The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  Jake and I finished closing out quickly. We bundled our money up into two respective piles and sat at a table in the dining room, where we waited for the waitresses to figure out their money so we could get our tip-out and go home. Jake cracked open two Bud Lights and poured out two more shots of Patrón, and handed me one of each.

  “How much did you ring?” Jake asked me. We clinked our shot glasses together and simultaneously downed them.

  “I don’t know,” I said, chasing the tequila with a swig of beer. The burn wasn’t as bad as it had been earlier that night.

  “It’s on the printout from the computer. Next to where it says ‘Sales.’ ”

  I unrolled the long, narrow sheet of paper. “Two thousand eight hundred and seven dollars,” I said proudly. According to Laurel’s information, that was almost three times as much as I usually rang at Finton’s.

  “That can’t be right,” he said, snatching the paper from me.

  “Why? How much did you ring?”

  “Six thousand and eighty-two.”

  “No way,” I said. He tossed his report over to me, and sure enough, next to ‘Sales’ read the number 6,082. He had more than doubled my sales.

  I felt a tinge of fear. Would I be fired for this? So far I’d been proud of myself for my high bartending learning curve—I was ten times the bartender I was when I’d first arrived at Finton’s—but like everything in the Hamptons (money, houses, cars, the “scene”), the bartending was hyperintensified. How could I think I could compete with a career bartender who’d been slinging drinks on the Hamptons club circuit for years?

  Two hours later the cocktail waitresses were still counting. Strung out on all kinds of drugs, they were too fried to do even the simplest math.

  “If I made two hundred from table seven and three-fifty from table nine, then how much did I make?” one of them asked.

  “Five-fifty,” I said.

  “Okay, and what’s ten percent of that? I don’t have a calculator.”

  “Fifty-five dollars.”

  I tried to find Chris, the so-called manager, to help them so we could speed up the process, but he was out back smoking a blunt with a flock of bar backs. The sky was slowly starting to lighten and my eyes were beginning to droop. For the first time I could understand what being “bone-tired” meant. I had already passed the drunk stage and was well on my way to hungover, even though I was still nursing a Light.

  I put down my beer and arranged two chairs side by side in the dining room so I could lie down. The sun was now rising, and it peeked through the skylights of Spark’s high ceilings. I closed my eyes to block out the rays that filtered through the cigarette smoke clouding the room. Another day was beginning, and I hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.

  “Here you go,” Elsie finally croaked as she handed me a stack of bills. In her late-night sweatpants, she had once again morphed into the raggedy girl with a hacking smoker’s cough I’d met earlier that day. The waitresses had tipped us out $300—$150 each for Jake and me. In total we had made $487, more than double what I’d made on my busiest night at Finton’s.

  “Jake!” I called out. “We made almost five hundred dollars!”

  “So what?” he snapped back. He was no longer hyper and fun; he was tired and irritable. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he grumbled. “Where’s your little blond friend?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen her in hours.” I turned to the throng of cocktail waitresses. “Have any of you guys seen my friend Annie?”

  “She fucking left with Teddy,” Elsie answered, not bothering to cover up the note of jealousy in her voice.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I’ll see you girls tomorrow night then.”

  I followed Jake into the nearly empty parking lot, but before we reached his ’81 Toyota Camry, I heard a familiar voice call out, “Cassie!”

  I turned around to see James Edmonton climbing out of a black Range Rover—a white knight descending from his horse. Suddenly I got my fifth wind.

  “Hey,” he said, approaching me, his buttery brown Lobb shoes crunching on the gravel in the parking lot. “I realized I’d left my credit card here with one of the waitresses. I was hoping I’d still be able to pick it up.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” I volunteered, turning to head back into the bar. Once inside, I seized his black AmEx from Elsie’s hands and hurried back across the parking lot, my J. Crew flip-flops clopping loudly in the early-morning silence. Various customers had been giving me black AmExes all night long to pay their tabs, and I was intrigued because I’d never seen one before I came out to the Hamptons. I made a mental note to ask Alexis, my informant on how the other half lives, what the card was all about.

  “You’re the best,” he said. “Do you need a ride home?”

  Jake or James? I didn’t need time to think about this one.

  “Sure,” I said. “Jake, I’m gonna get a ride home from—”

  “Whatever,” Jake mumbled, turning up the Buju Banton on his antiquated stereo system before peeling out of the parking lot.

  James opened the passenger door, and helped me into his mammoth vehicle. Maybe chivalry wasn’t dead after all, I mused happily. It had just been hibernating in the Hamptons.

  “So, where’s your house?” he asked, after he’d settled himself in the driver’s seat.

  “In Amagansett, right on Montauk Highway—111 Main Street,” I answered.

  We pulled out of the parking lot and onto Montauk Highway, and the early-morning light dappling through the canopy of pink dogwood trees gave the thoroughfare a dreamy quality that perfectly complemented the way I was feeling inside.

  “I live in East Hampton,” he said, “so we’re neighbors.”

  “That’s right. Martin mentioned something about that.” The scenery with its vast cornfields and old rambling farmhouses whizzed by my open window. As we passed Jean-Luc and Bamboo—East Hampton dinner staples for the well heeled—I inhaled the blissfully smoke-free seaside air and briefly closed my eyes in contentment. I felt like the whole world was still asleep, a feeling I could never capture in Manhattan.

  “He was probably talking about my father’s house,” James said. “I don’t stay with him. He drives me crazy, as you may have gathered from our little exchange at Finton’s the other night.”

  “So where do you stay?”

  “Last year I bought a house on Further Lane with a couple of buddies of mine from Yale.”

  “You own the house?”

  “Yeah. We thought it was a good investment. Plus it’s just the three of us, me and my two friends, and we can come out year-round. It’s really beautiful out here in the fall. You’d love it.”

  I hoped that was an invitation. I reached across my torso to fasten my seat belt and noticed a Yankee baseball hat on the backseat.

  “Are you a Yankee fan?” I asked hopefully.

  “Diehard. You?”

  “I’m obsessed.” I laughed. “I went to thirty games this year. I’m their biggest fan.”

  “You might have some competition in that department,” he challenged with a smile. “I go to Tampa every year for spring training. Have you ever been to Legends Field?”

  “No.” I sighed. “But when I was little we had a dog named ‘the Babe,’ and all of our family vacations were trips to the Bronx to see the Yankees.”

  “Okay, you win,” he conceded with another winsome smile. “So where’d you grow up?”

  “Albany,” I replied. “Did you grow up in the city?”

  “Yep, born and bred on the Upper East Side.” He turned on the surround-sound stereo system and Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” wafted through the speakers.

  “I love this song,” I commented, resting my head on the supple black leather headrest.

  He reached over the console and briefly stroked the top of my hand. “Did you have an okay night?” he asked. My stomach flipped, and I felt the same spark that had shot through me wh
en he leaned in close to me in the VIP room earlier that night.

  “Yeah, but I’m a little tired,” I managed. The spot on my hand he’d just touched still tingled. “I couldn’t keep up. Everyone was screaming at me. I don’t think I can ever go back there again.”

  He laughed. “I hear you. I’ve been working hundred-hour weeks at Goldman. I’m starting to get burned out.”

  “That sucks. A lot of my friends are in banking, so I know how bad the hours can be. But you can’t beat the money, right?”

  “Yeah, but money isn’t everything. I’m ready for something else. I’m actually trying to start up my own production company.”

  “What do you want to produce?” I asked.

  “I’m really interested in independent films.” That was it. I was in love. “I produced my first film when I was a junior at Choate, and then I worked on a couple of documentaries at Yale,” he went on. “It was just a hobby, though. I majored in finance. I’m pretty sure my dad would’ve killed me if I told him I was changing majors to study film. But the problem is, I’m always at work. I don’t have much time for anything else.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I sympathized. “I’m working on a screenplay right now, but by the time I get home from bartending at five in the morning, get some sleep, go to the gym, or run a few errands, it’s already time to go back to work again. I feel so guilty, because I originally decided on bartending so I could free up my days for writing. But truth be told, I haven’t been getting any writing done at all lately. Especially after nights like this.”

  “I think you just need to make yourself sit down and do it,” he said. “At least that’s what I try to tell myself—not that I always follow my own advice.” He glanced over at me and smiled. “You should just try to write a little every day, even if you’re not always feeling inspired, you know?” At that moment, as I watched his profile glowing in the amber light of the Hamptons sunrise, I was very inspired indeed.

  “I know.” I sighed. “It’s just so hard to force it, so I end up reading the paper or checking my e-mail.”

  He laughed and then, in the blink of a moment, reached over and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. I wanted to turn my head and press my lips into his palm. I could feel the electric current humming between us. I’d never felt so violently attracted to anyone in my life.

  We drove on through the town of East Hampton past the Windmill, and, all too soon, we were pulling into my driveway. He put the car in park and turned off the engine. We sat in silence for a moment, and I could hear the seagulls crying in the distance. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “Working,” I said. “I work Friday and Saturday nights out here.”

  “Oh. I was going to ask you if you wanted to have dinner with me at Pacific East. Have you ever been there?”

  I shook my head, raw disappointment coursing through me.

  “Well, another time then. Come on, I’ll walk you to your door. Amagansett’s a pretty rough neighborhood,” he joked. “I have to make sure you get there safely.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it’s very dangerous.” I laughed as I climbed out of the Range Rover. “I could get mugged by a socialite.”

  He offered me his hand, which I readily accepted, and we walked up to the old wrap-around porch of Animal House. In the early-morning quiet, without the added decoration of nine frat guys grunting on the porch, I saw the house with new eyes. It had a lot of character and with a little work could be a beautiful historic hideaway.

  When we reached the door, James released my hand and turned to face me. “Good night, Cassie,” he said, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me softly on the lips. I felt my heart slide down into my toes and a whole flock of butterflies fluttered inside me. He brushed the hair away from my eyes and kissed me one more time before turning to walk back to his car.

  When I saw that his Range Rover was a safe distance away, I let out a giddy squeal and pounded my feet on the old wooden planks of the porch. I loved this porch. I loved this house. I loved the Hamptons, just like Annie did. I didn’t care if I had to bartend for the rest of my life. I had kissed James Edmonton.

  Once inside, I looked around and was shocked to find people I’d never met strewn across every imaginable surface. Someone was sprawled in the bathtub, a couple was passed out in the kitchen curled up under the table, and the hallways were littered with sleeping bodies, many of whom were still holding their beer cans. One guy I didn’t recognize had passed out with his face halfway into a bag of Doritos. Worried he would die of asphyxiation, I removed the bag and placed it beside his limp body. I climbed the stairs one by one, trying to be as quiet as I could. Relieved, and ready to crawl into bed, I opened the door to my room.

  I blinked, then almost had a heart attack. There was a naked guy sprawled out on top of the covers on my bed and a couple entwined on Annie’s bed. I looked around frantically and saw my bag tossed into the corner, my clothes scattered around the room. I debated what to do; clearly I couldn’t move the ogre on my bed—the guy was at least two hundred pounds. My lower back aching, I gathered up all of my belongings and shoved them back into my bag, all the while cursing the ugly, sweaty shape on the bed. I then yanked the room’s only blanket and pillow out from underneath his snoring mass; the idiot didn’t even stir. I crept out of the room and wandered down the hall, looking for a place to lie down.

  I finally walked outside into the cool ocean breeze and settled uncomfortably into one of the chaise lounges on the porch, but not before first spreading the blanket over its dirty surface. I pulled the sleeves of my hooded sweatshirt over my hands and curled up into a ball on my side, shivering. As I finally drifted off to sleep, visions of James’s kisses dancing in my head, I felt another blanket being placed over me. I cracked my eyes open, expecting to see Annie, and was surprised to see a sleepy, smiling Travis covering my cold feet.

  Six

  ____________

  SOUR APPLE

  MARTINI

  “Cassie, get over here and drink this before I have you fired!” Jake ordered, gesturing toward the mind eraser—a potent mix of Kahlua, vodka, and soda water, meant to be chugged through a straw—that was idling on the bar. “You call yourself a bartender!” he scoffed, after I’d obliged. “It took you twenty minutes to suck that down.” He was furiously banging his head along to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” as he perfectly layered twelve shots of B-52s. “I know what you need,” he said, slamming his register drawer shut with his hip. He leaned down and pulled a bottle of Jameson out from under the speed rack and handed it to me. “By the end of the night,” he warned, “there’d better be a serious dent in this bottle.”

  “I thought we only had Bushmills,” I said, thankful my old friend Jameson had made an appearance at Spark.

  “I brought this from the liquor store on the way here, especially for you. I couldn’t handle seeing you gag on Patrón again.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking two disposable shot glasses out of a long plastic sleeve.

  It was already after midnight and the night seemed to be flying by. Mind erasers had a way of distorting time, as did the endless stream of drink orders from our demanding clientele. Despite Jake’s ever-constant excursions away from the bar, I’d finally gotten myself into a bartending rhythm, smoothly transitioning from customer to customer and handling his absences better and better. On the way to Spark that night, I’d had my favorite cabdriver stop at Brent’s Deli in Amagansett, where I picked up my very own bottle opener and wine key. Armed and ready, this time I made sure to set up my own side of the bar so I knew exactly where everything was.

  “Who puts Jack and Ketel in the speed rack?” Jake had criticized when he arrived on the scene.

  “I do,” I retorted.

  “Where the fuck did you learn how to bartend?” he asked.

  Thankfully, it was a rhetorical question.

  It was only my second night at Spark, but I was learning to hold my own
. Earlier, when I’d walked in with Annie, who was newly promoted to cocktail waitress, we ran into Teddy at the entrance. I managed to impress him by mentioning that I was working on a screenplay—it turned out that Teddy was interested in film production as well. It seemed like a lot of people in the service industry had other irons in the fire.

  “Can’t wait to read it,” he said. “And by the way, great job last night. You and Jake rocked it out.” His compliment buoyed my self-esteem for the rest of the night. Bartending, I was learning, was all about confidence. I invented drinks all night long. When anyone asked for a red devil or a mai tai, I winged it. As long as it turned out pink, I was in the clear.

  As soon as the doors opened and people started streaming in, my antennas rose, hoping that James was among them. I kept one eye on the door so I wouldn’t miss him, wondering if he was still having dinner at Pacific East, and who had taken my place at his table.

  “Two glasses of champagne,” a customer instructed just as I finished my first shot of Jameson in the Hamptons. He was an older man, with a Pierce Brosnan air and silver hair that matched the pinstripes on his Armani suit. On his arm was a girl half his age with jet-black hair and the biggest breast implants I’d ever seen. She was advertising them with an extremely low-cut halter top that made my skimpy uniform look conservative.

  I dove my hand into the ice bin, pulled out a bottle of champagne, and filled two glasses. “That’ll be thirty dollars, please,” I said. He handed me a black American Express card. “Keep it open?” I asked.

  “No. Close it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s a fifty-dollar minimum on all credit cards.”

  “We’re just staying for one drink. Do me a favor. I’m low on cash. Just charge these two glasses for me, and I promise I’ll take care of you.”

  Ever since Baby Carmine had given me that $100 tip on my first shift, I’d been aware that taking care of the right customers could have surprising benefits. I returned a moment later with his credit card and receipt tucked neatly into a leather folder.

  “Thank you,” he said. His girlfriend leaned over the bar as she took her first sip of champagne, resting her breasts on her arm. Glancing sideways, I saw Jake’s eyes almost pop out of his head.