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.


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

Stupid Girls

“Do you know how to make Alien Pee?”

“Get an alien to pee in a cup?” I guess.

This girl looks 16, but her ID assures me she is just barely 21. She rolls her eyes, “It’s a drink…”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“I think it has Midori and sweet and sour in it,” she says.

“That’s a Midori Sour.”

“No!” the girl next to her insists. She is also barely 21. They look like the kind of fraternal twins where one is overly thin and pretty and plastic and the second is homely and obviously loves comfort foods. “We were at a bar downtown and they had it on special. It’s called Alien Pee!”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. Funny how some people think they are experts after they’ve been to a few bars. I don’t waste my time explaining basic marketing to them. They slam their Sex on the Beaches and order a pair of fuzzy navels.

By the way, it’s only three in the afternoon. The homely one slurps down her fuzzy navel and asks if I know how to make a Baby Mama. When I shake my head no she says, “Oh, well she made it up.”

“If she made it up, why would I have heard of it?”

Both girls shrug but don’t say anything. They won’t admit how special they think they are, local celebrities in their own minds (just like most of the people in this sad little town). “Well if you ever want to make it,” the wannabe mixologist chimes in, “It’s Malibu rum, pineapple juice and cranberry juice.”

I just look at her, my jaw clenched to stone, holding the laughter back. “You didn’t make that up. It’s called a Malibu Bay Breeze.”

Blank stares. I’m kind of embarrassed for them. It’s true, the most annoying demographic in bars is the twenty one-ers.

Another round of sugary, hang-over inducing cocktails later and the larger of the two pulls her Visa out of her purse. Droplets of sweat are beaded across her brows and above her upper lip as she asks, “Can we start a tab?”

My favorite part! “Probably not since I’m going to have to cut you off.”

“Cut us off?!” Surprise and indignation in unison. They argue. They complain.

I point at the sign above the bar and read it for them, “It is illegal to sell alcohol to visibly intoxicated persons.”

“I’m not drunk,” the first one says.

“Me either!” says the second.

Arms crossed over my chest, with all seriousness I respond, “So why are you sweating? You’re sitting still!”