Crying Over Spilt Martinis

by Daniel A. Rosen |

February 14, 2026

I’m angry. And sure, I’ve had enough therapy to understand that “anger is a secondary emotion.” 

So let me rephrase that: I’m hurt. Despondent. Sad. Anxious. Ashamed. And fearful. There, happy now?

I know, I know – that’s a lot of different emotions for a guy who doesn’t show them much. 

Why angry, you ask? I lost a job. A job I loved, really. Got fired because of my conviction history. Because this is how it always goes. Sometimes it takes a week, a month, or three – in this case it took a year and half. I think this is the fourth time now. But inevitably, someone gets curious and does what curious people do. They look people up. And then the rug I’d so carefully woven beneath my own feet was yanked out from under me. The life I’ve been building, turned upside down.

I wrote this a few years back, in another essay: “It’s hard to get rid of that prison mentality – that the rug can be pulled out from under you at any moment – and trust positive developments. You develop a kind of traumatized mindset when sudden and unwelcome changes rule your days: lockdowns over trivial matters come at a moment’s notice, interrupting phone calls, food preparation, or showers; schedules are subject to officers’ capricious whims; routines are regularly disrupted by violence or the threat of it. You have no control over anything and that tends to leave a mark.”

And here we are. One Thursday, out of the clear blue sky, your boss calls you and says: Hey, someone came to me with concerns after looking you up, and we’re going to have to let you go.” A year and a half, and the rug is gone. Yanked away. Your mortgage and bills, your confidence, your safety, undone by someone’s idle curiosity, and your boss’ shrug. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve never missed a day, always do the side work, stay to finish that one thing you forgot, even after clocking out, that you always make the batches, and reliably create new seasonal drinks for the menu. 

Now, I’m not stupid. I know that everyone’s replaceable. Especially a bartender. Even a really good bartender, even one who the bosses know “that it’s me they been comin’ to see, to forget about life for a while.” 

As I’ve said too many times, making drinks is the easy part – though I’m really good at that. I spend time perfecting that craft, practicing classic cocktails, experimenting with new drink recipes for the menu, staying up to date on developments in modern mixology. 

More importantly, do you know how to treat people? And I don’t mean in a shallow, small talk kinda way. Do you know how to make someone feel welcome? Special? Like you’re there for them? So they know you’re genuinely happy to see them? Because people come back for that every time. Lots of places have good pizza, great food, tasty cocktails. 

And that’s what I’ve learned in 28 years on and off behind the bar. How to make people feel good for a while, keep your cool, have fun, even when it’s a busy Friday night. Reflect back to people the energy they put out into the world, when it’s positive – and sometimes lift them up, if they need a hand. That’s the most gratifying feeling in the world. 

The past year has been tough in the District. A lot of unhappy people, jobs lost, dreams stepped on. Last summer, a lady sat down with her partner and she’d just been fired that day. When we talked, she shared how much she loved one of our simple desserts. But then she had to get to a gym class, so when her partner lingered to finish his drink, I told him to stop past again before her class ended. To pick up that treat for her, on the house, obviously. He brought her that box, and she literally danced past our windows on her way home, waving and smiling. That’s an amazing thing, to make someone feel good with a simple gesture on a painful day. 

And sure, the validation is gratifying. It’s fun to be the cool guy behind the bar, cracking jokes and pouring drinks with a flourish. Showing up with a wine bottle, or a flirty smile and a compliment, or an after dinner sip at just the right time, no matter how full the bar is. People love the show, and it’s fun to give it to them. The guests that sit at my bar are often there because it’s social, and maybe they need to people for a while. Sometimes I can tell when they’re forcing themselves to just get out of the house, be in the world, put their phone down and speak to others, reject the loneliness and disconnectedness that’s so common in the world now.

If I share with folks about losing my job, they’ll try to be helpful: “Oh there are lots of second chance employers in DC these days. Apply with one of them.” This is the District of Second Chances after all. Marion Barry was famously reelected after being caught on camera smoking crack. Trayon White, his protege, was re-elected after being recorded taking a bribe. 

But they didn’t have my charges. The kind that turn you into a person “living on the registry.” The kind that turn you radioactive. The kind that never disappear from Google search results, no matter how much other good work you do. The kind that make shame your constant companion, and fear – of people finding out who you really are – your trusty default setting. 

The thing is, as someone said to me recently: This is part of a part of your story. And it’s not debatable, or delete-able. It’s the weird backpack you have to carry around and can’t take off. You can kinda hide it under your arm or at your feet for a while, but eventually you have to take it with you, and own it as yours. People will eventually notice it, and you may not fit through some doors with it on. Its weight might even throw you off balance a bit, and inevitably, drinks are going to get spilled. 

But this idiom where the thing is done, so you’re not supposed to lament it – I’m not buying it. I’m mourning, for now. I thought it’d take a couple days, but it’s been a couple weeks. So be it.

According to some interpretations, “spilling milk was considered a minor, acceptable offering to fairies.” Maybe I’ll start shouting out the faeries, instead of grieving, next time l leave a few drops on the bar. I hear they like martinis.