Chapter 12 #2
The evening went on like that, a series of tasks that seemed to roll together.
Otis kept offering to buy Brian a drink while the rest of us worked.
Midas one-upped him by hand delivering a beer to Brian and assuring him it was on the house.
When Baker announced she was dipping out to change her outfit and walk the dog, Hatch slipped her his credit card.
“Mind to pick up dinner for the whole staff?”
Baker smiled. “You got it.”
“Hannah, go on and get everyone’s orders. You can text them to your better half.”
Hannah strode over and peered at the credit card in Baker’s hand. “Ooh, AmEx, fancy. Bake, make a copy of this so we can extend the bar at our reception.”
“Very funny,” Hatch gruffed. “Ralph?” he asked the older guy. “Brian? You want dinner, on me?”
“That’d be nice,” the older man answered.
By the time Baker returned—now wearing a cream lace tank top that Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off of—we had finished setting up and were ready to open.
We sat haphazardly on the freshly polished floor and passed around the takeout cartons from Tambrie’s, digging our hands into fried chicken, potato salad, fried okra, and corn bread.
When Midas ended up with stray mayonnaise on his cheek, Brian leaned forward and swiped it away with his thumb.
Midas froze, his face flushing all the way to his hair. Otis Penny scowled.
It was the best night of my life.
Our patrons showed up with full wallets and eager grins.
Their eyes lit up when they spotted the mechanical bull, and already there was a waiting list to have a turn riding Shane.
People were dressed in every style imaginable, with as much or as little clothing as possible, in every color, texture, pattern, and gender-bending form.
A group of Rustin students, living in town for the summer, passed out glitter on the dance floor.
Soon everyone had shimmers of blue, green, and orange across their eyelids and down their cheeks.
The music pounded with a mix of crowd pleasers from every decade, everything from Donna Summer to Sabrina Carpenter.
Midas mixed drinks with the speed of a New York bartender on cocaine.
Hannah actually stepped away from her duties to dance with Baker in the middle of the crowded room, her hands wandering, her eyes glassy from the two Aperol spritzes she had already downed.
I assisted Midas behind the bar, trying to anticipate when he would need a lime wedge, a clean glass, a scoop of ice cubes.
We fell into an easy rhythm as more and more patrons poured into the space, until the room was so crowded that it felt like a sauna.
My temples were sweating and dark rings appeared on my new T-shirt, but I couldn’t get enough of this moment, this wild, pulsing heartbeat of community and joy.
Even RuPaw seemed happy, perched on the old TV stand high above the bar top, her rainbow dress sparkling in the dim light.
When Midas announced he needed a break—which I suspected had something to do with Brian taking five for a cigarette—I stepped up to take his place at the bar top.
The night had settled into an easy, predictable thrum and patrons were coming for drinks one at a time.
Most people were hung up on the person currently riding Shane—a lanky, attractive Middle Eastern grad student with a streak of pink dye in their hair.
They had managed to ride the bull for a full minute now, and the crowd’s delighted screams had reached a fever pitch.
I was catching my breath when a gorgeous, dark-eyed Latina approached the bar, hastily stuffing a vape into her pocket.
I recognized her as one of Hannah’s best friends, Maria Paula.
Next to her was her fiancée—Brooke, if I remembered right—who had the pretty, approachable girl-next-door look of everyone’s favorite babysitter.
“So Hannah said there’s fresh coffee so I was thinking I’d have an espresso martini,” Maria Paula said in a rush.
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “Um. Yeah, I don’t know how to make—”
“I’ve got it.” She skittered around the bar and went straight for the vodka without waiting for my response.
“I don’t know if—” I began, but her fiancée interrupted me.
“She’ll do it whether you want her to or not,” Brooke said, adjusting her glasses. “You can just ring us up for twenty dollars, if that sounds good. That’s what Hannah usually does.”
I looked at her, bewildered, then back to Maria Paula, who was already fixing two drinks in our finest martini glasses. Her massive diamond ring reflected the dim lights like some kind of homing beacon.
“Er—okay,” I said uncertainly. I did as Brooke suggested and charged them $20.
She handed me her credit card and waited for me to slide the receipt across the counter to her.
Maria Paula seemed completely oblivious to the exchange; she was taste-testing the espresso martinis like some kind of cocktail sommelier.
“Thanks, Louisa,” Brooke chirped happily. She slid the receipt back to me and I saw that she’d tipped me an excessive $10. “Hey, you should come to one of our pool parties! We call them ‘coven meetings.’”
I blushed. I had no idea how these pretty older women knew my name, and I was flattered to be invited to hang out with them. My brain latched on to Lesbians in bathing suits for a full thirty seconds before I regained my composure.
“When are you playing Taylor Swift?” Maria Paula asked after a long pull from her espresso martini. She gestured at the ceiling to indicate the Shaboozey song booming from the speakers. “You will play her, right? Because otherwise I’ll fight.”
I stared at her small frame. She was barely five feet tall. “Um. Midas controls the music. He stepped out for a second.”
“I’m on it.” She zipped away with the martini glass teetering in her hand, Brooke holding tightly to the other.
I was in the middle of mixing a White Russian for Claudia when there was a sudden rush to the bar.
It appeared Ralph had joined Brian outside for a break, and the resulting lull in the mechanical bull line seemed to signal that it was time for everyone to get a refill.
People jostled for spots at the counter, all of them trying to catch my attention, shouting so loudly that my head spun.
I had to lean my ear forward to hear them scream VODKA SODA WITH A SPLASH OF PINEAPPLE, their breath hot on my skin, their eyes glassy but keen.
One impatient patron tapped the edge of his credit card on the counter over and over, a staccato reminder that I wasn’t delivering at the pace he was used to.
When I finally took his card and went to run it through the POS system, my elbow knocked over an entire pint glass of beer.
“Come on!” he yelled. “We’re missing Whitney!” He jabbed a stubby finger toward the ceiling, where the unmistakable sounds of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” blared from the speakers.
“I’m s—” I started to say, but then someone appeared beside me.
“That’s enough,” Hatch growled. “You want to be rude, you can take your business elsewhere.”
The guy wilted. I slid his receipt over and let him sign in silence.
“Scoot over,” Hatch told me. “Keep mixing. We’ll wipe that up after the rush.”
His hands began to move as fluidly as a dance: pouring, squeezing, sliding, swiping.
It was the practiced rhythm of a true bartender, even down to the way he stacked pint glasses right to their tipping point, knowing exactly how much pressure they could hold.
I hustled to keep up, filling orders at half the rate he was.
Within five minutes, the rush had completely cleared.
Hatch let out a routine exhale and tossed me the rag to wipe up the spilled beer. He took a swig of water, wiped his mouth on his wrist, and cast his eyes on me. “Not bad,” he allowed. “Call for help next time.”
I nodded. “I will.”
Hatch poured two lemon drop shots and handed one to me.
Wordlessly, he raised his glass and waited for me to mirror him.
I held my shot glass across from his, unable to tell whether I was being rewarded or hazed.
We took the shots together, Hatch downing his like a champ while I choked and pawed at my watery eyes.
Then he slipped away, leaving me dazed and inordinately pleased with his feedback. I understood it was the best I could hope for.
I served the next customers who stepped up—Marc and Joe, sauvignon blanc—and when I next saw Hatch, he was lurking in the corner, transfixed by his patrons enjoying the mechanical bull, the ghost of a smile barely visible on his face.
When Midas returned, he had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“You didn’t,” I said.
“Oh, but I did,” he singsonged. He looked across the bar and winked at Brian, who flushed red.
“Wow. You have game.”
“Of course I do.” He swirled a spoon around the whiskey sour in his hand. “Hatch told me you took a lemon drop shot.”
I shook my head, still trying to make sense of it. “He offered it to me. With no catch. Like … he was nice.”
Midas laughed. “I’ve told you, Hatch is a good guy.” He handed the whiskey sour to me, and when I eyed it with trepidation, he laughed again. “You’ve already had a bite of the apple, sweetness. Might as well go all in.”
I smirked and took the proffered drink.
“And now…,” Midas drawled with a glint in his eye, “I think it’s time you took a ride on the bull.”
“Dude. No way.”
“Hannah’s up next. At least go cheer her on.”
“You just want me to keep her occupied so she doesn’t notice you flirting with Brian.”
“She can notice that all she wants. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop.” He waggled his eyebrows, then his tone became serious. “Come on, freshman, go have some fun.”
He shoved me away from the counter. I smiled gratefully at him, took a huge sip of the whiskey sour, and ran off to enjoy the night.