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As I finished making the Jager bombs I glimpsed down at the four guys waiting, with their stupid polo shirts, smiling like I could not wait to be near them again.
Ugh, how much longer until last call.
I brought my wrist up and peaked at my watch and smiled . . . only thirty more minutes until I could yell, ‘last call.’
I didn’t usually glance at my watch to see if the night was almost over. Most nights went by quickly, and to be honest, I usually enjoyed my job. I liked that the bar was always busy, and I could socialize with the regulars. They were good tippers most of the time.
And it helped that the DJ played good music that I could get lost in.
Tonight, though, all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and go to sleep. Too much had been weighing on me lately, and I’d not been sleeping well.
Once the shots were poured, I handed them over along with the red bulls and then move to get the four Guinness on draft. I could feel myself losing patience. I wasn’t in the mood for any more crap tonight, but time was dragging, and so were my feet. I shook my head in hopes that I could shake this bad attitude, so I could get through the rest of the night.
“It is almost over. I can make it,” I said to myself.
After handing over the four drafts, I reached out for the shithead’s credit card that I’m sure mommy and daddy were funding.
Yup, I still have a bad attitude.
Inserting the card into the credit card machine, I secretly hoped it would decline just so I could embarrass the guy.
My god, I’m a total bitch tonight.I hoped the customers weren’t feeling my attitude!
Accepted, the receipt printed, and I handed it over with a pen for him to sign. Before he could finish, I turned to the next group. A cute group of girls who just barely turned twenty-one. You could always tell the ones who just turned twenty-one. They always said their drink order quietly, and I usually had to ask them to repeat themselves. They, of course, ordered a fruity cocktail. It was always a fruity cocktail. Most were too young to know a good drink.
I went along making drinks and minding my own business. Then, I heard music to my ear.
“Last call,” Jeff called out from the other end of the bar.
Ugh, this night will just not end.
The guy with the mommy and daddy trust fund held up the receipt I had handed him to sign.
I put one finger up, signaling just a minute. As I made my way down the bar, taking orders and making drinks, I could feel his eyes on me. A few minutes later, I reached out to grab the receipt, but the asshole pulled it back.
A smile hit my lips but not my eyes because what else could I do at that moment? Well, I knew what I wanted to do, kick him in the balls, but I was behind a bar, and it would get me fired.
But I was sure Jeff would get a kick out of it, though!
Mr. Polo smiled. It was as if he thought that what he was doing was cute. When the idiot handed me the receipt, I noticed a very generous tip.
I guessed I was hiding my bad attitude well.Yea. Go me!
“Sweetheart, how about you give me your number so we can get together sometime?” Mr. Polo asked.
That would be a big fat no!
There was no way this guy was getting my number, which was out of the question. “No thanks. I’ve a polo already at home,” I answered.
As I turned away, my eyes meet Jeff’s. He gave me those eyes that said, ‘sorry.’
That’s what it was like for us at the bar. We spoke in smiles and eye contact. I could read him like a book. He wasn’t saying sorry to me for waiting on the douchebag, he was saying sorry because I already had a polo at home.
Jeff knew exactly what the polo comment meant. Just like I could read Jeff, he could do the same. He was just as good at reading me. There was no sense in dwelling, so I moved along and continued to hustle to make as many drinks as I could before the end of the night. The more drinks I made, the more tips I’d make, and I needed those tips.
By this time of the night, my feet were on fire. They hurt so bad. I never wore the right shoes. I knew in order to make good tips, I had to dress the part. I was wearing skinny jeans with holes in the knees, cute brown ankle boots that I found on sale, and I had a white t-shirt with the bars clover logo on it tied at the stomach. My socks were wet from all the spilled booze, and of course, my cute boots were not waterproof. My wavy red hair was down and reached my lower back. It was all sweaty at the nape of my neck from all the heat the packed bar was giving off.
I’m so done for the night.
