the author bartending in NYC, 2008Eric, a balding, stout man in his 60s, wears sweater vests year-round, only ever orders water or soda and leaves $20 tips on the sticky bar top. Generosity or attempts at buying my attention, I don’t give his motivations a second thought.At the notorious downtown TriBeCa dive bar where I work, he has his favorites: Sochi, with her raven-black curly hair and caramel eyes; Mallory, a long-time bar legend in her mid-30s who recently returned after a new boob job; Brittany from Jersey, with the navel piercing and a tattoo sleeve.“You want Eric at your shift,” veterans tell us. “He leaves great tips and will spread the word about you. You’ll get bigger crowds, which means more money.”I never think to ask how that word is spread.  During our 4 a.m. cab rides home after work, the other girls and I complain about Eric’s handsy hugs and his demanding requests for us to pose for photos. Our boss, Tom, loves his presence and doesn’t seem to mind his behavior; after all, his enthusiasm, patronage, and services are good for business.With a thick camera strap slung around his neck, Eric