by Leanne Shear
“Oh.” I wondered if Dan Finton ever hired spotters.
“Don’t plan on giving away any free drinks at all,” Shalina warned. “The cameras are hooked up to the Internet so we can watch you whether we’re at the bar or not, and the spotters will catch everything. We will immediately fire anyone who doesn’t account for every single drink.”
As she continued talking, it occurred to me that no one ever gave their last names in the bartending world: Teddy, Elsie, Shalina—through all of their introductions, not one of them had offered a last name. I felt a strange disconnect from all the people around me as I contemplated the mystery-cloaked bar world. I wracked my brain and couldn’t even think of Billy or Annie’s last names. I wondered if they knew mine.
“Now for the great news,” Shalina said, her perfectly puffed lips breaking into a smile for the first time. “Catherine Malandrino has designed uniforms for you to wear!” All the cocktail waitresses oooooohed and ahhhhhed.
“Who’s Catherine Malandrino?” I asked Annie, whose eyes had lit up just like the rest.
“She’s a designer,” Annie gushed. “She’s amazing. She has a store in Soho and one in the meatpacking district.”
“Catherine is a very dear friend of mine,” Shalina explained. “She’s been working for months designing your outfits. Going with a summer resort theme, she’s created an adorable little miniskirt, all white, with a delicate ruffle along the bottom, and a pastel satin halter top that cuts off a few inches above your belly button.”
Miniskirt? Halter top? Panic gripped my heart. My thighs and lower butt would be exposed, as well as most of my midriff, for all of the Hamptons to see. Scenes of bending down to grab a beer hidden low in a cooler while drunken customers heckled me flashed through my head. Needless to say, I hadn’t gotten around to expanding my workout routine to include five hundred crunches a day. Not to mention that it seemed completely absurd for us to bartend in white satin, when cranberry juice, José Cuervo, and red wine inevitably saturated my clothes by the end of a shift.
“I managed to work out a great deal with Catherine,” Shalina continued, “so your uniforms are very affordable. The skirt is a hundred and eight dollars and the top is ninety-six. Please bring the money tonight when you come in to work. I’d prefer cash.”
“We have to pay for the uniforms?” I asked Annie incredulously.
“Guess so,” Annie said with a shrug. As long as she remained working in the restaurant, she didn’t have to worry—the dinner servers all wore the same black pants and Polo shirt. At first I’d thought they looked dowdy, but after Shalina’s announcement and its $204 price tag, I would’ve given my eyeteeth to wear them.
“I hope I get promoted to cocktail waitress,” Annie said fervently. “I don’t even care about paying for the uniform. I’ll never see any celebrities in the dining room, and Teddy’ll never notice me in that frumpy Polo shirt.”
“Are you crazy? I’d rather die than work with my whole body exposed. These other girls are all like a size negative two.”
Of course, I was in no position to argue. A quick head count showed that there were nine bartenders at the meeting, and as Teddy had pointed out earlier, they only needed six per shift. By my calculations, I had eight and a half hours to figure out a way to ring $8,000 a night. Shalina’s voice interrupted my neuroses.
“This is Chris, the bar manager,” she said unceremoniously, gesturing toward an awkward man with skin so pale it looked liked he had never seen the sun. His beanpole body was at least as tall as Teddy’s, but probably half the weight. “He’ll be in charge of all bartenders, bar backs, and cocktail waitresses. The restaurant has a different manager entirely, but most of you here won’t have to worry about that. You’ll all answer to Chris.”
I thought the chain of command sounded a little convoluted. Annie looked confused as well, so I turned to Elsie.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Is he our boss, or is Teddy or Shalina?”
“Don’t worry, it’s always a fucking nightmare when a million people are involved with opening a new club,” she said. “Don’t bother trying to figure everyone out. Half of these people will be fired after Memorial Day.”
I nodded and smiled grimly, worried that I would be one of those getting the ax after only one weekend. It would be the worst kind of humiliation if I had to crawl back to Laurel and beg her for my weekend shifts.
“Why do so many people get fired?” I ventured.
“Quiet down, girls!” Shalina snarled. “Listen to your manager!”
My face turned red, and I heard Annie stifle a giggle as I turned my attention toward Chris. He looked uncomfortable, and Shalina practically had to give him a push to speak.
“Hi,” he began, almost inaudibly. “Basically, I just need everyone to keep the bar clean. The bar backs need to help with that. If you guys have any questions about where anything is, you can always ask Jake. He helped us open up and he knows what he’s doing. He’s the head bartender for the summer, so you can get help from him.” I strained to hear him. When he finished, he smiled halfheartedly and quickly stepped back behind Shalina.
The meeting finally wrapped up at a little after two o’clock. Since I didn’t have to be back for work until nine-thirty that night, I had the afternoon free. I turned to Annie, who was busily applying Lancôme’s Juicy Tubes in Berry Bold. She was visibly glowing from the brief conversation I saw her have with Teddy.
“Annie, what’s your last name?” I asked.
“Borolo. Why?”
“Just wondering,” I said. “What time do you have to be back?”
“Well, I have to be back at four tonight, because I’m working in the restaurant, which totally sucks. But Teddy said I can start cocktailing as early as tomorrow!”
“That’s great,” I said happily. “That means we’ll be working together.”
“And Teddy told me to call his cell tomorrow afternoon so we can meet at the beach.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “I love the Hamptons!”
“Fast work,” I teased her. “I’m impressed.”
We were about to say good-bye to the girls, who were busy gathering up their things, when I overheard Elsie say to one of them, “I hope I see that guy James again. He was the best fuck I ever had.”
My stomach lurched. “James Edmonton?” I interjected before I could stop myself, my voice sounding like a coloratura soprano’s. Please, please, please, I thought, don’t let James have slept with this raunchy girl. The very thought of having to share him with anyone made me feel nauseated.
“James Edmonton?” Elsie stared at me, confused. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, relieved. “I thought I heard you mention a friend of mine.”
“No, I was talking about James Elliot, that actor from that show on the WB. I hooked up with him the other night.”
“Oh, cool. Well, anyway, nice meeting you guys.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “We’ll see you tonight.”
“A little paranoid?” Annie joked as we stepped outside into the brilliant sunshine. I ignored her and flipped open my cell phone to call a cab. Within minutes my favorite driver was pulling into the gravel parking lot.
“Going back to Animal House?” he asked cheerily as we made a left on Montauk Highway.
I forced myself to laugh.
“What’s he talking about?” Annie asked, puzzled.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll see.” I’d decided against telling her about the hellhole that was to be our summer residence. I didn’t want to ruin her mood.
The whole ride home I fantasized about the nap I was going to take before work, knowing full well that I wouldn’t survive an intense night of bartending on just three hours of broken sleep on an overly air-conditioned train. But when we pulled into the driveway, I saw that nine of my housemates had already arrived to start the holiday weekend a little early. They were shotgunning Pabst Blue Ribbon, most of them shirtless, on the porch.
&n
bsp; “Is this it?” Annie asked, her eyes wide.
“Um . . . yeah,” I said, cringing. The front lawn was already a disaster with empty beer cans and plastic cups strewn among the overgrown grass and weeds, and a half-assembled volleyball net lay drooping in the middle. It was a frat house, plain and simple, and I felt wholly responsible for getting us involved.
“Oh my God!” Annie gasped. I braced myself. “Those guys are so cute!” she exclaimed, hopping out of the cab. I stared after her, amazed. A cute guy was enough to make Annie see the positive side of every situation.
“Hey, ladies!” one guy called out before stabbing a hole in the side of a PBR can with a key, popping the top, and sucking all the beer out in one gulp.
“Hey, boys!” Annie waved as she sashayed across the lawn toward the house. I paid the driver, then stepped out of the cab to join her.
One of them, an attractive, tall guy with disheveled curly brown hair, came down off the porch and said, “You must be Cassie.”
“No.” Annie giggled. “I’m Annie. This is Cassie.”
“Hi,” I said, coming up behind her. He was wearing a vintage red Coca-Cola T-shirt and worn-in jeans with Reef flip-flops.
“I’m Travis. We spoke on the phone.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “We have our checks. I left mine in my bag upstairs. I’ll go get it now.”
“No rush. You can give them to me whenever. So you went to Columbia with Alexis?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“That’s a great school. I wanted to go there, but the tuition was a little steep. When Boulder offered me a full ride for lax, my parents were pretty excited to save the money, so I went there with the rest of these clowns.” He gestured toward the guys behind him slamming beers on the porch.
“I hear you,” I said sympathetically. “I have so many student loans—that’s why I’m bartending.”
“Yeah, it’s rough. Well, come and have a beer and meet everybody,” he said.
“I was actually thinking about going upstairs to take a quick nap,” I began, trying to telepathize with Annie not to trap us down here.
“Oh, come on, Cassie,” Annie pleaded, “it’s the start of the summer. One beer wouldn’t kill us!”
“Yeah, come on Cassie, one beer won’t kill you!” Travis laughed. He motioned with the football in his hand that I should go out for a pass, and I reluctantly ran backward into the yard, catching the ball easily. I wasn’t about to let a house full of frat boys think I was a wimpy, unathletic girl.
“Nice catch, Jerry Rice,” Travis said, smiling. I couldn’t help but think Alexis’s unflattering summation of him had been unfair at best.
Several hours and ten PBRs later, I was running around the yard playing a rousing game of touch football. Annie had left hours before to make it to Spark for the dinner shift.
“Come on, you loser, catch the ball!” I roared when one of my teammates dropped a pass.
“Um, Cass?” Travis called from his place at the fifty-yard line.
“Yeah?” I yelled, taking a gulp of beer.
“When do you have to be at work?”
“Oh, shit!” I said, looking at my watch. I’d almost entirely blocked out work. “I gotta get going.” I passed the ball nonchalantly one last time with a perfect spiral. “I’ll see you guys when I get home later. Good game!”
Two Stoli tonics, a cosmo, three Jack and Cokes, two Bud Lights, a bottle of water, and do you have champagne by the glass?” an impatient woman barked.
It was only ten-fifteen, and I was already in the weeds. I hadn’t had enough time to acclimate myself to the layout of the bar or the enigmatic computer system, and I was having trouble keeping up with the demands of the insistent, and very thirsty, customers.
Due to my bragging about my imaginary bartending expertise, Teddy had placed me where most of the volume was concentrated, behind the front bar with Jake, who was the fastest and most efficient bartender I’d ever seen in my life. Flustered, I couldn’t remember the ingredients to any drinks. Jake, on the other hand, probably made about twenty drinks, including martinis and cosmos, for every one drink I made. Sweat was pouring out of me, leaving my hair plastered to my face, and I had only been at work for forty-five minutes.
My initial mortification about wearing the designer crop top and miniskirt had disappeared around the same time my sanity and coordination vanished behind the bar. Earlier that night I’d stood in the girls’ bathroom retying the shirt lower and lower in an attempt to cover at least some of my stomach. The problem was, the lower I tied it on the bottom, the lower it fell on top. There just wasn’t enough material to go around. The skirt, I’d already decided, was a lost cause. It was too damn short, and I felt like a trashy cheerleader.
“I can’t wear this!” I’d wailed to Annie, who was busy applying a new coat of mascara in anticipation of the restaurant’s switch to nightclub mode.
“Yes you can. You look amazing.”
“Annie, I’m naked.”
“No you’re not. Now calm down. Maybe if we pull the shirt down a little lower, it will give you a little more coverage.” She slid her fingers under the tiny halter searching for a hem, and with a nail clipper and a pair of tweezers managed to let it down, giving me an extra one and a half inches of iridescent baby blue material.
“Wow,” I’d said. “You’re a genius!”
“I’m not done yet,” she said, stepping back to take critical stock. The bottom of my $96 top was a little frayed, but in the dark of the bar no one would notice. “Okay, now that your stomach is a little more covered, try pulling your skirt down on to your hips so it at least covers your ass. There. Do you feel more comfortable?”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was still horrified, but it was a vast improvement. I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Annie had asked.
“I was just thinking. This is the most expensive top I’ve ever owned, and we just butchered it with a nail clipper.”
Now, officially stationed behind the bar, I couldn’t remember any of the drink prices because I kept mixing them up with Finton’s, which were considerably cheaper, and if I kept up like that all night, my ring would be even lower. The computer froze every time I used it, and I couldn’t find the bottle of Ketel One anywhere, which seemed to be the liquor every single person wanted. I kept mixing up which coolers held domestic beers and which ones housed the imports. And to make matters worse, Jake kept abandoning me to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone for a good five minutes every half hour—which behind a slammed bar felt like a lifetime.
“Where are all the bottle openers?” I called to Jake with two unopened Bud Lights in my hand.
He bounded over and twisted the caps off with his bare hands. “The Bud and Bud Lights are twist-offs, babycakes!”
“Oh,” I said sheepishly. “Well, what about the rest of the beer?”
“You didn’t bring a bottle opener?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know I had to. At my job in the city they have them for us and—”
“Rookie!” he chastised, tossing me an extra bottle opener that he just happened to have in his back pocket. Apparently, Jake was the MacGyver of bartending. I stuck my new tool into the waistband of my nearly nonexistent skirt, which I had to keep pulling down every few minutes to keep it from exposing my pink thong.
At Spark things seemed needlessly difficult. Every time you rang in a drink you were first confronted with a sign-in screen where you had to enter your employee number (a four-digit code I kept forgetting). Then you had to choose from a long list of drink genres including liquor, red wine by the glass, white wine by the glass, champagne by the glass, wine and champagne by the bottle, domestic beer, imported beer, ports, shots, miscellaneous. If you picked liquor, you were then presented with a screen that read vodka, gin, rum, tequila, and so on.
Your selection on this screen led to another more specific screen. For example, if you selected vodka, you
would then be faced with a screen that listed the most popular brands: Grey Goose, Ketel One, Stoli Raspberry . . . If the vodka you were looking for did not appear on the list, you had to find it alphabetically using the lettered icons on the left of the screen. Once you made that selection, you had to enter in the mixer as well. When you finally selected all of your ingredients, you had to reckon with the payment screen, which to me seemed as cryptic as hieroglyphics—even cash transactions were tedious. By the time I was ready for another customer, the annoyed crowd was ready to hop over the bar and serve themselves.
Jake was like Billy on speed. He bartended with the same ease and grace, only on a much larger scale. His arms seemed to be able to reach any cooler or liquor bottle from wherever he happened to be standing. It was as though he made the cups appear out of nowhere, ten in a row on his bar mat, already filled with ice and a straw. And even though he kept leaving the bar, he always got right back in the mix and caught up immediately. I, on the other hand, had trouble coordinating even the simplest things and kept dropping my bottle opener and knocking over cocktails. My side of the bar looked like a tornado had ripped through it, while Jake’s was still impressively neat and clean. I marveled at his speed, wondering how he managed to turn out what seemed like ten drinks per second. His skillful fingers danced effortlessly across the computer screen pressing all the right icons as he served the masses. Nothing seemed to wear him down, and he didn’t ever lose steam. He was hyper and amped up throughout the entire night. I imagined he must have chugged thirty forbidden Red Bulls.
I watched Jake intently. At Spark, I was learning, it wasn’t enough to ask a customer what they needed, make the drinks, collect money, give change, and then move on to the next person. You needed to ask someone what he wanted, start making his drinks, ask another person what she wanted, start making her drinks, collect money from the first guy, ask a third person what he wanted, give change to the first guy, get money from the girl, start making the third guy’s drinks, open a new bottle of vodka, give change to the girl, give the manager a payout for the door guy, ask the bar back for more ice, and get money from the third guy. In short, bartenders at Spark had to be the ultimate multitaskers.