The Peter Principle (Part II)
I honestly don't remember if it's state law or just Bar policy, but although we're allowed to drink on the job, we're limited to two drinks per hour. There's a reason for this limit.
Saturday night I'm on an 8-to-close shift, taking over for Jocelyn at 8, and I'll be on with Maya. When I arrive, it's busy, but not terribly so.
Jocelyn can barely keep still. She took an earlier shift tonight because Mario wanted to take her out to dinner with his older brother Angelo, who also lives and works in the city. It was remarkable enough that he told her he loved her when he came back on Halloween, she says; he's never introduced any woman to his family, and his brother is as good a start as any.
"Debra, I feel like I'm going on an interview - everybody keeps telling me to relax, including Mario, but I'm really scared I'm going to say something stupid and blow everything, just when everything is going right."
"I don't know," I say, "I've never been big on meeting the family. I've never had a relationship get that far. At least it's not his parents, right?"
"True enough," Jocelyn nods.
"You want to know what I think?" pipes in Vince, who's been filling the cooler with bottled beer.
"Yes," bounces Jocelyn.
"Right now, Angelo is probably also thinking of it as an interview - he's the older brother, he's probably protective of Mario, and this is the first time a woman's had her hooks in Mario deep enough for him to meet her. So he's skeptical, and he's planning to grill you like roadkill."
"Not helping, Vince!"
"I'm not done yet. That's only right now. The minute he sees you walk into the restaurant, he's going to see your enormous breasts, and he's going to forget all about quizzing you on the finer points of gold-digging. He'll spend the next hour and a half being completely self-conscious, and trying not to say something inappropriate in front of his baby brother."
She laughs. "You think so?"
"Jocelyn, let's face it, your tits are the ultimate ice-breaker." She laughs again and kisses him on the cheek, then finishes cashing out and leaves for the night, her chest preceeding her.
Sometime around 9, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and Maya defers to me, since FBA knows me (and more importantly, knows Warren). I serve them some drinks, and FBA asks me how things are going with Warren.
"I was kind of hoping to ask you the same thing, to tell you the truth," I shrug. "We don't get to see each other very often, but it's good when we do. Has he said anything to you?"
"Hey, listen," he says, "Our guy isn't exactly a master of exposition on matters of the heart, if you know what I mean. But I will tell you one thing, Debra: It's been a couple of years since his divorce, and he told me that you're the first woman he's been on a date with since then. That can't be too bad a sign, right?"
I didn't know that, so I can't help but grin, and wonder silently if I'm also the first woman he's slept with since his divorce. Then I decide that it doesn't matter much, and just like everything else, if he wants to tell me, he will. FBA buys me a couple of fingers of Balvenie for every round he buys himself and his friends, and I drink and tend bar happily.
Or at least I do until about 10:30, when Peter walks in. I'd thought I was done hearing from him after I hung up on his ill-advised booty call a few months ago, but apparently I'd been wrong. He strolls in like he owns the place, and hanging on his arm is a blonde so thin she'd probably snap in a stiff wind, dressed in a midriff shirt, an open leather jacket, and low-rider jeans so tight I'm surprised I can't make out the veins in her thighs. I put on my best "You're not a part of my life anymore, so I don't give a shit" smile, and say, "Hi, Peter - what can I get for you two?"
"Set us each up with some Johnnie Walker Blue, would you please, Debra?" I raise my eyebrows. Johnnie Walker Blue is by far the most expensive Scotch we carry, even though it's not a single malt.
"Really?" Peter's smile shrinks a little bit, so instead of questioning him further in front of his lady, I shrug and go to pour. He's got a gold card in his hand when I return. Peter, who was one year ahead of me in the editorial slave mines at the publishing company where I worked for a year right after college, until taking this job at the Bar, has a gold card.
"Start a tab for me. Pour yourself whatever you like, too, Deb. We're celebrating. It's been a really good few weeks for me."
"Well, thanks, and congratulations!" I say as sincerely as possible, and treat myself to my fourth helping of Balvenie, which, let me tell you, goes down quite smoothly after the first couple. "What are we celebrating, exactly?" I ask when I return to the bar.
Peter looks at Stick the Skank with a "We know, don't we?" shit-eating grin, and says simply, "Suffice it to say, it's been a very good fall." And he just couldn't let it go without coming around to rub it in my face, goes the unspoken part of that story. He holds up his forty dollar glass of blended whisky in a toast, and Stick and I clink with him. My stomach turns a little, and I slurp down half my Scotch in a go.
It's then that Peter sees Former B-List Actor sitting there. "Jesus Christ," he says, "it's that guy who was on [Sitcom]. You're still alive?!" He laughs.
FBA looks up at me - probably for some clue as to what kind of person this is, since it's obvious I know him - and I shake my head and roll my eyes as subtly as possible. Then he turns to Peter. "That's what they tell me. I'm even employed, and allowed out on my own, and cool stuff like that."
"Hey, that's funny," Peter says, then turns to Stick. "Randi, you're too young to remember, but this guy used to be somebody." Wow. Peter was a bit of a jerk after he showed up at the Bar this summer, and I was upset over how our relationship ended three years ago, but I don't remember him ever acting like this much of an ass.
"Peter! That's not nice," Randi the Stick says, showing her first signs of having some sense thus far.
"Hey, he knows I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding, right? Listen, let me buy your next round for you and your friends."
"Thanks, buddy, but I'm fine." In fact at that very moment, I'm sliding him another Jack Daniels Manhattan to replace the nearly empty one in his hand.
"What, you're too good to drink with me? Come on, now you're not being nice." He tips his head toward me. "Debra, put that last one on my tab, okay?"
"I said, thanks, buddy, but I'm fine," FBA says a little more firmly, stopping me in my tracks, and I shrug at Peter. I can't force a customer to accept a drink from someone.
Peter glares at me, then leans in to FBA. "You've got Debra well-trained. You and she...?" He makes a non-descript gesture with his hand that, along with the inflection, is clearly meant to imply I'm sleeping with FBA. I down the rest of my Scotch, and this time, as long as he's being such an ass, I fill my glass to the top, hoping to test just how flush he is. Without really thinking it through, I start sipping from the new glass, too, the burning sensation decreasing with each swallow.
"That's not a cool thing to ask where I come from," FBA says, and then he stands up from his stool. He's not very tall. Peter looks him up and down, and laughs.
"You gonna defend her honor? Is that how things work where you come from?"
Randi pulls Peter's shoulder. "Peter, come on --"
He shrugs it off. "It's okay, honey. I should have told you before we came over here, Debra and I used to be an item, but that was a long time ago."
She looks at me with surprise, then back at Peter. "Really? You were dating a bartender?" What the fuck? Who does she think Peter is?
I throw back the rest of my fifth or sixth Scotch of the night, my head starting to float a little. "No, Randi, I wasn't a bartender at the time, I worked with him at the publishing company. He dumped me because I became a bartender."
Peter turns to me. "Now, hold on, that's not what happened --"
"You're right! You're right, Peter, when you're right, you're right. Randi, he didn't dump me because I became a bartender, he dumped me --" and I look very deliberately at the chain hanging down from her pierced navel, with a few inches of skin visible both above and below it, "-- because he didn't want me showing a lot of skin at work and attracting all sorts of sleazy guys." I stumble a little as I spread my arms wide so that all involved can see that I'm wearing a respectful, button-down black shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't require a crane to put on. Peter's starting to turn a little red.
Randi places one hand on her tummy, palm down. "Really, Peter?"
"Well --"
"And you know what else?" I lean forward and raise my voice, enjoying myself a great deal. "This summer, three years later, he tried to get me to fuck him even though he hadn't changed his mind about my job one goddamn bit. That was in... let me see, late July, I think. So, Randi, just how long have you been seeing our boyfriend here?"
Vince runs over and steadies me. "Debra, come on, be cool."
Peter says, "Hey, Debra, it was for old time's sake, I just wanted us to be friends."
"Friends," I begin, "don't let friends -- fuck assholes. Or something to that effect. Hey, speaking of which! Randi!" I'm practically screaming at this point. "Peter's shy about asking for this, so in case you haven't figured it out yet, he has a lot of trouble coming unless you stick a finger up his ass. Hell, it doesn't even have to be a finger!" FBA covers his mouth, but I can tell he's giggling. Randi von Skankerson pivots and, to the extent one can storm in jeans that have been surgically grafted to your ass, storms out of the Bar. Peter follows her, but not before shoving FBA aside. I turn to jot down my last couple of Scotches on my notes for Peter's tab, and wonder if he'll actually be coming back for the card.
I'm so pleased with myself that I haven't even noticed Todd, the manager, standing next to me. "Debra," he says, "you're drunk. Go home."
"What?! Todd, I had a few drinks, but --"
"Debra, you've had too much, and then you had some more just a minute ago, so it hasn't even hit you yet. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Go home." He hands me a ten for a cab, then starts taking drink orders.
I march off to the back room to get my bag, then I try to walk back through the Bar without catching FBA's eyes. Unfortunately he reaches out and grabs my arm. "Hey, Debra, I'm sorry. I'll make sure your boss knows who started what."
I turn to him and sway a little, tears starting to well up in my eyes. "It's been so long, I hate that he still knows how to get to me!"
FBA nods. "Drink a glass of water when you get home, then get some sleep, it always looks better the next day."
I put a hand on his cheek, and implore him, "Please, please don't tell Warren about this, okay?" He nods. I high-five Bill on the way out the door, and take a cab home, where there's more Scotch.
Saturday night I'm on an 8-to-close shift, taking over for Jocelyn at 8, and I'll be on with Maya. When I arrive, it's busy, but not terribly so.
Jocelyn can barely keep still. She took an earlier shift tonight because Mario wanted to take her out to dinner with his older brother Angelo, who also lives and works in the city. It was remarkable enough that he told her he loved her when he came back on Halloween, she says; he's never introduced any woman to his family, and his brother is as good a start as any.
"Debra, I feel like I'm going on an interview - everybody keeps telling me to relax, including Mario, but I'm really scared I'm going to say something stupid and blow everything, just when everything is going right."
"I don't know," I say, "I've never been big on meeting the family. I've never had a relationship get that far. At least it's not his parents, right?"
"True enough," Jocelyn nods.
"You want to know what I think?" pipes in Vince, who's been filling the cooler with bottled beer.
"Yes," bounces Jocelyn.
"Right now, Angelo is probably also thinking of it as an interview - he's the older brother, he's probably protective of Mario, and this is the first time a woman's had her hooks in Mario deep enough for him to meet her. So he's skeptical, and he's planning to grill you like roadkill."
"Not helping, Vince!"
"I'm not done yet. That's only right now. The minute he sees you walk into the restaurant, he's going to see your enormous breasts, and he's going to forget all about quizzing you on the finer points of gold-digging. He'll spend the next hour and a half being completely self-conscious, and trying not to say something inappropriate in front of his baby brother."
She laughs. "You think so?"
"Jocelyn, let's face it, your tits are the ultimate ice-breaker." She laughs again and kisses him on the cheek, then finishes cashing out and leaves for the night, her chest preceeding her.
Sometime around 9, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and Maya defers to me, since FBA knows me (and more importantly, knows Warren). I serve them some drinks, and FBA asks me how things are going with Warren.
"I was kind of hoping to ask you the same thing, to tell you the truth," I shrug. "We don't get to see each other very often, but it's good when we do. Has he said anything to you?"
"Hey, listen," he says, "Our guy isn't exactly a master of exposition on matters of the heart, if you know what I mean. But I will tell you one thing, Debra: It's been a couple of years since his divorce, and he told me that you're the first woman he's been on a date with since then. That can't be too bad a sign, right?"
I didn't know that, so I can't help but grin, and wonder silently if I'm also the first woman he's slept with since his divorce. Then I decide that it doesn't matter much, and just like everything else, if he wants to tell me, he will. FBA buys me a couple of fingers of Balvenie for every round he buys himself and his friends, and I drink and tend bar happily.
Or at least I do until about 10:30, when Peter walks in. I'd thought I was done hearing from him after I hung up on his ill-advised booty call a few months ago, but apparently I'd been wrong. He strolls in like he owns the place, and hanging on his arm is a blonde so thin she'd probably snap in a stiff wind, dressed in a midriff shirt, an open leather jacket, and low-rider jeans so tight I'm surprised I can't make out the veins in her thighs. I put on my best "You're not a part of my life anymore, so I don't give a shit" smile, and say, "Hi, Peter - what can I get for you two?"
"Set us each up with some Johnnie Walker Blue, would you please, Debra?" I raise my eyebrows. Johnnie Walker Blue is by far the most expensive Scotch we carry, even though it's not a single malt.
"Really?" Peter's smile shrinks a little bit, so instead of questioning him further in front of his lady, I shrug and go to pour. He's got a gold card in his hand when I return. Peter, who was one year ahead of me in the editorial slave mines at the publishing company where I worked for a year right after college, until taking this job at the Bar, has a gold card.
"Start a tab for me. Pour yourself whatever you like, too, Deb. We're celebrating. It's been a really good few weeks for me."
"Well, thanks, and congratulations!" I say as sincerely as possible, and treat myself to my fourth helping of Balvenie, which, let me tell you, goes down quite smoothly after the first couple. "What are we celebrating, exactly?" I ask when I return to the bar.
Peter looks at Stick the Skank with a "We know, don't we?" shit-eating grin, and says simply, "Suffice it to say, it's been a very good fall." And he just couldn't let it go without coming around to rub it in my face, goes the unspoken part of that story. He holds up his forty dollar glass of blended whisky in a toast, and Stick and I clink with him. My stomach turns a little, and I slurp down half my Scotch in a go.
It's then that Peter sees Former B-List Actor sitting there. "Jesus Christ," he says, "it's that guy who was on [Sitcom]. You're still alive?!" He laughs.
FBA looks up at me - probably for some clue as to what kind of person this is, since it's obvious I know him - and I shake my head and roll my eyes as subtly as possible. Then he turns to Peter. "That's what they tell me. I'm even employed, and allowed out on my own, and cool stuff like that."
"Hey, that's funny," Peter says, then turns to Stick. "Randi, you're too young to remember, but this guy used to be somebody." Wow. Peter was a bit of a jerk after he showed up at the Bar this summer, and I was upset over how our relationship ended three years ago, but I don't remember him ever acting like this much of an ass.
"Peter! That's not nice," Randi the Stick says, showing her first signs of having some sense thus far.
"Hey, he knows I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding, right? Listen, let me buy your next round for you and your friends."
"Thanks, buddy, but I'm fine." In fact at that very moment, I'm sliding him another Jack Daniels Manhattan to replace the nearly empty one in his hand.
"What, you're too good to drink with me? Come on, now you're not being nice." He tips his head toward me. "Debra, put that last one on my tab, okay?"
"I said, thanks, buddy, but I'm fine," FBA says a little more firmly, stopping me in my tracks, and I shrug at Peter. I can't force a customer to accept a drink from someone.
Peter glares at me, then leans in to FBA. "You've got Debra well-trained. You and she...?" He makes a non-descript gesture with his hand that, along with the inflection, is clearly meant to imply I'm sleeping with FBA. I down the rest of my Scotch, and this time, as long as he's being such an ass, I fill my glass to the top, hoping to test just how flush he is. Without really thinking it through, I start sipping from the new glass, too, the burning sensation decreasing with each swallow.
"That's not a cool thing to ask where I come from," FBA says, and then he stands up from his stool. He's not very tall. Peter looks him up and down, and laughs.
"You gonna defend her honor? Is that how things work where you come from?"
Randi pulls Peter's shoulder. "Peter, come on --"
He shrugs it off. "It's okay, honey. I should have told you before we came over here, Debra and I used to be an item, but that was a long time ago."
She looks at me with surprise, then back at Peter. "Really? You were dating a bartender?" What the fuck? Who does she think Peter is?
I throw back the rest of my fifth or sixth Scotch of the night, my head starting to float a little. "No, Randi, I wasn't a bartender at the time, I worked with him at the publishing company. He dumped me because I became a bartender."
Peter turns to me. "Now, hold on, that's not what happened --"
"You're right! You're right, Peter, when you're right, you're right. Randi, he didn't dump me because I became a bartender, he dumped me --" and I look very deliberately at the chain hanging down from her pierced navel, with a few inches of skin visible both above and below it, "-- because he didn't want me showing a lot of skin at work and attracting all sorts of sleazy guys." I stumble a little as I spread my arms wide so that all involved can see that I'm wearing a respectful, button-down black shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't require a crane to put on. Peter's starting to turn a little red.
Randi places one hand on her tummy, palm down. "Really, Peter?"
"Well --"
"And you know what else?" I lean forward and raise my voice, enjoying myself a great deal. "This summer, three years later, he tried to get me to fuck him even though he hadn't changed his mind about my job one goddamn bit. That was in... let me see, late July, I think. So, Randi, just how long have you been seeing our boyfriend here?"
Vince runs over and steadies me. "Debra, come on, be cool."
Peter says, "Hey, Debra, it was for old time's sake, I just wanted us to be friends."
"Friends," I begin, "don't let friends -- fuck assholes. Or something to that effect. Hey, speaking of which! Randi!" I'm practically screaming at this point. "Peter's shy about asking for this, so in case you haven't figured it out yet, he has a lot of trouble coming unless you stick a finger up his ass. Hell, it doesn't even have to be a finger!" FBA covers his mouth, but I can tell he's giggling. Randi von Skankerson pivots and, to the extent one can storm in jeans that have been surgically grafted to your ass, storms out of the Bar. Peter follows her, but not before shoving FBA aside. I turn to jot down my last couple of Scotches on my notes for Peter's tab, and wonder if he'll actually be coming back for the card.
I'm so pleased with myself that I haven't even noticed Todd, the manager, standing next to me. "Debra," he says, "you're drunk. Go home."
"What?! Todd, I had a few drinks, but --"
"Debra, you've had too much, and then you had some more just a minute ago, so it hasn't even hit you yet. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Go home." He hands me a ten for a cab, then starts taking drink orders.
I march off to the back room to get my bag, then I try to walk back through the Bar without catching FBA's eyes. Unfortunately he reaches out and grabs my arm. "Hey, Debra, I'm sorry. I'll make sure your boss knows who started what."
I turn to him and sway a little, tears starting to well up in my eyes. "It's been so long, I hate that he still knows how to get to me!"
FBA nods. "Drink a glass of water when you get home, then get some sleep, it always looks better the next day."
I put a hand on his cheek, and implore him, "Please, please don't tell Warren about this, okay?" He nods. I high-five Bill on the way out the door, and take a cab home, where there's more Scotch.