“Tell me you’ll at least think about it?” He plops down on the sofa next to me, looking like he’s about to cry.
I hate that I have a soft spot for Nick, and I hate that he knows how to use it. “Fineeeee! Text me in a few hours, and Imightstop by.”
“That’s good enough for me! I’ll see you later!” He gives me a wink while running out the door.
This is our weekend routine. He begs me to come out, and I say no. However, there is a 50/50 chance I end up going to see him. Well, more like 20/80 these last few weeks.
I was really hoping to fall asleep before he texted me, but it doesn’t take long for a message to come through. He has only been at work for a half hour, but I guess it’s a slow Saturday.
My body aches as I force myself up and head to the bathroom. Sleeping on the couch did not do me any favors, and the neck pain is a reminder of that. It always seems like such a good idea before you actually fall asleep!
Nick:Ellie!!!!!! Please come by! I’m bored without you!
Ellie:You’re so needy, and I’m about to change into my pjs!
Nick:Come on, Ellie! You’re no fun!
Nick:Drink away your problems, and I’ll cover your Uber!
Ellie:Stop tempting me with free rides and alcohol! You’re an irresponsible friend!
Ellie:Give me 40 minutes…
Nick:Woooohoooo! See you soon! *kissy emoji*
I look at myself in the mirror and then down at my stained sweatshirt and realize that showering is a necessity.
When did I spill duck sauce on myself?
Ellie:Make it an hour. I look like shit!
Nick:Yeah, you were lookin kinda rough when I left…
I send him a row of middle finger emojis and connect my phone to the bluetooth speaker. A 2000s dance playlist acts as the main motivator to get me to leave the house. Singing along to “Untouched” by The Veronicas, I get into the shower and hope that going out tonight is not going to make me feel worse.
As I step out of the car, I realize that shorts were a smart move. It is ridiculously hot out for 9 p.m., and if I’m drinking, I’ll only get warmer. I kept makeup and jewelry simple with just a bit of mascara and my gold pendant. Pairing the high waisted cut offs with a tight green tank, I feel just cute enough to be out while still being relatively comfortable. My black vans fit snugly on my feet—a smart choice so I don’t end up limping around from a drunken, twisted ankle again. I have a tendency for clumsiness when I drink, and mixing that with high heels is a recipe for disaster. I have made that mistake too many times to count, and I like to be a person who learns from their mistakes—eventually.
I’m shocked by the sight of a practically empty bar when I walk in. It’s almost unheard of until I realize that it's the 4th of July weekend, and everyone is probably on vacation or drunk at their buddies house lighting off fireworks. During these times, I pray for the EMTs and firefighters who have to deal with all of the idiots who will blow off their fingers and then be too drunk to remember it.
Working Class has been my go-to bar ever since Nick started working here, so I basically have the whole layout memorized.
The bar top is long with plenty of seating. They have a couple of booths and low tables, and the bar itself is scattered with high tops. There is a space in the back with a couple pool tables and dart boards, but it’s always a little too confined for my liking, especially when the night starts to pick up.
Some bars have the charm of being disgusting and sticky, but not this one. While it’s not pristine, I feel comfortable here. Not to mention, the bathrooms are almost always clean, and if there’s someone acting belligerent, they will be cut off and kicked out.
Walking straight up to Nick who has his back to me, I lower my voice to disguise it the best I can. “Can I have an old-fashioned on the rocks with no ice?”
He turns around with the most aggressive eye roll already in motion until he realizes it’s me. “You bitch! I thought you were a real customer!”
The fun thing about bartending compared to being a barista is that you don’t have to be nice to idiots, especially drunk idiots.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but Iama real customer.” Making myself comfortable, I sit at a stool right in front of the register. After countless visits to the bar, I know this is the best place to hangout because the bartenders constantly have to put the drinks in the system, which means that Nick will frequently be over here.
“Barely.” While he grabs a Bud Light and hands it to the man a few stools down, he asks, “What are you drinking?”
“Tito’s and Sprite, two limes. Pretty please.” I offer a big smile and hand him my card, so he can start a tab for me . After he scoops ice into my cup, he flips the vodka bottle upside down and uses the soda gun to fill up the cup at the same time. He sticks two lime slices in the rim and slides it to me.
I’ve never tried being a bartender, but even before I take a sip, I can tell that he poured with a heavy hand. After barelyswallowing a mouthful, I wince at the burning in my throat. Nick must be able to tell my distaste for his creation by my scrunched up face because I watch him chuckle as he rinses a glass in the sink behind the bar. I squeeze both limes and set them to the side, but they're definitely not enough to save this drink. “Oh my god. Are you trying to get me drunk? This could literally kill me! Give me another lime slice.”
