Shhhh! don't tell them I'm not Greek!

Last night marks my first, of what may be several, nights working a traditional Greek party. I serve on the weekends and late into the nights slinging beverages of the alcoholic kind at a hip-hop bar nestled in the ground floor of my loft building. The ownership of said bar are 3 Greek guys, otherwise completely unrelated, and one dude from Gang Starr. (Go fig.)

Since I'm more of an "on call" type employee, I'm usually scheduled as the 'over flow' bartender, when the hip hop showcases and 4-band rock nights are going to be hectic and need two fly ladies behind the bar as opposed to one. Or, in cases like last night, they call me in when they know no other bartender will do it. The usual crew mixing Hipnotique and Hennessey to scratched records and local lyracists all became suddenly sick or busy when the night's bill went up. Six straight hours of lute, lyre, and cello.

They did right to not tell me until I was already an hour into my shift.

I spent the night pouring from bottles pointed out by smiling, dark, curly-haired men who had given up on pronounccing liquors so that I could understand. Women chasing and sometimes trumping Helen's beauty made their ways around the room in sporadic and spirling routes kissing cheeks and taking shots before reeling off to the next group. All were friends, all were like an extended family. Jugs of moonshine were passed slyly at first, then openly like a relic for all to see and touch.

Money was no object at any point during the night. Rounds were bought for everyone who could belly up to the bar and cash was thrown like confetti whenever anyone danced. Restauranteurs, college professors, contractors, businesswomen grabbed hands held high and bounced in rings in front of the stage. Though at times they were impatient, overall they were drunk and jovial. These people know how to party.

I was assumed, and rightfully so, to be there only as the hired help. I was their pleasant bartender and they were my thirsty patrons. Until one of them noticed a tattoo on the back of my left bicep, just above the elbow. It reads "thanatos".

"You're Greek!" He shouted! And insisted that we drink together to solidify our new found bond. After breaking the news and a bit of interrogation, he slumped a bit, leaned in, and whispered, "Your secret's safe with me!"