Don’t panic.
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 ofBar Rescueand 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.’”
