Yakov

I had an absolutely ridiculous beginning to the evening. I spent the day on-line searching for jobs overseas after seeing the movie Sicko last night. I spent my only night off this week questioning my mere existence in this country (that’s a great stress reliever). My questioning carried on late into today, but I finally think I'm ready to go back to being an ill-informed happy American (my genuine educated concern lasted right around 24 hours). Nonetheless, I arrived to work late in a funky state of mind. Not at all psyched about dealing with the girl we pretty much fired on Saturday and not very pyched about the realistic interview we had. (In a realistic interview, the candidate is put on the floor and follows a server around; almost like they are training. It is a great tool in hiring people because some people interview well and then you put them out on the floor and they are lazy or bad with people or can't organize or can't multi-task or think their cell phone is necessary at all times or a million other things you can't tell by asking them where they see themselves in 20 years.)

I thought I was prepared for work, we wear the overly seen black-shirt black-pants uniform. I arrived in a black tank top ready to don a very hip black cap-sleeved cropped light cotton jacket that just needed a few wrinkles taken out. Fortunately, I am always prepared and I brought my travel steamer; plugged it in, filled it with water, and waited as it decided that it would never make an ounce of steam again. As I created new swear words and ways of grouping them together, I decided to run one block down the street to the dry cleaner and have it pressed there. When I asked to have it pressed the girl at the counter was so gleeful in the fact that all of the presses were off that I considered jamming a handful of those awful metal hangers up her ass, but unfortunately I didn't have time. I had $110 in my pocket and decided to just go buy another top, my choices: five ridiculously overpriced boutiques where $110 might get you either a pair of socks or something hot pink with red fringe off of the clearance rack or the Patagonia store. Patagonia seemed like the right choice, at least I would wear whatever I bought there again. Seventy-five dollars later, I was able to spend the next six hours relenting the fact that I probably wouldn't make $75 in tips since there was not a constant flow of anything except for the dribble coming out of seat one’s mouth.

The realistic realistically sucked, so I sent him home at 7. He spent most of the evening frowning and looking put-upon that he was in one of the most beautiful spaces in town, was surrounded by beautiful women, and had the chance to get a much better job than he currently has. Certainly all reasons to keep a constant scour on the face.

Otherwise, I had the time to be concerned about one of my bar regulars Yakov (not his real name, but based on the Eastern Europeaness of his real name).

Yakov:

Around 25 years old.

5'9" medium build

Blond hair.

Charasmatic.

Always smiling.

Always well dressed, typically in brown.

Always smells like very expensive and good cologne.

Always wears a very expensive watch, most recently a Tag Hauer with diamonds in it.

Yakov first started coming to the bar with a house-arrest ankle bracelet. He knew exactly how long it took to leave the bar and get to his house out of town. He never delayed and when he said he needed his bill, it meant immediately. Not soon after he started coming, we found out that he had the ankle bracelet because last year when he was living in Seattle he was at a party and a friend asked him if he knew five men who would marry five Asian women so that they could get their greencards. And Yakov said, "Yeah, I bet I could find five men that would marry hot Asian women to get their greencards. How hard could that be?" And it proved not be hard at all, and those five men found five men and those five men found five men, you get the picture. So after about a year, the INS started noticing a trend with these Asian women and as they investigate they find Yakov at the top of the pyramid.

Yakov was supposed to go to federal prison, but somehow charms the judge into letting him have house arrest instead. When he gets house arrest, he takes his parol officer out and persuades her to let him have three hours each night to leave the house and have dinner and a drink. Somehow, she agrees to this. He even gets his anklet taken off early. So part of the deal is that he cannot fly for two years, but the second the anklet is off, he swears that he will be on a plane by the end of the next week. And sure enough, he comes in and says, I'll see you a week. I got permission to go to Las Vegas to help a friend move to Oregon. He told them that she had no family and he was the only person who could help her. He said two federal marshals would be there to great him at the airport as he embarked and disembarked. But then he also says that he is going to put three video poker machines in the back of the U-Haul and transport them to Oregon, which is illegal since the state controls all the gambling.

This whole conversation took place over a month ago. And since there has been absolutely nothing as to his wearabouts, I'm thinking he must be in prison or killed by somesort of mafia guy that he was in cahoots with. A few days ago, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum came in, very cute young women with matching stripper-blond hair. These girls had been running around with Yakov right before he left. (Yakov really likes accessories, nice watches, nice cars, expensive haircuts, nice jackets, nice belts, and two dumb pretty girls finish the look off perfectly.) Dee asked me if I had seen him and I said no, waiting for their take on the whole thing. After a moment, Dum decided that he might have stayed in Nevada, but Dee thought he was most likely in prison. Dee had spoken to him four weeks ago when he was driving through Reno, so we know he left Las Vegas. Now I can’t help but wonder where the hell he is.

On a lighter note, if you see the 2003 Rockblock Syrah, pick it up. Good regulars to me brought in a bottle this evening and left a glass. Great nose with dried cherries and figs, fruit forward with a nice smooth long finish. I always feel like syrahs are so variable, you never know if it is going to be big and fruity, or taste like rubbing alchol with cheap strawberry jam infused in it. But this one is a winner!

Cheers!

A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.