From where I’m sitting I can count bottles and towels and little square napkins and I can hear the sound of the scoop as it slides into the ice bin. I can feel the pressure of the ticket printer and I can recall every nuance that follows along through a bartender’s night. Thirteen years I spent behind the wood. Thirteen. For so long I considered myself a professional. I knew the drink lists front to back and I had a short list of drinks that had my very own special twist. It was an honorable vocation. A trusted spot in so many people’s lives. The bartender is your friend and your lover and your confidant. The bartender is so many things to so many people. The bartender is everything and their wage is based solely on one’s ability to scrape together more money than the total of their bill and pass it along. Gratuity. It’s nonsense and so widely accepted that’s its vomit inducing. Servers are servants and that is how our culture looks at it. It might not be the most popular word to describe the situation, but it’s the truth. A long time ago, when I was still painting regularly, I created a series of sixteen panels. Each of the panels was washed in white paint and each had hand written on it, in black paint, the words “income based gratuity scale”. Think about it. The more you make, the more you tip. It’s seems logical and simple. It’ll never happen.