The bipolar bartender

I've been frequenting my favorite local bar for over two years. It's a full-on Irish pub with an intellectual side. It attracts both the Chelsea-gallery snobs as well as Chelsea Piers soccer teams. And the music they play is outstanding.

My favorite bartender, Ryan, is also Irish and he knows me by name. He's extremely cute, and young with an adorable (albeit rough) Irish accent. He says "tree" instead of "three", "mudder" instead of "mother" - you get the idea. And Ryan is bipolar.

Ryan loves me (doesn't everyone?) when I sit at the bar with a girlfriend or 4 and proceed to order glass after glass of wine. Not like getting sloshed is my normal MO, but it seems to happen every now and then. I get the kiss on the cheek, special treatment, and plenty of free drinks. I get conversation, flirtation and libation from a man who gets cuter and cuter as the night goes on. Inevitably the conversation turns to how great Ryan would be.... naked. Ahem. Not the point of this blog.

Every now and then I will drop in with a guy. I've been there with guy friends and dates alike. In almost a compulsory fashion, Ryan transforms like Jekyll to Hyde. He's cold to me and even colder to my date. Case in point. Just last evening my date waited for at least 15 minutes on an empty bar to place his order. Then, contradictory to his usual friendly bartender-etiquette, Ryan forces a card down on the tab - never has he asked that of the girls before. Ryan gives no love, no talking, and clearly no flirtation. I guess that's expected, given I'm with another guy. However, he took it too far. Gratuitously flirting with the waitresses and other patrons, avoiding eye contact, making it clear through body language that he wanted us to leave.

I think Ryan, being the head-bartender that he is, just likes to be in control of his bar and the women who frequent it. I mean if you were a bartender and you had this big block of wood (no pun intended) between you and plenty of drunken females, wouldn't you want to keep a few for yourself? Everytime one of your 'regulars' enters with another man, you are threatened. No longer can you attempt to get a late night booty call after hours.

One time I stopped by with the short man (see the BF blog for details) and he gave my date, the short man, the most disrespecting, contemptuous, I-am-better-than-you look that I've ever seen. And then, without skipping a beat, he gave me the I-can't-believe-you-are-with-him coupled with a I-thought-you-were-better-than-that look. WOW. Did I want to leave right then and there or what?

So therefore, my diagnosis of Ryan, the head-hot-bartender, is that he's bipolar. What else can explain his truly diametric disposition?

Thankfully, I've never gone 'there' with Ryan. It has crossed my mind, and the minds of the scores of women who sit in small groups along his wooden bar. For now, I'll just be a sweet customer and will forego bringing any dates to this little Irish haunt. And in return, I will get the attention and free drinks that I deserve.