Plaza Liquors was* an unassuming cinder-block buidling on the side of one of the busier north-south thoroughfares in Tucson. It was surrounded by residential neighborhoods where you’d find an equal sampling of working classes, students, and freaks. In Plaza, you got it all.
I was hired as the beer guy, replacing their outgoing guru who was graduating to the more lucrative ranks of beverage distribution. The store boasted 350 beers from around the world, over a thousand wine labels, and a liquor selection with no stops unpulled. All of this packed into roughly eight hundred square feet. Economy of space was an art form at Plaza.
We were encouraged to taste frequently and thoroughly. Since the establishment had a taster’s license, any container of alcohol could be opened on premises and consumed by patrons and off-duty employees, so long as no one became visibly drunk. Visibly being the key word. Distributors encouraged us to carry new beverages by giving them to us free to try. Within two months I could give erudite descriptions of every beer in the store. You do the math. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.
My colleague Mike and I had a delightful Saturday routine. He’d open the store at ten and make sure everything was ready for the afternoon onslaught. I would hop on my bike at 10:30, swing by the sub shop and pick up two Bismarcks — a big sloppy pastrami and corned beef sub, distant cousin to the pinnacle of sandwichship, the Reuben. I’d roll in, stash the bike, and meet Mike at the front counter. He would have the morning beers poured and waiting just inside the walk-in cooler. I’d drop off the sandwiches and go for a taste of the mystery beer. Might be a Sheaf Stout, a Dortmunder Union, or perhaps a Milwaukee’s Best. After round one I’d pour the next and the volley would continue until our shifts ended at five. We never got stinko — we were professionals — but there was nary a Saturday when I went home stone sober.
There was one instance when we shared the Friday night shift. About half an hour before closing, Mike produced a bag of mushrooms. By his design, if we ate them just then, they would come on just after closing time. We’d then have a hell of a bike ride back to his place where we could while away the evening with joints, red wine, and his immense collection of jazz LPs.
What orchestration. I nodded as I munched a handful of the shitty little caps and stems.
Either he miscalculated the dose, or we had empty stomachs, or both — because we were slithering along the ceiling trying to avoid the whishing blades of the fans within ten minutes. Just in time for the sometimes-you-get-it-sometimes-you-don’t Friday night 11:45 rush. A veritable flash flood of last-minute drunks stocking up for the rest of the night.
Mike and I managed to hover back down and land gingerly on our stools behind the counter. Clutching the seats, we switched into autopilot and started ringing out the growing queue. They were all pissed, so what will they know? In a brief lull, just before it was time to flip the sign to “closed,” a crew comes in — regulars, friends of ours — and the lead guy says, as if offering a cheerful hello:
“Jesus Christ, you guys are tripping your balls off.”
He didn’t miss a beat on his way to the beer cooler. Upon return he shot the shit and left. What was odd, and so sublime about it, was that there were none of the Jeff Spicoli shenanigans you might expect. This guy just took it as par for the course, and he loved the course all the more for it.
There were many ways to endear the customers. One despondent fellow came in needing a gift of restitution for a scorned girlfriend. Sky’s the limit, he said, but keep it under twenty bucks. We had an Australian shiraz that was liquid velvet, and a bargain at fourteen dollars. I grabbed him that and a few carnations — always in stock for just such occasions — and he was ready to go.
Normally when people buy wine we scraped the price tag off at the register, which I did. But then I grabbed the price gun, slapped a $42.99 tag on the bottle and with a wink, sent him on his way to romantic bliss. Guys appreciate shit like that, dogs that we are.
We all had lessons to learn. After having a pleasant time helping a woman select a bottle of champagne, I mentally calculated her to be about six months into her pregnancy. So I asked her when she was due.
The stretch to the cash register was the longest twenty feet I’ve ever had to walk.
Unless her water has broken or she is wearing a T-shirt that says “I’m pregnant as hell,” never, never-ever under any circumstances, ask a woman when she is due. Because you too might feel the utterly diminutive shame that follows her angry quip: “I’m not pregnant.” I’m still ashamed writing about this 34 years later.
Weekday afternoons brought the eccentrics. I was working a shift with a new recruit, a clarinetist by the name of Jenkin. Jenkin was confronted at the register by a homeless gentleman looking for a bathroom. The consummate humanitarian, Jenkin obliged him and showed him to the modest water closet in the back.
I came out of the walk-in cooler and he told me about it. I figured what the hell — vagabond or valedictorian, when you gotta go, you gotta go. The afternoon worked through a busy spell and into a lull, and I asked Jenkin if the guy ever came out.
I didn’t see him.
Did you?
Nope.
Sure enough, the fellow was slumped on the toilet, pants up, belt buckled. Hard to say whether or not he was still breathing.
I’m not checking.
Well, I’m sure as hell not checking. You’re the one who let him use the bathroom. I’ll watch the register, you just holler if I need to make a phone call.
I went back to the front and moments later Jenkin walks up with the old guy trailing him by a few paces.
Turns out the old fella just needed a little nap.
*Plaza Liquors is still there, by the way. Pay them a visit if you’re in the area. Tell Mark that Chip sent you:
2642 N Campbell Ave
Tucson, AZ 85719
