Two vodka-tonics and a scotch and soda. Finally some adult drinks. Maybe I'll make more than a quarter tip on this round. How many stupid sodas and juices can you pour in one shift? C'mon folks, you're on vacation here, live a little. All these first-timers are taking seats away from our regulars. A few more days, and our seasonal nightmare will be over for another year.
My name is Rick. I work in a run-down hotel bar in a small rural community in the South Eastern corner of Pennsylvania. We are nestled in the Allegheny Plateau, just over the Appalachians. On an average summer night, the place gets forty to fifty reservations. Mostly tourists visiting Amish country or Gettysburg. The bar gets a regular happy-hour crowd of salesmen and truckers. In the evenings we have Karaoke or "oldies" sing-alongs.
There is no actual "young crowd." But we have enough dart teams and pool shooters to keep us serving until midnight on most days. No need for bouncers and no reason to card anyone.
Then comes August.
Every year thirty-thousand people from all over the world descend on our quaint little farm town to watch kids play baseball. In the old days the circus rolled into town with elephants and a calliope. Now it's satellite trucks and video games.
Trailer-parks spring up from the earth where the corn was just harvested. Hot-dog carts and ice-ball vendors appear on every corner. Mobile arcades, paint-ball venues and water-slides blossom overnight. Twelve-year olds from twenty countries get their first taste of American excess. And they are all in bed by eight thirty.
Then the bar fills with lonely moms, often on their first trip to the States. And the hucksters have something to sell them, too. There are phony Chanel bags and knock-off Rolexes, Gucci and Lauren. And for the adventurous moms, there is always a troupe of second-rate Chippendales who can communicate in the Universal Language.
Our hotel caters to the bargain hunters. The room-rates only double at this time of year. At about nine o'clock, the moms drift down in pairs or groups and grab tables in the back. Those who speak English do the ordering and they all congregate around the jukebox. They brag and worry over their sons and then bad-mouth the husbands they left behind.
Most of the visiting guys are father/coaches, chaperones, or officials from the four-letter cable station that televises the tournament. These guys manage to find the same entertainment that's available in any town around the world. So the ladies are on their own.
Tonight, the dull and dreary was just settling in and I was preparing to break down my section and close the bar. At least, I thought, I'll be able to catch the sports on t.v., change clothes and still find a place to get myself a cocktail.
"Is this the best it gets," I heard her say. I looked around the taps and saw a smiling face. She had dark blonde hair worn in a ponytail and bright blue eyes that stood out sharply from the white skin, the only light circles on her otherwise sun-scorched face. Her sunglasses must have been on all day, and her light-blue tank top clearly showed the outline of the tee-shirt she must have worn to today's game. For whatever reason, people forget that ninety degrees and blazing sun is just as hot, here in the sticks, as anywhere else.
At the end of the night this place smells like suntan lotion, cold cream, and sweat.
She slid a fiver across the bar and said she had a joke to tell me. So I listened to her as I cleaned, and I told her that her comedy-act must have knocked 'em dead in Iowa. She dead-panned, "Nebraska." It only took a moment to freshen her drink and make her one of my special flaming-shots for last call (on the house, of course.)
I tallied the register and turned up the lights as the last guests were leaving. Her face lit up as I placed a paper rose in front of her. Then I said, "now it's time for me to find a friendly little pub."
She honestly surprised me when she asked if she could join me. I said that there was a dive-bar about a five minute walk from here, but that I still had twenty minutes of work to do. She asked for the bar's name and said that she would meet me there in half an hour.
I had nothing better to do so "The first round is on me, see ya there...hey wait- what's your name?"
"Just call me Debbie, and the first two are on you!" She smiled with a twinkle in her eye and slipped out.
She made me laugh. Okay, so an older broad wants to drink and tell farm stories to her bartender before she tucks in her son and watches some late-night television. I did not get a real good look at her, but I have certainly walked into bars with worse. I can always cut out early or make-up some bullshit about a girlfriend. I don't want to be too nasty, if her kid's team keeps winning, I may have to see her all week.
The door was locked and I had just killed the lights when this hot blonde tapped on the window. I yelled out that we already gave last call. But as I got a closer look, I was stunned. I thought, "now here's a chick I would like to go out with. What are my chances of ditching Miss Cornhusker and hooking-up with this hottie?"
She tapped once again and yelled, "It's me, Debbie. I saw you inside still, and thought I could walk to the bar with you."
"Wow!" What a difference ten minutes can make. Her blonde hair was now brushed to a golden shine and spilled softly on to her bare shoulders. The street lamps reflected off of it like a halo. Her pink lips had some sort of gloss to them and highlighted her big smile. Especially when she saw that I had trouble recognizing her. Whatever she had done with her make-up, softened her skin tone while seeming to make her eyes glow. And those eyes! I don't know how to describe them. Icy blue, maybe? But dazzling, with more than a bit of mischief in them. And as she jumped and waved to me it became rather obvious that that she had left her bra in the room.
"How did I miss those tits?" I'm a guy who appreciates a nice rack. And whether they are on a teenager, a nun or my grandmother, I appraise them thoroughly and ponder the possibilities. These knockers were spectacular. They bounced freely under her frilly, pink , peasant-blouse. These babies had to be nearly forty double-d's. And the combination of her sun-warmed body and the cooling night air, had her nipples perking up as if she had a couple of thimbles poking through her sheer top. Her silver-dollar sized areolas were clearly outlined as she pressed against the big plate-glass front window. She left an imprint that resembled two big fried eggs on the glass. I almost crashed through it as I tried to get a better look down the front of her shirt. The neon beer signs shook and I cracked my noggin so hard, my knees about buckled.
Fortunately she laughed and I avoided making a complete fool of myself. She tried to assume a stern, motherly reproach but then her girlish giggle made her boobs bounce all the more. She made a playful motion to cover her chest with her hands, but even if she had been serious, her small hands could not have accomplished the feat. She smiled again and chuckled, "You better come out here before you hurt yourself."
I did not need a second invitation.
"Thanks for noticing the difference," she bubbled as she planted a quick wet kiss on my cheek. "I was hoping to not look like a typical soccer mom, tonight." My imagination warped into overdrive.
"Mission accomplished," I babbled. I placed my arms on her waist and held her steady at arm's length for a moment while I gave her a full body-scan. Beautiful smiling face, Pretty blonde hair, A+ tits. She wore a loose, billowy print skirt that hugged her full hips. Gazing down, I saw the tattoo of a kitten or something above her left ankle and then a pair of those stupid pink flip-flops. I hate to see women in cheap rubber flip-flops unless they are at the beach. And believe me, we are closer to Three-Mile Island than to any seashore! But I'll give her a Mulligan on the footwear, I don't think I'll be looking at her feet anymore, tonight.
"Well, you gave me a pretty thorough exam, doctor. What do you think?" she asked with a very flirtatious smile.
