football game. People jumped up and cheered. It was a strange mix of people. A woman dressed like a witch stood up and covered her ears. Across the room, at the midpoint of the long, boomerang-shaped bar, the big waiter—Keith—waved his tray and hollered for the bartender. “Order up!” The servers got their drinks there, at the wait station. It was marked by two silver handlebars curving into question marks. Like the kind you saw going into swimming pools.
Customers yelled, “Beer!” “Shots!” “Grandma,” a woman called and held up her glass. Grandma. Maybe JJ’d heard it wrong.
The older waitress came up and touched JJ’s arm. “This way,” she said. Her face was wet and splotched, and her short orange hair stuck out in funny horns like she’d been yanking it. “I’m Colleen,” she said, catching her breath. “Here—please—follow me.”
JJ helped Colleen bring food to the tables. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. The plates were hot and the cooks expected you to grab three or four at a time—which, for JJ, made it just about impossible to move, let alone cross the room. It proved far simpler to take things off the tables than to put them on, so she slipped away and busied herself with clearing used napkins and dishes and glasses, scooping them up and depositing them into plastic tubs by the kitchen doors. Just as she was getting the hang of it, though, just as she was starting to enjoy the stacking and weaving—it was almost like a sport—she went and dropped a chicken wing into someone’s full mug of beer.
The beer’s owner held it up. “What’s this? Whatcha tryin’ to give me? A wet boner?”
Laughter from the rest of the table.
“No,” JJ said quickly, without thinking.
More laughter. In college, they were the type of guys who’d never given her a second glance: backwards baseball caps, smirky smiles. She resisted the urge to touch her hair.
“And where’re my cheddar fries? It’s been, what, hour and a half since we ordered? And now I don’t even have a freakin’ beer?”
“I’m so sorry,” JJ said. “Maybe I could—”
“On the house.” The tall blond waitress reappeared out of nowhere and set down a fresh mug and a full, foamy pitcher of beer. “See,” she said to the guy, laying a hand on his shoulder, “we got you covered, sweetie”—then she pulled JJ away by the wrist and backed her against a wall. “Who told you to come in?”
“I don’t remember his name,” JJ stammered. “I think he’s a manager—”
“He said tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Wonderful. That’s just terrific.” The pendant around her neck read Lena in gold block letters. That seemed right: sharp and direct, like her voice. And her stare. And her breath—she was so close, JJ could taste the menthol of her chewing gum. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s Super Bowl Sunday. Welcome to Madison fucking Square Garden. If you’re looking for a Girl Scout badge, try some other goddamn place.”
And she was off.
She could be a beauty queen, JJ thought, still frozen there, getting an image of one of those frosted dresses with tight shoulders. Or maybe not the queen but a runner-up, a very close second.
Then it struck her: maybe she did have the wrong day.
Maybe she’d heard it wrong or written it down wrong, and really she was supposed to come in next Sunday. Or maybe—oh god—even yesterday. JJ tried to rethink the conversation and remember exactly what it was the manager had said.
“More beer,” a nearby table hollered. “More everything!”
Game music blasted from the TVs: dah nah-nah-nah, dah nah-nah-nah. . . .
Of course, it was too late anyway. It no longer mattered. It wasn’t tomorrow or yesterday. She was here now.
Across the room, Lena was charging toward the bar—her spine straight, her chin up, like she was wearing that pageant gown. Like she was off to beat up the queen.
JJ squared herself. She took a breath. She could do this.
Lena ducked behind the bar, leaving Colleen and Keith to work the floor. Why is it, she wanted to know, that when something goes wrong, I’m expected to fix it? She poured beers, poured drinks, slammed off taps just in time.
“Hey, we got a bartender,” someone yelled. There was a spatter of applause.
“Right here! Another round!”
“Six kamikazes!”
She didn’t look up. She tipped the vodka upside down. One two three, across to the next glass of ice, one two three, next.
Where the fuck is Marna?
Keith came barreling behind the bar and started knocking things over in the beer cooler. Lena swatted him away. “I’ll do it! Just get your tables.”
“Seven Heinekens, pitcher Bud, pitcher Coors, double Jack and Coke.” He hiked up his jeans and pushed himself out into the crowd, toppling a stack of napkins with a beefy elbow. “Who’s thirsty?” he bellowed.
“Hey, Lena.” Colleen grabbed both handrails. Her face was gummy with sweat. “She’s not in the bathroom and I checked downstairs. Can I get two Long Islands? Also four ciders? Please? I’m in the weeds.”
“Oh service,” someone singsonged down the bar. A regular. Not yet, Lena thought. If they caught your eye, they had you. She ignored the whole idiot lot—raising their empty glasses like a bunch of Statues of Liberty. “Hey,” one of them called, “I might as well be home.”
Lena hadn’t even worked here the longest. February would be three years—and that was counting the six months she’d quit and worked at Retox. Three years was a long time—much longer and they’d call her a Lifer—but not compared to some of the others. Denny’d started as a dishwasher back when he’d first moved here out of high school, more than ten years ago. And Keith—who’d, Christ, been named Best Server of Denver by Westword last spring and was still acting like he’d won an Oscar—well, he was going on at least four. So why was it, when the shit flew, she was the one that got the mop?
“Goddamn Super Bowl,” she said to Colleen. She got Keith his pitchers, filled three Cokes and a Diet, stabbing the last with an extra straw to mark it. “Goddamn Marna. Unbelievable. Every other bar, double, triple staffed, right? A little planning involved, god forbid, bar backs, bussers—but what do we have? Who do we schedule? One flaky-ass bartender? And what? Three on the floor? And a trainee? A fucking deer in headlights?” She smacked an empty cardboard box out of her way and grabbed a cluster of ciders. This was what happened when you worked at a place with no management. As long as the doors stayed open and the register rang—and his asshole friends were accommodated—Bill could give a shit about the goings-on. Which, sure, led to certain perks. Free drinks, flexible hours. None of the corporate rigmarole you got at chain restaurants.
But there were also some big fucking drawbacks.
