beer was located in the coolers, and the menus for when people wanted a specialty cocktail or something to eat. Jack showed him the proper way to wash the glasses, where the backup bottles were, in case they ran out, and how to pop a bottle top with a bartender’s church key bottle opener. He showed Brian which button on the beverage gun corresponded to which beverage . . . C for cola, G for ginger ale, etc., the proper way to make a few of the most popular basic drinks and shots, and ultimately which glasses were for particular drinks.

Kelly came down from her side of the bar and pointed to her watch.

“We’ve already got a crowd lined up,” she said.

“Kelly has the point . . . that’s the front of the bar . . . and, Brian, if you know what’s good for you, stay out of Kelly’s way. I’ll take the service bar to take care of the waitresses at this end of the bar, and you’ve got the middle. Kelly and I will try to float down and help you whenever we can, but now you know the basics, so you should be okay. Friday night is mostly a beer, wine, and shots crowd anyway.”

Brian nodded again. That’s all he was doing, nodding. He felt like one of those bobblehead dolls in the back of a car.

“All right,” Jack declared, “let’s open the doors!”

Kelly was right. It was the busiest Friday night Crossroads had experienced in a long time. Besides the 15 people that immediately came in the bar, a going-away party of 30 co-workers walked in the door unannounced 10 minutes later. In addition to the regular Friday happy hour crowd celebrating the end of yet another grueling hard-fought week of work, 20 people from the financial district came in to celebrate a highly successful day of trading. Needless to say, everyone there was ready to celebrate something, even if it was just the fact that they wouldn’t be working for the next two days.

By the end of happy hour at 7:00 p.m., the bar was completely full. Jack was serving the waitresses and controlling the music, making sure the playlist was matching the energy of the crowd. They were all moving at maximum speed to accommodate all of the customers’ requests, as well as the waitresses who were serving the tables. It was controlled chaos.

In the middle of it all was Brian. Over 300 people, three-deep at the bar, and everyone wanted something. By unofficial estimates, in the first three hours Brian had broken four wine glasses and two highballs, chipped five shot glasses, and smashed an entire bottle of cheap vodka.

At first, Brian actually thought he was doing well. But then people wanted more than one thing at a time, and within an hour, a good drink was anything that didn’t end up all over the bar, himself, or the customer.

Every so often, Brian would look over at Jack, who seemed like he had eight arms going at once, filling glasses, pouring liquor, popping beer bottles, going into the register, and counting money. He was amazing.

Kelly was the same. In fact, Brian thought she was even faster than Jack. How the hell was he going to keep up?

“You okay?!” Jack yelled over the blaring music.

“NO!” Brian screamed back. “HELP!”

Brian had at least 10 people screaming in his face and waving money at him, shouting their drink orders.

“Pick one,” Jack yelled as he was popping the caps off eight beer bottles in rapid succession. “Just focus on one order at a time. You can’t do it all at once. Drown out all the others for the moment. Pick one. You’re in charge. You choose who is most important. Remember, your perception is their reality. You’re in charge now.”

Brian pointed to a guy in a blue sports jacket holding a twenty in his hand.

“Three Buds!” the guy shouted.

Brian grabbed three beers, handed them to the guy, took the money, made change, and handed it back. The guy left two dollars on the bar, which Brian quickly picked up and put in the tip bucket.

“Three shots of tequila and three Heinekens,” a woman with too much jewelry called out.

Pick one. Drown out the others. Eventually you’ll get to all of them. You’re in charge, he thought, as he poured the shots.

As people left the bar, others started coming in. Brian felt a little better focusing on one customer at a time, but he was still pitifully slow, and everyone knew it. He was so slow that the customers were leaving him cheap tips, or not tipping him at all.

Midnight came, and by this time Brian’s arms were sore. His back was starting to get stiff due to all of the bending. He couldn’t remember being on his feet for that long, ever. He was sweating as if he’d just spent an hour in a sauna, and he smelled like a bar. As the hours passed, he kept wondering what had he gotten himself into?