War Stories: Fifteen minutes

Really, I'm not going to lie to you. I can't fight. Not in the fisticuffs sense of the word, or at least not well. But tonight - which up to a point had been pretty good, really quiet and on course for cleaning up and home within fifteen minutes of closing - was touch and go for a moment. I served a group of out-of-towners a couple of minutes before we shut the bar. Twenty minutes later they were moaning about having to rush their drinks (we give customers fifteen minutes grace to finish their drinks we close), so we get the manager out and he tells them it's over. Go home. And so it goes for a couple of minutes, we just want them to go so we can go home.

And then someone says something, someone hears something and all of a sudden there's standing up and shoulders being squared and just for a second there's the manager, me and one other guy on the bar and there's four older, slightly drunk but pretty hefty dudes and...

It's over. No drama. Well, no more drama. They shift out, grumbling about the level of customer care , and we all take a deep breath and thank whatever it is we pray to because we don't get paid enough to get hit because someone can't finish a pint in fifteen minutes.