by Audrey Bell
I fixed my eyes on his and gave him my best death stare. He seemed utterly unmoved by that so I sighed. “Fine, what do you want me to do?"
He shrugged. “Nothing. Let's get you a shirt." He nodded. "Back room's over here." I followed him through a swinging wooden door into a cramped, dusty room with a few rusted lockers and plastic chairs. A shitty TV sat on a foldout table next to a trash can with broken down pizza boxes folded in half in a stack on the floor.
He walked to a cluttered shelf and reached up to pull down a repurposed milk crate full of t-shirts.
I nodded mutely.
"So, are you really holding up okay?” he asked me, curiously.
“I'm great.”
He stared at me a second too long.
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are." He smiled. "Maybe if you try to stare me down again, I'll believe you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
“Yeah, you do."
"No. Actually, I do not."
He nodded. "No? When you said you could handle this if I stopped screwing around you weren’t trying to stare me down?”
I rolled my eyes.
"A lot of hockey players do that."
"Do what?"
"Look at people like they're going to kill them when they're scared.”
I scoffed. "You think I’m scared? Of what? You?"
He looked me up and down. "I think you’re so scared you don't know what you're scared of." He finished going through the crate of shirts. "So, you're about the size of a twelve-year-old boy?"
"I'm a zero."
"We don't have that. We have a children's extra-large and a men's medium." He held them both up. They both looked terrible. "I'm leaning towards child-sized."
"Medium," I said automatically.
“If you say so.” He tossed me the shirt.
I pulled it over my head. It was too big, but it was boxy and comfortable. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, and caught a look at myself in a dusty mirror.
He smiled. "Are you going to say thank you?"
"For what?" I said guilelessly. "Telling me I'm scared and look like I'm a twelve-year-old boy?"
"All that money and no manners." He shook his head and whistled.
"I have manners," I said neutrally.
"Okay."
"I don't have any money," I added. "But I have manners."
He raised his eyebrows.
Yes. I was being an ungrateful bitch because he had opinions about me. So, maybe he had a point. I took a breath. "Fine. Thank you. For the job. Seriously."
He smiled.
"I mean it."
"No problem, princess." He looked down at my boots. "I just hope you don't feel strongly about those shoes."
"I'm not that shallow, tiger.”
He nodded. "Good, because they're going to be trashed by the end of the night."
"It's none of your business," I repeated.
He held up his hands. "Fine. Just trying to help."
I took a sharp breath. "I'm not a charity."
He smiled. "Alright."
"So, how do you make a Cosmo?" I said, changing the subject, wishing that I didn't have to be such a colossal bitch to keep people from asking me questions I couldn't answer.
"Nobody orders those."
"You just told me it was critical."
"I was trying to give you something easy. You look like you drink Cosmos."
"Well, I don't.”
He smiled. "Don't take it personally, January. Just a guess. You can leave your stuff there." He nodded to a corner. "Come on. Let’s see how much I can teach you before it gets busy."
I followed him back to the bar. Kevin was messing around with the cash register and Darrin was wiping down a counter.
"Wait? She's working here?" Darrin asked. “Tonight?”
"Darrin, January," Christian said. "January, Darrin."
"You can bartend?" Darrin asked.
“Obviously,” I said.
Christian barely contained his eyes from rolling out of their sockets. "Beer is here. If they want a pitcher, do it on tap.” He lowered his voice, and whispered:
“You know how to open a beer right?"
"You don't need to be so condescending."
He smiled. "Gin, vodka, rum, whiskey, we use the bottom shelf unless they ask specifically for a brand. Middle shelf, add a dollar, top shelf, add two."
“Okay.”
"Ice. Plastic cups after midnight," Christian said, pointing beneath the bar. He exhaled. "Shot glasses. Measure your drinks."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Trust me You've got to have been doing this for a while before you can eyeball it."
I shrugged. "Okay. What else?"
"Just ask me if you have a problem," he said. "Don't try and guess what they want."
"You think I'm really dumb, don't you?" I said.
He sighed. "I think you don't know how to bartend."
"Well, maybe you should have told that to Kevin," I whispered so that Kevin wouldn't hear us.
"Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing,” he whispered back. “But you seemed desperate.”
I scowled.
He pulled a dusty binder out from underneath the bar and dropped it in front of me. "Drinks. In rough order of popularity. Most college kids just want something and soda, or something with juice. Vodka with red bull is what most girls want."
I nodded. "Okay."
"Red bull is down there and then back through the swinging doors, come with me," he said, motioning at me.
I picked up the binder and followed him into the backroom to an industrial-sized refrigerator he pulled open. “If you run out of something, grab it from back here, but make sure you restock if we're low. Kevin goes nuts when we start killing the ice because we weren't prepared."
Should I be writing this stuff down?"
"If you can't remember it? Probably."
"I can remember. What else?"
"Ah....” he shrugged. "I don't know. Ninety-five percent of it is practice."
"That's useful."
"You offered to work on a Friday night." He smiled sarcastically. "You really can't put that on anyone else."
"Well, I'm broke," I said.
"I'm sure you'll be fine. You go to Harvard."
"Oh, thank you for that. I'm overwhelmed by your confidence.”
He shrugged and led me back to the bar. "Rags, napkins, straws. Keep the counters dry. Customers get agro if they get crap on their sleeves when they lean against the bar."
He turned on one of the TVs and tapped the binder. “You should study up.”
“Right.”
I opened the binder and looked over the first page.
Vodka tonic. 2 oz vodka, ice, tonic.
Well, obviously.
That sounded good. Really good right about now.
Vodka soda. 2 oz. vodka, ice, soda water.
Ugh. This was going to make me want to drink.
"You seriously don't have anything else to teach me?"
Christian turned his head. "You finished reading that already?”
"I just feel like...shouldn't I know how to use the cash register?" I said. I suspected the binder of drinks might give me a panic attack once I got past the vodka section.
Darrin chuckled. "If I had your last name, I would wait a few days until you asked anyone for the keys to the cash register."
I felt like I’d been slapped. I didn’t have anything to say to that. “Oh. Okay.”
Christian moved deliberately to the register. “Keys are here,” he said, his voice tenser and colder than I’d heard. “You can use my code to log in. I'll get Sanjay to make you one tomorrow. It's 1359." He punched it in. “Ring them up, prices are here, hit enter, hit cash, type in the amount, give them change, or hit credit, make sure they sign the receipt, and keep a copy here, okay?"
“Okay.”
Christian turned to look at Darrin. I never wanted him to look at me like that.
Darrin held up his hands and took half a step backwards. He grinned nervously. "It was just a joke, Cutlass."
“Don’t fuck with her.”
"Sorry," Darrin said. "Hey, January, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," I said, smiling. I didn't want him to hate me. I didn't want any of them to hate me.
It was a funny joke, really. I should’ve known not to ask for the keys to the cash register.
I opened the binder and studied it closely with the odd sensation of Christian's eyes on the back of my neck.
The 7 PM customers came in twos and ordered beers.
"Five dollars each," I said to my first customers, two men in their thirties off a construction site.
"You're new," one of them said.
The other shook his head. "She's been here. I've seen her before."
I smiled, collected their cash, and did not answer their questions about when I started.
At 8, customers came in threes—louder and younger than the men who came at 7. They mostly wanted mixed drinks and pitchers. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
Christian watched anyways. He mixed drinks with one hand and poured shots with the other. He smiled, knew people by name, and tapped his hands against the bar to the beat of a cheesy country song.
At 9, customers came in fours and sometimes fives and they were almost all from Harvard. I recognized a lot of them, and a lot of them recognized me.
"You okay?" Christian shouted when I got my first big group—sophomore lacrosse players who were already wasted after tailgating for football all day.
"Amazing," I said.
Christian nodded, looking at the rowdy bunch. "Let me get this group.”
"I've got it," I said. It was another fifty dollars in tips, easily, and if I played my cards right, maybe more.
Christian looked pissed. He got close to me and whispered in my ear: “Look, I’ve served them before. They’re not nice.”
"I said, I've got it," I said.
He spoke through gritted teeth. “Trust me.”
“I’m not incompetent,” I hissed back. “I know them. They’ll be fine.”
I stepped around Christian and flashed them all a smile. "Hey, boys, what can I get you?"
"Three Cosmos, two Mai Thais, a pitcher of the cheapest thing you have on tap, six shots of Patron—actually, seven. Benny, you in? Better make it eight," he said. "Jordan, do you want anything? Jordan, do you want anything? Jesus, just get me a vodka sour and a whiskey soda, I guess. Oh, and Prosecco. Do you have Prosecco? A glass of that."
I smiled nervously, almost positive I had it all. "So, that was..."
He handed me his credit card and turned away.
Christian wasn't smirking. He looked at me seriously. "Did you get that?"
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
"Would you give me a second."
"Did you get the order, January?"
"Three Cosmos, two Mai Thais, a pitcher of Coors, eight shots of Patron, a vodka sour, a whiskey soda, and a glass of Prosecco," I rattled off.
"Miller Lite," he corrected me. "Do you know how to make a Mai Thai?"
"No," I said.
"Next time I ask you to let me handle something," he said. "Let me handle it."
"I got the order, didn't I?"
"Just go take care of the girls back there," he said. He sounded tired. "Please.”
"Fine," I said. I stalked over to them spitting mad. "What do you guys want?"
"Can we get three Cosmos?"
"Seriously?" What was wrong with people? I looked over my shoulder at Chrsitian. There was no way I could ask him to help me with this.
They looked surprised.
"I mean," I smiled. "I’m just wondering what's with the sudden resurgence of Cosmos. Can I make you a drink that I just invented? I think you'll love it. If you don't, I'll totally make you a Cosmo."
The girls looked at one another. One of them rolled her eyes, but the one closest to me nodded. "Yeah, I'll try something new."
"Awesome,” I said.
By one o'clock, I thought I might have to quit. Not because it was terrible—and it was completely terrible—but because I was so hungry.
"How's it going?" Christian asked during a lull at the bar. Half an hour until closing time.
"Fine," I said tersely. I didn’t know why I was being such a bitch. I felt deeply humiliated, though, by working for these kids I’d lorded over for three years, and by Christian’s apparent disapproval with everything I’d done that evening.
He smiled wearily, even though I was being a bitch. “You look wiped. I ordered a pizza,” he said. “Across the street. You want to go pick it up? Get some air.”
“You want me to go pick up your pizza?”
“Our pizza.” He smiled a little wider. “C’mon, have I really been that terrible?”
I shrugged. “No.” I shook my head. “No, you haven’t. I’m sorry. I’ll get it.”
“Just across the back lot. Ask for Frank,” he said. “Say it’s for me.”
Our fingers touched when he handed me the bar’s credit card. The pad of his thumb was calloused and rough, and he ran it, ever so softly across the back of my hand before he let go.
I opened the box in the back room first and took a piece of pizza on a paper plate and scrounged around for a fork and knife.
I was halfway through my second heavenly slice when I heard Christian laughing.
He was leaning against the doorway. “Are you serious?”
I swallowed a bite and dropped my fork. “What?”
He smiled. "Let me see you do that again."
"What?"
"That.”
Feeling oddly ashamed, I cocked my head. “I thought you said it was for us.”
"It is, but that's how you eat pizza?" he asked.
I glared. "Listen, you've been on my case all night. I might suck at bartending, but there’s nothing wrong with how I eat pizza.”
He just laughed. “Oh, yes, there is.”
“Why? Because I use a fork?’
“Yes.”
“Well, my feet hurt, my confidence has been destroyed, and I am covered in gin. So if you don’t like how I eat pizza, I’m sorry, but I just don’t have any fucks left to give.”
"I suppose that's my fault?"
"Yes, actually."
"That's funny, because I remember you dropping the bottle of gin.”
I glowered. "Well, I am doing my best. And I am going to eat my pizza however I feel like eating my pizza and there's nothing you can do about it."
He chuckled. "Show me."
"No."
"Come on, don't be a baby."
"I'm not going to show you how I eat my pizza. You just saw.”
Grinning, he picked up a piece and tore off a bite. "C’mon. Let me see.”
I pushed the plastic knife into the pizza and cut a bite. Fuck him, I thought. I was hungry and I was going to eat and I didn’t care if he laughed. He was annoying. I knew so many annoying people, I was sure I could handle one juvenile bartender trying to get under my skin. And the pizza was amazing.
He was laughing again.
"Shut the fuck up,” I said.
So much for handling him trying to get under my skin.
"You have no idea what you're doing. Where'd they teach you how to eat pizza? Finishing school? Pick it up. How do you not know this?”
"That's unsanitary."
"Like hell it is. It’s pizza. It’s how it’s designed.”
I glared at him, crumpling up a napkin in one hand. "I have had enough of your harassment. I'm exhausted. I'm covered in cheap gin and I'm not going to contract meningitis B from eating pizza with my grubby little hands."
He half-choked on the piece of pizza he was eating as he dissolved into a fit of laughter.
Good. Choke. That’s what should happen when you laugh at me.
"You are the most infuriating person in the whole world. Do you know that?" I t
old him icily. I tried to cut another bite of pizza and the plate slid and tumbled onto the floor. I shrieked. "STOP LAUGHING!"
He bit his lip and got it under control. "Can I give you some advice?"
“You can do whatever you want.”
He nodded. "Just pick it up.” He picked up a piece, curled it, took a bite and swallowed. "Come on, try it. You're making life harder than it needs to be."
I reached for a slice of pizza and picked it up. I glared at him before I bit into it. “I’m only doing this so you shut up. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything as much as the sound of your voice. And if I get sick, it’s your fault.”
“Okay, January.”
I took a bite. It was amazing.
"See, you're a natural."
I rolled my eyes, and focused on wolfing down the slice of pizza.
"Yeah, maybe you could teach a seminar. Start a blog. Put it on YouTube."
"Don't sell me short. I could write a whole book," he said. "Survival Skills for Spoiled Brats in Financial Ruin."
"Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“I'll give you five percent of the profits and we can both retire."
"You think you can retire off of your how-to guide for broke debutantes? To where? Skid Row?”
He picked up another piece of pizza and leaned his elbows against the bar. "You can write the prequel. Survival Skills for Spoiled Brats with Limitless Funds. Then we’ll be golden.”
"You can shut the hell up."
He smiled at me.
"And I'm not a spoiled brat."
"You, January Cooper, might be the dictionary definition of a spoiled brat."
"Well, you're judgmental. And you talk too much," I said. "I found you much more attractive when you had the strong, silent thing going.”
"You find me attractive?”
“Found. Past tense. Your personality is abrasive. And I hate your shoes.”
"I like these shoes. They’re comfortable,” he said, looking down at his sneakers. “I think you’re projecting. I think you hate your shoes.”
"You just get less attractive with every syllable," I whispered for dramatic effect. "It's horrifying."
"I'm going to keep talking, then," he said. "I don’t want you to find me attractive. I bet you have a graveyard full of ex-boyfriends somewhere. Here lies Schuyler. And Tyler and Kyler and..."
"There’s no Kyler.”
“Yeah, but I bet there are others.”