No one knows better the depths to which men will sink in pursuit of sex than the bartender. Believe me, after a few years behind the mast, he's seen it all. Look carefully at the next bartender you meet and you'll see it around the edges of his eyes. The myriad disappointments and slights accumulate there, ever ready to turn and bite the keeper. Father confessor to the drunk, cruise director of the bar, dispenser of poison and absolution and amateur psychoanalysis, he will help you drown your crisis and laugh with you as the bubbles stop. A pharmacist with a severely limited inventory, he will prescribe the temporary balm your soul needs to survive. Just ask. And just pay your tab.
I once was one of those high priests of inebriation, my pulpit one of ancient mahogany and brass in a faded downtown hotel. It had been quite fashionable some decades earlier, but now was a haven for a few retired individuals with government housing deals keeping them sheltered. It was also populated by those downtown office denizens who preferred the happy hour over the drive home and the occasional working woman. I had recently been rescued from the ranks of the gainfully employed by a "restructuring" and had sought some employment to keep afloat until the next project opened. The owner offered this hardly lucrative position to me through the timely departure of his previous bartender. She had taken off one weekend with a very good salesman and left her shifts uncovered. I'd been glad to step in originally, but after the first few weeks, the monotony was painful. I wouldn't starve, but I might die of ennui.
I spent a lot of my time doing small mindless things like passing glasses through the washer and wiping the bar. I was polishing my favorite spot when the Pickup came in. She appeared to be in her late twenties and was one of the few regulars that actually tipped. I smiled at her and reached for her glass, one Seven & Seven, tall. The first one would be mild, but we both knew I'd make up for it as she got numb. She was a fixture here from the times I had frequented the other side of the bar. She was dating a cop then, some senior detective assigned to the City Hall beat, being more like on the Mayor's staff. The first time I met her, some eight years ago, she was with him. Looking very much like a trophy on his arm.
She was still quite attractive, though the miles were beginning to show, A few pounds heavier (which I pretended not to notice), a few silver hairs among the dark roots of her once honey hair. She had more than ample breasts and her legs were great. She was the kind of woman that looks like a movie star before closing time. In the intervening years, her romance had soured and failed, and somewhere along she stopped thinking of herself as a trophy. He had seen her seek the company of strangers before, not exactly a chore for her, especially if one doesn't bother weeding out the married ones. She didn't.
She parked on the stool in front of the glass washer station and greeted me with a sullen, "Hello."
"Hiya, Nora," I replied. "How are ya?"
She leaned across the bar and stage-whispered, "Better than you've had lately."
I had no doubt about that. My long-time girlfriend had sought greener pastures some months before, taking everything, including my desire for revenge.
"You'd better bring a lunch, Babe," I told her, "'cause it's going to take ya all damn day." I looked her in the eyes and raised an eyebrow in emphasis. She tossed her head back in typical response to our running joke. She had left with others, but never with me. We managed to stay just friends and the few times I had accompanied her to her door, it was in rescue mode, not rutting mode. She had a formula, a test she could apply in the first few seconds of a meeting that decided the outcome. I had seen her operate and she was good, very good. If her decision was no, no amount of begging could change it. Once she decided on the flavor of the night, he didn't stand a chance.
For a Friday, the evening began slowly and peaked early. The usual flood of regulars thinned out to a trickle soon after the traditional happy hour ended. That didn't prevent a string of attempts to snag her, however. At one point, a fellow from a table of four (three Bud Lites and a Miller Draft) was close, and even his buddies threw their collective support behind him, buying her sevens. In the end, he too was rebuffed. They left after a round of consolation, probably for the stripper bars, where they were more assured of not getting laid and more comfortable with the prospect.
Some time around midnight, I became uncomfortably aware that she might have set her sights on me. I'm still not sure what the trigger was. We flirted viciously as always, but at some point there had been a change and there was a tint of seriousness to our already colorful language. I found myself backtracking, not wanting to press the issue and at the same time wondering why. After all, her rejection wouldn't mean much to me, not after some of the things we'd said. And her wanting me was probably just her settling for something from mediocre pickings. Still, she was physically appealing and certainly available.
Frankly, though I didn't mind not being her first, I still hoped to be someone's last. I really didn't see much chance of that happening with Nora. She seemed somehow driven to go through men like a case of beer on a road trip, tossing the empties at road signs. By the time I started the closing routine, she had made her intentions plain. She'd stopped drinking sevens and had water with a twist instead. She also spent nearly a half hour in the Ladies room, freshening up, something I had never seen her do before. Maybe I just hadn't noticed.
I had just loaded the last cooler and had carried the empty cases out the back when she finally came out looking great. She had somehow peeled the last several years off and polished the girl underneath. The few die hard regulars still nursing their beers ceased conversation and stared in obvious appreciation. From the look of expectation on her face, I was supposed to be appreciative too. And I was.
I let her have a low whistle and a wink, at which she did a little pirouette and let her dress flow out around her. She danced to her perch and smiled broadly at me across the polished mahogany. The owner finally showed to collect the night's receipts and helped usher the last customer out the door. We found ourselves outside, arm in arm, making our way to her car. Suddenly a little flustered at the prospect of having to go through with all those threats I had made, I found myself at a loss for words. She mistook my silence for apprehension and began immediately to reassure me. I told you she was good.
She had me drive, the obvious choice since she'd been drinking earlier and I hadn't. The early morning traffic was light and most of the surface street signals were flashing yellow. As I piloted us to the suburbs, she leaned over the console and clung to me, her head resting on my shoulder. Somehow, she had left the drunk back at the bar and become a young woman out on a date, showing her beau affection.
I, on the other hand, grew more and more apprehensive without the slightest clue why I should be. Finally I managed to pack it all in small box and mailed it to myself in the middle of next week. Meanwhile, I was determined to have a good time with a warm and willing woman. Even more, I was determined to show her a good time. Perhaps it was a matter of another male ego rising to the challenge, so to speak, but I intended to give her my best shot. Maybe even make an impression. Certainly make a memory.
We turned on final approach into the parking lot of a sprawling apartment complex, one of those pastel and primary painted buildings reminiscent of "The Prisoner." I fully expected to see the white translucent bubble bouncing down the pavement. When I finally killed the engine in a parking place, her pretty face so near mine, I kissed her lightly and she smiled.
