I’ve forgotten how to talk with strangers. The thought occurs to me as I attempt to pour an Irish Red with the perfect amount of head foam. I’m actually fantastic at pouring beer, which is surprising because I’ve never poured a professional beer in my life until this fine evening at the brewery.
A few weeks ago, I was enjoying that same Irish Red at my favourite local pub. My friend and owner of this local brewery, Kelti, was telling me about how tired she was. I met Kelti when my husband James and I owned our sandwich shop.
If you didn’t know, hot-pressed sandwiches and locally crafted beer go hand in hand. After a few promotional events where we worked together, we became friends; the rest is history.
Since closing our shop, Jamie and I have tried to get down to the brewery as much as possible to support our fellow small biz pals.
However, this last time, I perhaps had a few too many reds sloshing around in my belly and said, “Kelti, why don’t you train me, and I can help you here at the brewery!”
Kelti, knowing that I am well versed in the small business world and counter service life, was like, “Yes. Let’s do that!”
Except it’s been a long four years since I owned a business or worked in the service industry. For the past four years, my work life has consisted of holing away in my tiny office writing cringtastic stories. Also, holing away in an industrial laundry room, incanting spells over spunk-stained bedsheets.
Hocus pocus, jizzum and sleaze, remove this splooge stain as fast as you please!
As I pour perfect beers for the brewery’s International Women’s Day Brew launch (see, I told you they were a very cool business), I realize I could be better at conversing with the public.
In fact, I am awkward as fuck.
I’d like to think I’m being awkward in the lovable way, but I don’t think that’s the case. Actually, I am positive that’s not the case. My go-to response when I feel out of my element is to go completely mute.
Unfortunately, because I am in a behind-the-counter scenario where I must now be serving human beings, my kneejerk reaction is to get very loud and overuse the phrases, “that’s hilarious” and “very cool” to such an extent that it’s becoming noticeable.
How the hell did I do this before? You know, when I used to work behind a counter for a living? How can a few short years allow me to forget my customer service skills?
I’m beginning to have a total mental panic attack while pouring a Salty Mavin (Women’s Day Brew) for a new customer and loudly saying, “Very cool,” to nothing and nobody at all, when both Kelti and I are startled by a tremendous crashing bang coming from the tasting room.
We are in the front of the brewery where the bar is, and there is a thick wall obstructing our view of what has just caused such a commotion. We look at each other in stunned silence. Then the silence is broken when the entire tasting room breaks out in ominous sighs of, “Ohhhh no!” and “Are you okay?”
We run to the back.
There stands our evening’s entertainment, a singer with a broken guitar in her hand and a look of pure defeat on her face.
“What happened?” Kelti asks. I’ve entirely reverted into monk mode at this turn of events.
“I tripped and fell, landed on my guitar.” The girl looks shattered. I’m not sure how old she is, but I’d be surprised if she is older than eighteen.
She’s taking it all like a champ. She excuses herself to the washroom, and that’s when everyone in that tiny brewery jumps into action.
“Okay, we need to track down another guitar,” says someone.
“I’ve got one at my house,” a girl answers.
“I’ll text J and see if she can bring an extra,” Kelti advises. “She’s our second show tonight and due to be here in 20 minutes or so.”
Everyone is on their phone, texting and calling and ensuring the show will go on.
The singer comes out front, where Kel and I are back pouring beers for the patrons. She’s laughing it off, and I’m astounded at her resilience. I would be a puddle of humiliated tears by this point. That’s one strong, amazing kid.
She signs the broken guitar, and Kelti hangs it on the brewery’s wall.
Fucking perfection.
A new acoustic is procured.
The show, indeed, goes on.
By 8 pm, I find myself in the tasting room enjoying the show and truly not worrying about being surrounded by a room full of strangers. I think about community and the weird and lasting webs we weave simply from existing beside one another.
My shyness and difficulty conversing with the public have always been there, but I remember that with practice, I can quell the social anxiety that crashes into my brain when confronted with swarms of people.
I think about the young singer and the formidable way she carried on after what had to be a hugely unfortunate event. Everyone in that tasting room was ready and willing to help if they could.
Life is worth feeling uncomfortable once in a while. Because if all it takes is a bit of awkwardness to grow a network like that around you, then please, accept my “very cools” and I shall bask in the warm embrace of a community.
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This post was previously published on Artisanal Article Machine.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | Why I Don’t Want to Talk About Race | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
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