The short version is that I graduated from high school without ambition or a clue. For a while I did nothing, until my dad had finally had enough of me sleeping late on his dime. What started as a weekend job clearing tables became a fulltime gig bartending at a joint called Shooter’s, located in a strip center along a commercial stretch of I-41. The place was totally no frills, and the décor consisted of a Confederate flag behind the bar and a sawdust dance floor. The most notable feature, however, was the trough-style urinal in the men’s room where guys stood and took a piss next to each other. The thing was about eight feet long and inevitably had a couple of beer mugs in it left by guys who had walked into the head carrying their brew, then drained the glasses and themselves. Of course, guys being pigs, the empty mugs didn’t stay that way for long. It was the ultimate dissociative experience: somehow when you were standing there tying a load on, playing target practice with a partially empty mug, you didn’t get spooked by the idea that you might see that mug again the next time you came to Shooter’s, sitting on a coaster, filled with the latest draft.
The crowd was strictly local and all cracker. They were mostly blue-collar types and a rough class of women. Lots of ink and ankle bracelets. But no matter the gender, they all came to drink beers and do shots and listen to music, much of it live. The live stuff was supplied by local cover bands with names like Image or Dionysus that played Bob Seger-style rock and roll, interspersed with a Kid Rock-type of rebel country.
My hours were long and ended late but there were some perks. For starters, there was no shortage of easy ass from chicks who were sauced. And the pay was decent, mostly from tips. But they came with a catch: Every time somebody tipped, I was supposed to put the loot into a bigger-than-life holster over the bar, and fire a starter’s pistol to signify that somebody had ponied up at Shooter’s. I felt ridiculous, but every once in a while we’d get some newbie who didn’t know the drill and, upon hearing a gunshot in redneck bar, would hit the deck. That was funny.
Shooter’s was owned by Willy Blake, a retired local cop who had gone out on a disability. Local legend had it that Willy had taken a couple of druggies out during a bust in Sarasota where he shot first and asked questions later, but not before one of the bad guys managed to get off a shot of his own which hit Willy in his left leg. That incident was the origin of both his limp and the name of the bar. Willy had a son who was a year ahead of me in high school and a fellow stoner, which is the only reason I got hired. Today, whenever reporters for the radio trades ask me about mentors who have been instrumental in my success, Willy Blake is always the first person I mention. (“What station did he program?” is usually some shithead’s reply.)
The live music was Wednesday through Saturday nights, and after I’d worked there a few months, Willy asked me to cover the house sound. In other words, on those nights, I would not only serve ‘em up, but also supply the piped-in music whenever the bands took a break.
“Play some music, Stanley,” he’d said, misstating my given name but addressing me more like a son than an employer. “I don’t so much as care what you play, so long as you play something. The one thing you can never permit is silence. Silence is death in my business.”
Willy, the ex-cop didn’t miss much whether it was the way he profiled his clientele or how much was in the till at the end of the night. He quickly figured out that there was a bump in his gross whenever I covered the house sound. I didn’t have a microphone, I just played music. But spinning the tunes in-between the live sets was something that gave me a rush, and it definitely beat bartending. I was good at it. Having spent way too much time reading liner notes in my bedroom, I knew music and I loved playing it. I started to map out in advance how I would fill the 20-minute intermissions and I paid close attention to the crowd reaction to my choices. I don’t mean that I watched the dance floor or judged faces. My barometer was the cash register.
What I figured out is that some songs are more suited to drinking than others. I learned that “Dream On” by Aerosmith was a solid song, but it’s not a chug-your-beer-and-order-a-shot number. Bad Company’s “Shooting Star” or Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” might get somebody laid, but it was not a bottom’s-up kind of crowd pleaser.
The winners, I determined from my unique style of focus grouping, were the hard-thumping, guitar-featuring classics of rock: “Dancing Days” by Led Zeppelin, “Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love” by Van Halen, and “Hell’s Bells” by AC/DC. Those were songs you didn’t dare play until you had a few cases of ice-cold longnecks and a fifth of Jack at the ready. The working class crowd at Shooter’s couldn’t get enough of them. It didn’t take long for Willy to notice.
“Stanley, I’ve decided to increase the band breaks from 20 minutes to 30 minutes.”
And that wasn’t all.
“I have also decided to give you a raise.”
I was ecstatic. For the first time in my life, I was steadily employed, making decent money, and having fun at the same time. The musicians were pissed that their intermissions were now 10 minutes longer, but they had no choice. The decision was strictly business. Strictly bar business.
It never occurred to me that there was a career path in what I was doing. That observation was first offered by a waitress Willy hired during the second summer of my employment. She was between her sophomore and junior years at Florida State University. And unlike her colleagues, her wages were not entirely dependent on the bump in tips that I could make happen by spinning some classic vinyl. With her looks, customers were already tripping over themselves to have her take their drink order, and they had no problem leaving generous tips. And who could blame them? She was an original hard-body, before the age of Pilates, with a strong slender frame, thin waist and breasts that were full enough to get noticed but not so large as to become a distraction. So long as she was clothed, the first thing that would strike you about her would be her eyes: sparkling and green, set against a permanent tan, and framed by blondish brown hair, naturally lightened by time in the sun. You just never knew what she was thinking behind those eyes. Of course, if she were naked, you’d never even notice them.
I was taken with her from the moment Willy introduced us. Damn good looking. And she had real presence. There was an air about her that suggested she was too smart and sophisticated to be waiting tables at Shooter’s. I figured she needed the money for tuition.
“Keep your eye on this one, Stanley,” Willy said.
At first I figured he meant on account of all the rednecks getting hammered and pawing all over her. Over time, I convinced myself that he’d brought her on board to keep me happy spinning tunes that were making his place jump. Either way, there was no use trying to hide my attraction to her because she had street smarts that matched her looks. It was pointless trying to lay a rap on her. You’d just as soon tell her you were hoping to end up in the sack, because anything shy of that was going to come off as pure bullshit.
I did look out for her though, and I think she appreciated it. On the nights when I was both bartending and doing the sound, I was pretty much running the joint so I got to make the waitress assignments. The fullest tables were always those closest to the makeshift stage, so I’d hook her up. She’d flash me a smile from time to time letting me know that she knew I was helping her out.
Willy made all the girls wear short suede skirts with fringe at the bottom, and cowboy boots to match. She wore both well. Several times I’d be admiring her frame only to have her turn and confront me with those piercing eyes. Nothing was said, nor did it need to be. In fact, I closed that deal just one week after she started with probably less than 30 minutes of spoken word between us.
Partly that was due to the nature of the work. We busted our asses at Shooter’s, particularly on those nights when there were drink specials, and a kind of camaraderie developed among the staff due to the thumping music, the smell of suds, the sound of the pistol firing, and the general vibe of lots of people in close quarters getting sweaty and ha
ving a good time. We were all getting paid a decent buck, most of it under the table. All in all, it was a pretty good place to be for a guy who was barely 20 and didn’t have anything figured out.
One night we were both working and as usual I was doing my best to keep an eye on her, partly because I wanted to make sure nobody else was hitting on her, and partly because like Willy, I didn’t want some Nascar nutjob crossing a line. By now the regulars had nicknamed her “Envy” on account of those piercing green eyes, and believe me, they very much wanted what she had. I temporarily lost track of her, and I guess my head on a swivel got a bit obvious because while I was pouring a draft, she came up behind me and popped her knees into the back of mine, causing me to buckle and spill what I was pouring. Two guys in front of me hooted and I caught my balance just in time to see the back of the suede skirt and boots headed through the wooden gate that separated the bar from the dance floor.
The next time she came back for a tray, she said something like, “I guess I make you weak in the knees.” To which I responded, “It’s not just my knees.” Like I said, with her, there was no use hiding anything.
And that was about the extent of the foreplay.
Willy had a keg freezer out back where I would head to make a beer run several times on a busy night, or whenever I needed to cool down when the bar just got too stinking hot. One night in mid June, some garage band was belting out a cover of Journey’s “Faithfully” when I decided to head in that direction on account of the heat.
I heard the sound of the pistol firing just before the rear door to the bar closed behind me. Then I opened the freezer without noticing that she was right on my heels. But once we’d both cleared the threshold and were amidst the stacked cases of beer and kegs, there was nothing in doubt. Hiking up the suede skirt while seeing each of our breaths, I mentally calculated that there were 10 minutes left in the set—which was about five more than I needed.
“Unless they’re playing ‘Free Bird’ next, you better hustle back,” she laughed afterwards as we both stood there, flushed, breathing heavily and readjusting our clothes.
“Free Bird”? I could only hope to equal the 15 minutes it took Lynyrd Skynyrd to perform that song live. But on that night, I was more in the range of the radio play version of “Sweet Home Alabama,” and feeling embarrassed about it. Performance had never been a problem in high school, or with the usual hook-ups I’d pull out of Shooter’s. But this was different.
For starters, anyone who looked at the two of us would have thought we were an obvious mismatch. She had a sense of maturity about her and a refined, well-coiffed look, even in that goofy uniform. I, on the other hand, usually sported a beat-up pair of jeans, a faded concert t-shirt, and unkempt hair that hung almost to my shoulders. At just a tad over six feet, with a 32-inch waist, I could probably be best described as lanky. I didn’t work out and paid no attention to my diet, but was still at an age where I could get away with that. Mine was a deliberately sleepy, disheveled look that had always worked well for me with chicks. I had lots of friends who were girls, and the jocks at school had let me get close to their women because they viewed me as unthreatening. The girls found me to be a sympathetic ear for their guy troubles, never suspecting that I was willing to listen to their bullshit in large part because it often meant I could nail them. I played the role of the sensitive guy and it worked.
But Envy was tougher to manipulate than someone in homeroom. She was far more confident and in control than anyone with whom I’d gone to high school. You could see it in the way she so easily dismissed the Dale Earnhardts who hit on her at the bar night after night. They’d undress her with their eyes and say all sorts of inappropriate shit, and she’d just tune them out and scoop up their $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s. Her appearance on the whole exuded class. It was the self-assured way she walked, even while juggling a tray of longnecks. Her makeup, much lighter than that of the typical female crowd at Shooter’s, was always perfectly applied, and gave her a natural, effortless beauty. And even in a beer shed, she smelled special. While I never remembered to wear cologne, she had a scent that reminded me of the feminine bars of soaps my mother used to stick in my underwear drawer no matter how often I told her to stop. The only thing we seemed to have in common was where we worked, and even that separated us. For me, Shooter’s was a real job. For her, it was a way to make money for college at FSU. The thought entered my mind that maybe for the first time in my life, I was somebody else’s sympathy fuck. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, if only I’d delivered. Not having done so only made me want her again.
Stepping out of the freezer and back into the bar, we went back to work without another word spoken between us, and for the rest of the night, I kept looking at her, watching for some sign or signal about what it meant. But there was nothing. Every time she walked up to the bar carrying her tray, she gave me a drink order just as she always did, with absolutely no hint of emotion or recognition in her voice about what had just taken place.
“I need three drafts of Bud and two shots of Turkey.”
On any other night, I’d have gone home with some sense of conquest. Instead, by the time I shut down the sound system and walked out to my car, I was feeling pretty miserable, and partly convinced I’d dreamt the whole thing.
Over the next few nights, she remained all business, acting like it had never happened. I, of course, could think of nothing but those few moments in the freezer. All day long and behind the bar at night, I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. Her scent. That skirt. The haste. And every time I went out back to retrieve a case of beer, I’d survey the space like it was a crime scene around which I was about to hang yellow tape. Then I’d wonder if it had really happened at all.
Finally I decided that I needed to say something but couldn’t decide what it should be.
“My knees are weak again.”
“It’s hot as hell in here, but I know a place where we could cool down.”
“Feel like giving me a hand with some kegs?”
Everything I came up with sounded too damned juvenile. She had me in a funk, totally intimidated, and from that sense of vulnerability, feeling even more attracted to her. The lines continued to run through my mind. What I really wanted to say was, “Give me another shot.” I wondered what college fraternity guys said when they were laying their rap on a coed, but I was clueless. Nothing I came up with sounded right. So that’s what I said: nothing. And fortunately in the end, I didn’t need to.
“How long is ‘Stairway to Heaven’?” she asked me on a slow Wednesday night after I’d spent about five days in purgatory. I was so caught off guard that I was about to give her a serious answer—about eight minutes—when she suddenly turned and walked away.
Now I personally loved that song, but knew it was a barroom loser. Nobody chugged (or tipped) until the final Jimmy Page guitar riff, so I never played it. This night, however, I made an exception. Hell, I’d have played Barry Manilow singing “Mandy” if I thought it’d do the trick.
So just as soon as the house band signaled for a break, I cranked the system.
Two minutes later, Envy was on top of me in the freezer. I looked into those green eyes up close, then buried my face in her neck, and as we embraced our lips met, providing a sense of intimacy that had been missing in our first encounter. I could hear the faint sounds of the music although I couldn’t make out any of the words being sung. I doubt I lasted until the point where John Bonham kicked in with the drums, but it wasn’t as bad as the first night. Which in itself was quite an achievement given that I’d been thinking of little else all week. Again, there was nothing said when it ended, but I wasn’t about to push my luck by acting like a chick. If this is the way she wanted to play it, that was alright with me.
And that paid off, because very quickly, the freezer runs became a nightly event, something I’d look forward to during a shift—and in every other waking minute of my life. I convinced myself that there was a chemistry between us
and that the rest of the staff had it figured out, but probably no one did. At least nobody said anything. Then one night while we were in the freezer a few weeks later, the music set wasn’t the only thing that ended prematurely. I was using a stack of St. Pauli Girl cases as a beanbag when I suddenly saw Willy standing in the open doorway.
“Stanley, you are needed in the booth,” was all he said, even though he clearly saw that I’d been defiling his stock.
I wasn’t sure where I stood with him until the following afternoon when we were unloading a delivery of cases and kegs into the freezer, and he asked wryly, “Is there any particular way you’d like your apartment arranged?”
The answer to that question, actually, was yes. I’d figured out that five cases of beer was my perfect couch. Four cases meant my knees would have to bend. Six cases meant I’d have to stand tippy-toed. And the best part was that the 40-degree temp gave me a ready-made excuse for making short work of the beer stage I’d created.
He gave me a look that told me I didn’t need to answer, and we never spoke about it again. The truth was that we were both too valuable to Willy that summer for him to get in our way. Me for the sound system, her for the local following of guys who showed up every night hoping to drink her bathwater but would accept Willy’s booze as a lesser alternative.
Once when we were putting ourselves back together before returning to the bar, she smiled suggestively and said, “I’d like to see you function in warmth.” But whenever I’d try to make that happen, she was elusive. I asked her out multiple times to no avail.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she’d say anytime I suggested we go somewhere besides the ice box. She offered no further explanation, so of course, the more she begged off, the more I wanted the chance to try to expand her perception of me, which I figured was pretty limited. I had no idea what she thought of me. Summer fuck buddy? Local stoner? Easy, albeit fast, lay? Clearly she didn’t want me to be her boyfriend, and I started to obsess over why. The most obvious reason was that she was smart and beautiful and clearly going places, while I was bartender in a strip mall. Then finally one night, we had a real conversation.
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