Most people I know would be happy starting work at ten o’clock. It seems that for me I have to struggle in getting through the door at ten.
I walked in the door at 10:01 am to see Billie, my manager, pouring our first customer her vodka and seven. The look on her face tells me she is not pleased with me.
I rush behind the bar, take off my jacket and reach for the tray that holds the limes and lemons. They need to be refilled.
Another customer comes in through the back door. He sits at his usual spot directly in front of me.
“The usual?” I ask.
He grunts and nods his head. His eyes linger on my breasts.
Oh shit. I think to myself. I left the house in such a hurry; I forgot to put on a bra.
Billie looks at me in my eyes and down to my breasts and back up. “We need to talk.” She motions for me to follow her.
I follow her into the back room. I know what she is going to say. Without saying a word, she hands me a sweater that buttons up the front. Billie emphasizes that this bar is not appropriate for the bartender to have her nipples hanging out. I feel so guilty.
Why did she have to hand me a sweater? It’s July. I’m going to be sweating in that thing all shift. I wish she had sent me home to change.
I know she isn’t going to fire me, because it would mean she would have to do this shift. She has told me several times before how she is not a bartender. She had inherited the job from her mother.
I walk out to see Rick and Mary sitting at their usual spot waiting for me. I go right to fill their glasses of ice and water. I know he will want a shot of whiskey and she a beer.
In all the time I have worked here, they have never given me a tip. This Sunday, I need all the tips I can get. I need the gas money to get me to my weekday job. It doesn’t pay until Friday. I already spent last Friday’s pay from this job.
Mary hands me her debit card.
“Keep it open?” I ask.
“No. We have a family get-together, later,” she says.
No lemons in the bin. I find two in the refrigerator. I understand the bar is slow after midnight. God, why can’t the night bartender fill the limes and lemons before she leaves?
Carl walks through the front door. I smile at him. I can expect a good tip from him. By the time he reaches the bar, I have his tomato beer sitting in his spot. He smiles at me. “When are you going to let me take you out for a date?”
“The day you win the lottery.” Oh, God! I hope he never wins the lottery.
Carl moves as if he is about to enter the grave and talks like some horny teenager.
I finish cutting up the lemons. I hate the acid from the lemons ruin my fingers. I’ve asked Billie several times to get me some disposable gloves. Every time she just says, “I’ll see what I can do.” And walks way.
It’s now almost eleven thirty a couple of the regular pool players walk in. I can depend upon them for drinks and good tips provided I carry their drinks out to the table on the other side of the pool tables. They each hand me their credit cards. They expect me to keep their drinks straight along with everyone else.
Over the next several hours, a few more people will come and go. I start to worry about not getting enough tips. That has motivated me to force a larger-than-life smile and encourage a couple of handsome patrons that I might go out with them. It does get me a larger tip from them.
Three o’clock has come. Only three elderly men sit in the corner drinking their tomato beer. I should get a dollar tip from each of them. I know I should be this way. After all, they are on Social Security, and there is no senior citizen center within walking distance for them.
Arkansas walks through the back door. I smile. He’s late. I about gave up on him coming. I set a Miller Lite in front of him. He lays down a twenty-dollar bill and glances over at the other customers. “I’ll pay for their next round.”
Inside my heart sinks. When I saw his twenty-dollar bill, I was hoping that I would get the difference from his beer as a tip. He might pull out another twenty for me, later.
I don’t count my tips until after the end of my shift. But I try to keep a running total in my head. I need at least forty dollars in tips to cover my gas for the week.
A friend of Arkansas sits next to him. I don’t catch what they are talking about. I’m too busy getting beer and chatting with a rather attractive lady who wandered in.
All the men did the stare-not-stare over at her.
“What will you have?” I ask her.
“I’ll take a Vodka and tonic. My boyfriend will take a Long Island Iced Tea.”
I look to the door when this six foot six all muscle guy walks in. His leather jacket, chaps and boots. Wish he wasn’t with that woman. How did I miss the sound of a Harley driving up?
I set the drinks in front of them.
Arkansas lays a five-dollar bill on the bar in front of me. “I need to get change for the pool table.”
Arkansas’s friend orders a round for the two of them. He sets a ten on the bar. I take it and set his change back. “Keep the change,” he says.
If I am counting correctly, I should have twenty-eight in my tip bucket. That will get back and forth to work at my other job only until Wednesday.
The clock on the wall strikes four-thirty. In walks Wimpy. He is a thirty something man that would be a perfect hamburger eating live action actor to Popeye’ side kick in a movie.
“What’ll you have?” I ask.
“Rum and coke.”
“You got the $2.50 in cash.”
“I’ll gladly pay you double with a tip. I’ll have the money as soon as I win a pool game or two.”
I give Wimpy a hard stare. The last time he was in here, he tried to pay with a credit card that kept getting declined. I ended up paying for his drink out of my tips. I am not letting him burn me like that again.”
“Wimpy, you put the $2.50 on the bar and I will pour you your drink.”
Wimpy’s eyes scan who else is at the bar.
The biker gets my attention. He wants a refill. From behind me I hear words over the music from the jukebox. “You are not white enough to be in here!”
I turn to see Wimpy and this skinny guy falling to the floor with fists flying.
God, this is the last thing I wanted to deal with today.”
By the time I get around the bar. The biker has Wimpy in a choke hold and two other guys have skinny restrained.
I look directly at Wimpy. “You’re outa of here for two weeks. If you want back in you are going to have to talk with Billie.” The biker loosens his hold and escorts Wimpy out the front door.
I turn to the skinny stranger. “You’re outa of here for two weeks.”
“Let me finish my drink before I leave.” He says.
“You were involved in a physical fight. You don’t get to finish your drink.” I raise my right index finger and point to the back door.
“You have my credit card. Give it to me while I finish my drink.”
“Come back in the morning and pick it up from the manager.”
Skinny’s fist came flying in my direction. I was barely able to step back only to feel the wind from it passing. Arkansas’s arm goes around Skinny’s neck, and is pulled to the floor.
“Now, let Arkansas will escort you out to your car or I will call the cops, and they can escort you to jail.”
From somewhere, I heard a female voice yell out. “I’ve already called 911. They’re on their way.”
Looking down at Skinny, I said, “You have less than three minutes to pick yourself up and get out of here before the cops arrive. After that I cannot help you.”
Skinny jumps to his feet and runs out the back door.
I take a deep breath and slowly walk back behind the bar. I give a free drink to the three who help restrain and escort those two.
Funny thing happened. I waited for the cops to come barging through the front door. But never showed. The woman who yelled out knew Skinny needed a little push to get moving.
By 4:59pm all I want to do is get out of this bar and go home.
At five thirty I start going through all the open taps and getting them closed out.
I hate this part of the job. There will always be someone who disputes their bill. I give in to them and eat a drink or two.
At five-fifty, the bar phone rings. God, I hope that is not who I fear it is.
“Hello, Watering Hole.”
“This is Deb. My car won’t start. I will be late getting into work.”
“How late?” I ask. I want to get out of here. My heart sinks at each second while I wait for her response.
“I should be no more than an hour. A friend said he would give me a ride.”
“Okay, hurry. I got a place to go.” I said.
She didn’t show up until seven-thirty. When she walked behind the bar. I walked out from behind it. Leaving her with all the tips from six o’clock on. I took my tips of forty-two dollars and when I went home. I walk out the door picturing the pint of Ben and Jerrys I got in my freezer.
