I got to the bar five minutes before Frankie’s shift was due to start and discovered the place was a disaster. Apparently, a conference in town had wrapped up in the early afternoon, and all the attendees had decided it was a perfect opportunity for a Friday happy hour. I had to shove my way through a sea of khakis and checkered shirts to get to the bar. Melanie, the bartender who worked the day-time shift, had had no time to restock, and to top it off, one of the kegs needed to be changed.
Stuffing my things into a locker in the back, I scrambled to get everything back in order, while also helping Melanie close out some of the tables that were ready to leave.
“I’m so glad you came in,” Melanie whispered, her peroxide-blond hair pulled back in a loose pony. “I was this close to strangling that guy in the blue suit for calling me ‘babe’ this entire time.”
I shuddered. “The absolute worst.”
An hour later, half of the conference crew left, and the place was started to feel like a typical Friday night at the Crooked Stool. Two college-aged girls walked in, sporting long extensions, fake lashes, and crop tops. They gave me friendly smiles and sat down at the bar.
“Two margs, please,” the brunette ordered. “Extra salt.”
“You got it,” I responded and reached for the margarita mix.
“What’s the scene here like on Fridays?” the redhead asked, briefly looking up at me from her phone. “Does it get any busier later?”
“Yeah, usually there’s a bigger crowd after eight. It was packed about an hour ago with middle-aged dudes wearing lanyards, but I’m guessing that’s not the crowd you’re looking for.”
The brunette snorted. “No, thanks. Any guys that are cute and not twice our age?”
“They can be twice my age if they’re hot,” her friend interjected. “You know, salt and pepper, DILF vibes, that kinda thing.”
I laughed as I went to grab their glasses. Is this what my life would’ve been like if I’d gone off to college instead of staying home and working here? Maybe I’d be hitting up bars on Friday nights with my best friend instead of working at one.
“If you’re lucky, we might get some college guys who are home for the summer. The regulars are all… Well, let’s just say they’re not of the DILF variety.”
The girls grabbed their drinks. “Well, we’ll hang out for a while,” the redhead said and took a sip of her cocktail. “Oh yum, these are good.”
“Thanks.” I winked at her and made my way to another customer.
70s rock was playing on the radio, and a pool game was starting up in the far end of the bar. The ambient soundtrack was starting to pick up in volume—clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, and a cacophony of voices. Like some kind of Pavlovian response, my mind started to drift, letting my body’s muscle memory handle the process of taking and making orders.
“All right, it’s eight-fifteen, and we’ve got slim pickings,” the redhead complained forty-five minutes later.
I gave her a distracted smile while I made two old fashioneds for the table by the door. “You ladies want another round?”
The brunette spun her head around, taking in the patrons one more time. “Nah, we’ll close out.”
I carried the two drinks around the bar. “Let me just drop these off, and I’ll be right back to give you your bill.”
The door to the bar swung open at the exact moment I placed the glasses down. Two excited gasps came from behind me as I lifted my eyes to the newcomers.
“Mmm, that looks good,” Cole purred, examining the two cocktails I had just delivered. “Could you make that for me with three cherries, doll?”
I swatted at him with my towel, and Cole nearly stomped on Ezra’s toes as he tried to jump out of the way.
“Is that how you treat your customers here?” Ezra joked, sidestepping around Cole and pulling me into a hug.
“Only the ones that call me doll.” I gave Cole the side eye.
The guys followed me to the bar, completely oblivious of the two women’s excited whispers as they stopped a few feet away from them.
“It’s busy here tonight,” Ezra commented, glancing around.
“Yeah, it’s been kinda mad. I probably won’t have much time to hang out with you guys, I’m the only bartender for the evening,” I said with an apologetic look.
“Don’t worry about us,” Cole said. “We can entertain ourselves, and I kinda wanted to see you in your element.”
I snickered. “It’s like one step above watching paint dry, but to each their own. So old fashioneds? Three cherries?”
