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“Not fired. Just taking the night off,” I answer.
“So, wait, we’re sharing tips tonight or we’re not?” Juno asks. “And who’s working the lounge if Shelly’s dancing?”
Marla glares at Shelly. “I’m not sharing tips if Shelly’s dancing.”
“First of all–rude,” Shelly snaps. “And second of all–that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that we should decide who gets the top spots based on who gets the most tips. Instead of some random girl just walking in here and moving the schedule around without even seeing us dance.”
The regular stands up on his barstool. “Jamie, I love you, bro, but I’m dyin’ of thirst over here.”
The front doors open and a gaggle of middle-aged drunk women spills in. If this situation isn’t handled, the bar is going to get backed up more than it already is. The arguments are too much, and without Lara here to keep track of all the changes she’s made, only one option seems reasonable. “Okay, okay. We’ll go back to the original rotation. Rotate the dances tonight based on who danced last.”
Shelly grins, but Juno rolls her eyes. “And who’s working the lounge if Shelly’s dancing? We need to find a server.”
My hands tighten around a clean glass. “Look around, Juno. We’re shit out of luck tonight, so we’ll do it how we’ve done it in the past. When you’re not dancing, you’re in the lounge. No tip sharing. And then we’ll calculate how we did and decide later which method is better.”
Juno and Marla open their mouths to object, but I’m two steps ahead of them. “The dancer who makes the most tips gets to keep them. No payment to the house. And to make sure our guests get good lounge service, five percent of bar sales will be split between all the dancers–It’s on me.”
The girls flash greedy smiles, and I welcome the silence in their wake as they saunter away. This is going to be a shit show.
Three hours later and it’s amazing what the promise of money can do. The dancers must have had their own meeting to figure out a rotating schedule, because the moment one steps off the stage, she hustles to deliver drink orders to the guests. It’s like a relay race, as the girl in the lounge hands off her tray and sprints backstage.
As I pour a round of shots for a bachelor party, a new dancer arrives in the lounge to start serving. I shake my head in amazement. Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s not like the thousand bucks will break me; especially if the guests are getting great service. If they stay even an hour longer, I’ll make up the difference in more drink sales. If this competition makes the girls work harder and increases bar sales, then maybe I’ll keep it in place.
As the night goes on, I see the guests look happy, and it’s a system that requires no work on my part. Hopefully, it will net out. Eden’s has never been this understaffed and yet so relaxed at the same time. Hell, I’m even getting to watch a show or two. Normally, my face is pinned inside a cabinet, searching for another bottle of vodka, my ears full of impatient patrons shouting for another drink.
Lara who?
I may have asked her to leave tonight, but did I even need her in the first place? Maybe all her presence did was create extra drama. Drama for the girls… and drama for my dick.
Definitely wish I hadn’t fucked her–but that’s a mistake I won’t make again.
By the time the lights come up and the last dancer steps off the stage, my mind is clear and my body light. As I wipe down the bar, I feel rejuvenated. Livelier than I can remember at two in the morning. Reverting the dancer rotation and adding a friendly competition where nobody loses not only kept the peace, but it enhanced the dances and improved lounge service. I’ll check the receipts later to see how much it cost me.
I hired Lara to support Eden’s in the places where I was lacking. Turns out, I didn’t need her help, after all. Turns out, the real experiment was doing this with Lara and doing it without.
Maybe, just maybe, this can still be turned around. And I can handle it on my own.
I punch the button on the register to start the close-out program and summarize receipts.
“You fucking bitch!”
The sound of shattering glass from the stage echoes across the front-of-house, shocking me from my short-lived internal celebration. Shelly stumbles onto the stage, her body contorted and twisted. Juno’s fingers are tangled in Shelly’s black curls. Shelly’s weave snaps, her wig coming off in Juno’s hand.
Shelly–now free–spins around and reels her fist back. “Drop my wig, you hoe!” She decks Juno square in the jaw, the crack of bones echoed by the loud thud of Juno’s body hitting the stage.
My headache slams back into me. “Fuck me. Ricky! Ricky!”
The front door he had ushered the last guest through as he sent them on their way is closed, and Ricky is nowhere in sight.
Shelly is scrambling for her wig, the thin wisp of her blonde hair standing on end like Alfalfa from The Little Rascals.
Juno jumps up, blood spilling from her nose. “You bald ass bitch–you stole my fucking tips.”
“I didn’t do shit!” Shelly’s scream pierces the air like a banshee on crack.
Marla stumbles on stage, then reaches down and rips off one of her heels and flings it at Juno’s back.
“Juno, you whore!”
