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My frown deepens at her question, and I run my hand through my freshly washed hair, not wanting to get it ruined from the smoke.
“But didn’t we roster staff for every shift?” I ask.
“I know, and I’m sorry to even ask this of you.”
I have worked every day this week, and tonight was my night off.
“You wouldn’t unless you were desperate,” I mumble, closing my eyes and lying back on my couch.
“I’m sorry.”
Me too.
I open my eyes and look down at my tartan flannel pajamas, knowing they are about to be replaced by a Santa skirt and crop top.
The thought of how cold it is outside makes me shiver. But no matter the weather, I do my best to make tips on every shift, and that requires the scantily clad look. It doesn’t mean I like it, but the more tips, the quicker I can save for bigger and better things.
I sigh. “I’ll get ready and come as soon as I can.”
“Thank you! You’re the best. I owe you!”
A laugh slips, and I say, “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not even there. I could totally stand you up.”
“You never let me down.”
I smile, grateful she notices that I’m reliable, a quality I take pride in myself for. I work hard and care for others, and I’ll always feel indebted to Sandra for giving me a job and a restart in life.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, then hang up, tossing the phone to my side before getting ready for another busy night.
Only a couple of hours in, and it’s been nonstop. I have been directing newer staff on what to do, as well as making drinks and doing rounds of the room to make sure no one is misbehaving. Which, so far, thankfully, they aren’t. That would mean me having to kick them out, or worse—call the cops.
I’m too tired for that shit tonight, so everyone better stay on their best behavior.
“Can I have another rum and Coke, darling?”
My skin crawls at the sexual tone, and I turn from my position at the fridge, where I’m neatly restocking bottles of pre-mixed alcohol. Looking around the Christmas decorations, I plaster the biggest fakest smile I can muster at the white-haired man pushing late sixties, wearing a flannel shirt and torn jeans, and a matching white overgrown beard.
He’s a regular.
“Kevin, I thought I told you not to call me darling. It makes me feel old.”
I don’t get up from my position and his glossy half-closed eyes spring open, looking me up and down. I internally roll my eyes.Gross.
Where is the vomit bucket when you need one?
I turn and finish unpacking the drinks.
He speaks again. “You are definitely not old, Gracieee.”
This time of year, the bar is always busy, being the holiday season. But Kevin here comes by every week. Since his wife died, he religiously saunters in, taking a seat right at the bar, drooling all over me and offering to pay me for sex. Which, I’m sorry, no matter how much money he was to offer, I just can’t do it. Drunk or sober, there is just no fucking way.
The money, I’m not going to lie, would be amazing, and help me reach my goal of becoming an architect faster. But allowing him into my bed takes on a whole level of low. I’d rather build my savings the old fashion way—by working hard.
And I’m happy to work. But Christmas has to be one of the saddest times for me. Most nights I leave here, I’m alone, dreaming of a bright future that involves a career earning good money, a house in the city, and a family. I want the whole husband and the white picket fence, but one goal at a time. The real kicker was that it was a Christmas week when I left home in search of a better life.
I finish restocking and then stand to pour Kevin his rum and Coke, placing it in front of him. He pays me, and as usual, tips me well. Putting on my best fake smile, I say my “Thank you” and hurry back to cleaning, trying to keep my distance.
But before I can get too far,hisvoice cuts through the Christmas carols playing, making me pause. “Excuse me.”
