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The Perfect Manhattan

Page 21

by Leanne Shear


  Slow down, Cassie,” Jake said. “Don’t bust your ass. It’s open bar.”

  “So what?” I panted as I peeled the foil off the top of a bottle of Grey Goose, pulled the cork out, and stuck a speed pourer in. I’d thought it would be an easy night, considering I didn’t have to deal with cash, credit cards, or payment of any sort, but everyone that came up to the bar ordered fifteen drinks at a time.

  “I fucking hate this open bar shit,” Jake groused. “But at least we’ll be outta here by twelve.” He grabbed four bottles of Bombay Sapphire and stocked them ferociously on the shelves behind him. “We’re getting paid nothing for this party, so if they don’t tip, don’t serve them,” he added. “We don’t work for free. And pour light. Whenever it’s open bar, you always pour light.”

  I took his advice and slowed down. He was right, 90 percent of the people weren’t tipping. But it was hard to ignore the patrons staring me down for drinks. Eventually the mob got the point and started waving cash to get our attention. We served them immediately, and the crowd died down. For the first time all summer, I wasn’t stressed out while working at Spark.

  The doors had opened promptly at nine, and I’d waited expectantly, thrilled to be back next to Jake at the front bar working a celebrity’s party. A little overzealous, I’d already arranged ten plastic cups filled with ice on the bar mat near my gun.

  By nine-fifteen, exactly three people had trickled through the door.

  An hour later, the bar had filled, but Britney hadn’t even shown up, even though she was supposed to be “hosting” the party. In between Jake’s manic fits of productivity, he managed to explain that most New York City or Hamptons parties “hosted” by celebrities were really just elaborate smoke-and-mirrors schemes by event planners and publicists designed to get the maximum number of (preferably well-to-do) people coming to an event. But the actual celebrity rarely ever made an appearance.

  As I surveyed the crowd, I noticed most of the people were a far cry from our regular Spark clientele and would’ve never made it past the velvet ropes on a normal night. I’d heard of the phenomenon of arrivistes keeping publicists on retainer to help them climb the social ladder of the rich and established, which meant getting them into hot parties where they hoped to be exposed to real socialites and celebrities. And from the awkward social interaction of these less-than-Beautiful People, I guessed that the publicists really had exhausted their Rolodexes of wannabes to fill the party.

  Snoop Dogg came blaring out over the speakers. “I love this song!” Jake screamed. Laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind . . .

  When Jake wasn’t rapping, he paced back and forth around the bar, adjusting pourers, putting the shakers in height order, picking up a stray bottle cap from the floor, and thrashing around wildly to that night’s DJ’s mix of rap and rock. I giggled to myself—we had never worked at Spark when it wasn’t absolutely slammed, and it was clear that Jake didn’t know what to do with his energy when he wasn’t busy with seven hundred customers.

  “Shots?” Jake asked, a bottle of Patrón in his hand.

  “We’d be crazy not to at this point,” I said.

  “Good to have you back up here, Cassie!” he roared, swinging the bottle of Patrón in his hand.

  “Good to be back!” I said, slamming the tequila.

  Finally, at around eleven forty-five it was patently clear that the party had dwindled to nothing. With the exception of one short-lived rush, the party was a bust. My enthusiasm was dampened slightly by the thought of my ever-empty bank account. I wondered if I could have made more money at Finton’s. I sighed and sucked on a lime.

  “You can close out, guys,” Chris told us.

  “What should we do to close out?” I asked, pressing a cold Bud Light against my overheated forehead. At some point during the party, the air-conditioners had short-circuited. As if Long Island air weren’t humid enough, the atmosphere was further saturated by the sweat of people straining to climb the social ladder.

  “Nothing,” Jake said, “That’s the beauty of open bar. We have nothing to cash out. We just have to wait for our shift pay and count the tips.”

  Moments later Shalina sashayed over to us, a green silk scarf trailing behind her. Her breasts were spilling out of her corseted top, and her white pants looked like they’d been painted on. I marveled at her tiny waist, thinking she must spend at least four hours a day at the gym. “Here’s your shift pay,” she said, handing Jake and me each a sealed envelope.

  I opened it up. Fifty dollars.

  “Fifty dollars?” I whined to Jake. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “That’s why I told you not to bust your ass. Hand me the tip bucket.”

  Jake and I were organizing the tips into neat piles of singles and fives (to our dismay, no tens or twenties had made an appearance that night—another downside to serving the wannabes rather than the genuine high rollers), when I overheard Teddy say to Shalina, “I just ran the guy’s credit card. He said everyone had a great time.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “We need to make sure he’s happy. This party cost him over fifty thousand dollars.”

  At first I was shocked. Then I was furious. Fifty thousand dollars and I was paid out fifty? That was one-tenth of 1 percent.

  “Here you go, Cass,” Jake said, handing me my share of the tips. “Forty-eight.” Combined with the shift pay, we hadn’t even broken $100. After Billy’s promise of two grand over Fourth of July weekend, I sulked, realizing I was about $600 off schedule.

  “Thanks,” I said grouchily, shoving the cash into the back pocket of my skirt. “I can’t believe they’re only giving us fifty dollars. At Finton’s if we work an open bar, we always get a couple of hundred.”

  “That’s how it is at these big clubs. They screw you over, because they know if you quit, there are thousands of other sorry-ass bartenders salivating to work here.”

  “Sounds like Marxism,” I said dramatically.

  “Huh?”

  “You know, Karl Marx. ‘Bartenders of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your derisory shift pay.’ ”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.” I said.

  “Anyway,” Jake continued, “the good news is that on most nights you can make a lot of money here. But you’re right, Shalina and the owners are such fucking money-grubbing scumbags.” I looked over at Shalina and Teddy and imagined I saw dollar signs where their pupils should have been. At least the holiday weekend had started out with a bang for somebody.

  “We’re going out!” Jake yelled. “Cassie, you’re coming!”

  “I should probably just go home,” I said. I was already more than a little drunk, and I knew I had two intense nights of work ahead of me. I was also feeling too poor to spend money on beer. Not to mention that the prospect of a decent night of sleep in my empty share house was tremendously appealing.

  “No way!” Annie appeared at my side. She’d already changed out of her uniform into a short jeans skirt, wife-beater, and strappy heels. “I need a drink after dealing with all those losers asking my for my phone number!”

  “Why don’t we go to the Talkhouse?” Jake suggested. “It’s right near your house. You can walk home whenever you want.”

  It was true—the Talkhouse was practically next door to Animal House. Plus, as usual, I was still wired from work, and it would be helpful to have that wind-down drink. Annie and I piled into Jake’s car. He revved the engine like a race car driver and peeled out of the lot, flicking his middle finger toward Spark and screaming “Fuckers” out the window with a demonic laugh. He made a left out of the Spark parking lot, heading east toward Amagansett.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked, hastily buckling my seat belt and gripping the door handle until my knuckles were white.

  “I’m fine,” Jake said, defensively.

  “I’m just asking, because we had a lot of shots and—”

  “Ca
ssie, he’s fine,” Annie said, manually rolling down her window.

  “Okay,” I said meekly.

  Jake kept his eyes on the road as he flicked on the radio and jiggled the dials.

  “The only thing I can get on this thing is Big Band music on AM,” he said, laughing maniacally again.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Fuck, no!” Jake cackled, blasting Biggie’s “True Player.” I thought his crackling speakers were going to explode; the bass caused the seats to vibrate, tickling my back.

  We pulled up in front of the Talkhouse around twelve-thirty and parked across the street. It looked exactly like a medium-size summer share house, complete with brown, weathered shingles that were half falling off and a sprawling concrete “yard” on the side, complete with a tiki bar. Unlike Spark, there was no line to get in and no velvet ropes in sight, but a doorman sat on a battered bar stool by the front door collecting money under a chalkboard sign that read “Thursday, July 2nd, Nancy Atlas, The Niagaras, $25.” Jake had told us that the Talkhouse had appeared in Maxim under the heading “100 Best Dive Bars in America.”

  On the ride over, I’d exchanged my closed-toed work shoes for a pair of pale yellow flip-flops, shimmied out of my white Catherine Malandrino skirt, and slipped on a ripped jeans skirt I’d had since high school and a red tank top. Feeling only moderately disheveled from an abbreviated night of work, I applied a coat of lip gloss and walked confidently to the door. I was opening my wallet to find $25 for the cover when I heard the doorman call, “Jake, you bastard, how the fuck are you?!”

  Jake ran up to him and the two men embraced each other in the typical guy half hug, thunderously pounding one another on the back. “How are you, bro?”

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Pretty good. These are some friends of mine from Spark. This is Rex.”

  “Hi.” Annie and I smiled.

  “Hey, ladies,” Rex replied. He was a well-built man with a thick neck and curly black hair. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a picture of a man’s face on it and below it the caption, FREE KENNY. I stepped forward and tried to hand him the money.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, stamping my hand with a red circle. “Your money’s no good here.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We stepped inside and I was immediately floored by the masses of people and the loud live music. It was a dark, dank space with a small stage and a long bar where two heavyset older men and a younger, good-looking guy with a bandanna tying back his longish blond hair were mixing drinks. The wood-planked floors were uneven and the ceiling sagged, looking like it was about to buckle and cave in. It smelled like a not entirely unpleasant combination of beer, dusty old wood, and sweat.

  Jake pushed his way through the crowd, shaking hands and pounding fists with nearly every patron and employee. “Andy!” He let out a whoop in my right ear that almost stopped my heart, though nobody else batted an eye.

  “Yo, Jake!” Andy was the young bartender slinging drinks at a Jake-like speed behind the bar. He wore a drenched, T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, surfer shorts, and a rasta sweatband around one wrist, and a Puma band around the other.

  He came over to Jake, leaving behind a line of customers waiting for drinks. When one customer loudly voiced his disapproval, Andy glanced over his shoulder and yelled, “Shut the fuck up, asshole!” I cringed, but nothing seemed to come of it, even though I knew that if I ever spoke like that to a customer at Spark or Finton’s, I’d have to start collecting unemployment. Andy turned back to us, smiling angelically, and said, “Come on, you guys, let’s go out and smoke a blunt.”

  “Sounds good,” Jake said. “This is Cassie and Annie—I work with them at Spark.”

  “Hey, girls!” Andy barreled through the crowd toward the back of the bar. We followed him past the bathrooms and then out a swinging door into a small, quiet lot littered with junky old Jeeps, enormous potholes, and the shell of an abandoned school bus. When the breezy night air hit my skin, it felt like a cool shower.

  “So you work at Spark with this guy?” Andy asked, pulling a joint roughly the size of cigar from his pocket.

  Annie and I nodded.

  “I’m there Monday, for industry night—all the bartenders and waitresses who work out here go. I make sick money and do half the work.”

  He wasted no time in lighting up and inhaling with all his strength. He exhaled the smoke with a long “Aaaah,” then passed the blunt to Jake, who took a similarly deep hit. He passed it to Annie, she puffed, and then passed it to me. I took a small hit.

  “You smoke?” Jake asked mockingly.

  “Shut up,” I said. I’d really only smoked a few times in college. Pot just didn’t do it for me—it always made me paranoid, eat an entire box of Oreos, and then promptly fall asleep.

  “A little weed is good for the soul. It opens your mind,” Andy said.

  Annie laughed. “Spoken like a true pot head.”

  Andy appeared not to have heard her. His pupils had dilated to the size of quarters. He glanced casually at his watch. “I guess I better get back in there.”

  “We’ll see you later, bro,” Jake said.

  “Good to meet you girls,” Andy said, and strolled inside.

  We followed Jake back inside and into another room with a smaller bar, several TVs, and two pool tables. The bartender’s face lit up when he saw Jake, and before even saying hello, he’d grabbed the bottle of Patrón and poured two mammoth shots.

  “Hey, Pat!” Jake said.

  “What’s going on, Jake? Ladies,” he said, smiling in our direction.

  “Pat, this is Annie and Cassie. They only drink beer and whiskey,” Jake said, slamming the tequila.

  “I think I’m in love,” Pat stated, grabbing the Jack Daniel’s and pouring it into a rocks glass along with Jim Beam and Cuervo. “Try this: Three wise men.”

  As I choked down the toxic mix, Pat poured another round of shots and gave us each a Budweiser.

  “These are on me,” he said. “And so’s whatever else you guys want. You’re on scholarship tonight.”

  Jake threw a twenty on the bar and held up his shot.

  “Cheers,” said Pat.

  “Cheers,” I said, bringing the second shot glass to my lips. As the three wise men traveled through my system, I felt a tiny bit better about not making any money at the party.

  Pat seemed friendly enough, but as I studied him, I was amazed. At Spark, all the bartenders were perfectly groomed and attractive. Even Jake managed to pull it together. Pat looked like he hadn’t showered in days. His greasy reddish hair was plastered behind his ears, and he was long overdue for a shave. His large beer belly hung over the waistband of his stained jeans, and I noticed he was wearing the same T-shirt as the doorman, Rex. I scrutinized the picture of the man’s face and the caption, FREE KENNY, but couldn’t for the life of me figure out who the man was. I was embarrassed to ask, worried it might be someone as important as Nelson Mandela. Eventually curiosity got the best of me. “Who’s Kenny?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Pat said.

  “The guy on your shirt.”

  Pat and Jake exploded in laughter. “What?” I demanded.

  “Kenny was the resident ‘supplier’ of the Talkhouse,” Jake said, “but he got caught, and now he’s serving time in Riverhead.”

  “Oh,” I said. I felt such an idiot, but how was I supposed to know they paid homage to their drug dealer on the front of their T-shirts?

  I looked around and noticed several black-and-white photocopies of a woman’s breasts and butt hanging over the bar, behind the bar, and on the walls over by the pool table. I nudged Annie and pointed them out. “Whose boobs are those?” she asked, amused.

  Pat chuckled. “Jasmine’s. She’s the owner’s girlfriend. She was pretty shit-faced last night. She disappeared to the office for a couple of hours, and when she came back she was hanging these up everywhere and handing them out to customers.”

 
I shot Annie an incredulous look.

  “Jasmine kills me,” Jake said, admiring the photocopies. “That girl can booze.”

  “So, how do you two know each other?” I asked.

  “I used to bar back at the Talkhouse. These guys taught me everything I know. I’m still on the T-house softball team,” Jake said.

  In the Hamptons bar world, it seemed everyone knew each other from past summers and other bartending stints. Even if they worked in Miami or Palm Beach during the winter season, or just found other gigs back in the city, all the bartenders, promoters, owners, and managers came back in the summer to their drug of choice: the Hamptons. I thought it might be fun to return the following summer to work now that I’d made so many connections, but God knows I didn’t want to morph into a Jake or a Pat—I’d much rather start getting paid for writing rather than slinging drinks.

  “So how’s Spark treating you guys?” Pat asked, leaning back on one of the coolers, his belly spreading out over his thick thighs.

  “Good,” I said. “The money’s great.”

  “I could never work at a place like that,” Pat said, using the bottle opener he wore on a tattered rope around his neck to fling the top off a Heineken. He drank half the bottle in one sip. “Too much bullshit,” he said, letting out a belch.

  “It is a lot of bullshit,” Annie agreed.

  “Do you guys do okay here?” I couldn’t help but ask him.

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “We pull in probably around eight bills on Saturday, we play our own music, there’s no manager walking around—Larry the owner is really great. I hear the guys over there at Spark are real dirtbags.”

  “How many promoters work here?” I asked.

  Again, Pat shot a look to Jake and they laughed. “We don’t have promoters here,” he explained. “We don’t let that kind of riffraff in. All they do is rob the place blind.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking that if tonight’s experience was any indication, he was probably right. Jake had mentioned that the promoters and their subpromoters got a huge cut of Spark’s cover charges, as well as a percentage of the register rings. He also said that they stole money left and right. The easiest way was for them to pocket a lot of the cover charges they collected at the door. On top of that, the waitresses had to tip the promoters out at the end of the night too, in the form of a “host” tip. Jake had informed me that promoters and their favorite waitresses were usually in cahoots, in elaborately organized schemes to steal money.

 

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