No Ice Bitch

No Ice BitchIt’s just another day at work.  No big deal.  Nothing to worry about.  I pull on the warped and dented metal door, holding my breath as I cross the threshold into the bar.

Just act like nothing happened…

What are you talking about?  Nothing did happen.

Inside it’s quiet.  The rail is empty, as are all the tables.  A couple of paisanos chitter at a lottery machine.  And that is it.  Charlie is leaning on the bar, staring off into space.  He greets me with not much more than a grunt.  “Well,I guess I’ll go home now,” he says after a long quiet pause.  “Don’t have too much fun.”

“Yeah,” I groan as I survey the empty building.  With no one here to distract me, how am I not going to obsess about the body hidden out back?

I really need to learn to be careful what I wish for.

Scrubbing away at the black grime in the floor drain, fighting the urge to run out and peak under the banner in the ditch, distraction tumbles through the door with enough know-it-all cackles to make Mother Theresa homicidal.

“And then she said…”

The first big woman with big hair, big makeup, and big perfume is intterupted by a second even bigger woman with even bigger hair, bigger makeup, and bigger perfume, “Wait, wait, let me guess!”  They approach the bar and drop their big, oversized bags THUD!

“Hi ladies, what can I get you?”

They both turn and look down their noses at me.  The first one rolls her eyeswhile the second says, “Excuse you, we were talking.”  Here’s a little secret everyone twenty one and over should have figured out… don’t be rude to the person who controls the alcohol!

The liquor room needs organizing so I leave the two harpies to their gossip and head to the back.  A few minutes later they realize that they are thirsty and no one’s around to serve them.  “Where’s the bartender?” I hear one of them say.  The other huffs, “There goes her tip.” They bitch a little longer before one of them finally hollers, “Hey!  Hey!  Can we get some service out here?”

Right about now I’m kind of wishing Charlie had some Visine left.  Except there is no way I’d be able to drag either of those bitches  out of here.  Not to mention the trail of hair spray and eye shadow that would be left behind!

“Hey Bartender!  Can we get a drink already?”

“Oh sorry,” I say as I return to the front.  “I thought you said you didn’t want to be interrupted.”

The bigger of the two talks over me, “Why don’t you just do your job and get us a drink.  I’ll have a Long Island Ice Tea.”  She turns to her friend, who claps her ridiculous acrylics together and announces that she will have the same.

I grab two pounder glasses from the beer fridge and fill them with ice when the bigger, more obnoxious of the two snaps her fingers at me.  “Uh-hum, no ice in mine.”

She’s kidding right?  “You don’t want any ice?”

“Nope,” she smacks.  “No ice.”  She turns to her friend, “You don’t want all of that ice do you?  That’s how they water down the drink.”

Actually, it’s how we make the drinks not taste like shit.   But whatever, I’m sure this walking Aquanet advertisement knows how to do my job better than me.  I want to suggest we light a floater of 151 on top of it for her, just to see if her hair catches.  Instead, I dump the ice from the first glass and replace the pounder with a bucket.

“Hey what are you doing? I still want a full drink,” she snaps.

And I want you to have real eyebrows, but we don’t always get what we want do we?  “So you want extra sour and cola?”

“No…” she shakes her head in that snotty way usually reserved for daytime talk shows.  “I want it the regular way, just without ice.”

A half ounce each of rum, vodka, gin, triple sec, and tequila, an ounce of sweet and sour, and a splash of Pepsi later, I set the third-full pounder in front of her, and a standard Long Island in front of her friend.

“What is this?  Where is the rest of it?”  She points at the other drink.  “Why doesn’t it look like that?”

“You said no ice.  I asked if you wanted extra mixers in it.”

“I don’t want extra mixers in it.  I want you to make it the same.  This isn’t even full.  I feel like I am being cheated here.”

“If you don’t want extra mixers, the only way to fill that glass is to make it like a triple, and that is against the liquor control laws.”

She rolls her eyes at me and points near the top of her glass.  “Long Islands are like two thirds alcohol.”  I laugh.  At her.  She wants nine ounces of liquor for seven bucks.  That’s something you expect to hear from a high schooler with a fake ID, not a grown ass woman.

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Spiked, Part 2

I had been waiting for that licentious smile of hers to twinge and contort into the unmistakable grimace of someone in a serious panic because, well, she is about to crap her pants.  This was not supposed to happen!

I rush out from behind the bar and lean down.  Celia isn’t moving.  Her chest is still, no breath goes in or out of her nose or open lips.  I lean down and press two fingers into her neck.  No pulse.  Shit!  I jump up and sprint to the front door, lock it before anyone comes in and spies her there on the ground.  I lock all of the doors and start to pace back and forth in front of her body.

What the fuck do I do?  Can’t call an ambulance, they find Visine in her system guess who the first suspect is?  Same thing if I drag her out back, leave her in the drainage ditch.   Unless… it took them a while to find her!  I could cover her up with some junk; give her a chance to decompose.  By the time the smell attracts attention there won’t be anything to test right?  Okay yeah, I admit, it’s a horrible fucking idea.  But my only other options- sending her to sleep with the fishes or feeding her to a herd of pigs- seem a little complicated and, well shit, impossible for someone like me who did not grow up in the mafia.  I’ve never even committed a real crime before!  (Not counting traffic infractions and casual drug use of course.)

Here goes nothing.  I grab her by the feet and pull her back behind the bar and out the back door.   It is pitch black outside.  Charlie doesn’t like to pay for any extra electricity so lucky for me there aren’t any lights out here.  It’s about ten yards to the ditch.  When we get there I feel sick to my stomach as I push Celia over the edge and she rolls to the bottom, landing in a puddle of muck with a wet thud.

The ditch is hidden by arborvitaes and another building so that it is almost invisible.  I run back to the bar and grab some cardboard boxes and an old banner from the trash.  This is going to work.  It has to.

 

Spiked, Part 1

Working in this sort of place, getting hit on is just part of the territory.  You expect it from everyone because, eventually, even the most platonic customers will get shitfaced enough to confess their undying love for you.  It doesn’t help being the only woman in the bar, but it isn’t just the men and they certainly are not the most aggressive!

Meet Celia, a quiet girl, she comes in with a few friends here and there, drinks a glass of cranberry juice and minds her own business.  Then last Saturday, out of nowhere, she decided to match shots with her girls.  Bad idea, she could not hang!  Three Pink Pussies later and she was perched at the bar, tweeting my ears off until I went for a smoke break.  But I still couldn’t get away, she followed me outside and that’s when she attacked me, pulled me onto her lap and tried to stick her tongue in my ear.

It was funny enough at the time, but now that she is back at the rail again, two Washington Apples down the hatch, I am a little worried that she might make a thing of it.  For now she is droning on, god knows about what: her purse dog, shoe collection, favorite musicians, favorite Kardashian, blah, blah, blah, I’m not really listening.  I just want her to shut up.  She orders another drink and saunters off to the wash room.  I grab Charlie’s economy size Visine from next to the register.  I always chalked the bartenders’ revenge up to urban myth, but figure it will be worth a try to get this girl to stop talking without sucking on my face first.

A few people come in and sit down at the lottery machines and I forget about the Visine as I make white Russians and cash tickets for the guys at the machines.  But when one o’clock rolls around and they leave for home and their impatient wives, she is still here.  Talking at me, smiling like she already knows what my pussy tastes like, until all of a sudden her eyes roll back in her head, she slides off of the bar stool and drops to the floor.

Want to know what happens next?  Stay tuned for Part 2, coming 10/25/2013.  Part One will appear as a teaser in the debut issue of Serrated Roses, releasing the same day

Dive Bar Fashion

People wear the weirdest shit here. And it goes way beyond guys in striped shirts over plaid shorts.

There’s a guy playing pool in spandex and cut off sweatpants. An old lady with chaps on over her jeans. Girls that forgot to take their old dingy gray/white bras off before they put the halter tops on. On a Friday night. When they are looking to get laid. C’mon girls, really? Are you rocking some granny panties with brown stains in the crotch too? Tonight, my personal favorite is a BIG woman with even BIGGER boobs, no bra and too short of a shirt. She is at one of the lottery machines in her electric wheelchair and every time she lifts an arm there it is. Her nipple.

It’s Sandy’s fault. She made me look. I probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. “Hey look over there.” She pointed.

And I looked just in time to see a worn oversized nub of a nipple poke out from under her shirt, followed by the never ending pink of her areola. At least most of her under boob was hidden by her knees. Still, now, it is all I see. Nipples, nipples, everywhere. It doesn’t help that she gives me a flashback just about every time I glance over at the lottery machines. And a personal show when she reaches up from her wheelchair to hand her ticket over the bar.

I can’t help it. I shudder in disgust, right in front of her.

So you would think that by the time I get back with her money she would have pulled her shirt down right? Nope. If anything it is hiked up even higher. Can’t she feel the breeze?

It stares at me while I count her winnings back to her. I try to block it out but even from the very bottom of my peripheral vision it takes over and becomes all that I can see! “Thank you,” she smiles as she reaches up for her cash and I swear it winks at me! Winks at me!

I don’t shudder this time, because she is smiling at me. So I realize she knows what she is doing. And she likes it! “Pervert,” I mutter as she rolls out of earshot.

When she comes back with another ticket she wants a Pepsi too. I ask her if she wants the cost taken out her ticket.

“What? I’m playing the machines! Its free!” She is mad. Her nipple is madder.

Not here. Charlie doesn’t let anything go for free. If I give it to her I’ll have to fork over the two dollars to pay for it myself.

Of course, it’s worth two dollars to get that big worn winking staring nub out of my face. Finally she starts to roll away, back to the machines. But then she takes a sip and comes back, “This isn’t diet!” she shrieks as she reaches up yet again to put the glass back on the bar.

“You didn’t say diet,” I say as I dump it out.

“It was implied,” the nipple answers for her.