It's in the Wrong Catagory

I heard the chime, a soft bong that let me know I was needed at the door. It was Friday night, and we had a good crowd. I caught my bartenders' eye and motioned towards the door. It usually took two of us to keep up on the weekend, but this wouldn't take long.

It was probably an invited guest, arriving late. I'd verify they were on the list, let them into the foyer, and get the member to escort them in. No one was allowed in unless escorted by a member. If they weren't on the list, I'd get verification before they could enter.

There were two men, about my age, just under thirty, waiting at the door. Even if they were invited, they would not be allowed in because they wore jeans and tees. Jeans were not allowed, collared shirts and slacks only.

You never knew, though. One of our wealthiest members owned two construction companies, one of them specializing in laying water pipe. He'd show up covered from head to toe with mud, slip into the locker room, shower and don clothes he kept there before going to the bar.

"Good evening gentlemen. May I help you?" I asked, politely.

"We need a word with Jerry Stone. Bring him to the door!"

I didn't like his attitude, but he had asked for me. Maybe they were looking for work, we were subbing out some golf course improvements.

I held out my hand.

"That would be me, I'm Jerry Stone, and you..."

That's all I got out before the taller one caught me completely by surprise with a right cross. Before I could react the shorter, heavier man gave me a shot, knocking me down.

Ever notice you think of the oddest things while under duress? I was thinking how far I'd come from the biker bars I started out at, where I perceived everyone as a threat, to the the country club I worked at now, with its' civility and refinement.

They had me down, going at it pretty good, when I got lucky.

The chief of police in our midsized town and an assistant district attorney, an ex cop himself, were just entering.

The chief let out a yell, and they shoved them off me. I came up mad as hell, ready to mix it up, but by then the chief had them both under the small revolver he discreetly carried at all times, a requirement for his job. His service weapon was a Glock, but he didn't think it was a good idea to advertise he was armed, so he kept the revolver in his pocket, a Smith & Wesson .327. I've fired one, and for their size they pack a hell of a punch.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I was almost shouting. "Who are you?"

"You know who we are, motherfucker, we're the husband of the two wives you been bangin'"

I was really pissed now.

"Listen, dip...um, idiot, I've never seen you before, or your wives, as far as I know.. I don't date married women. It leads to stupid sh....stuff like this happening."

The ADA was grinning.

"Thanks for sparing our delicate ears Jerry, but these guys really are dipshits. Wanna press assault charges? I can could come up with some pretty good witnesses."

I looked them over. They both looked like they were gonna shit in their pants, thinking about what could happen.

The Chief grinned.

"Yeah. Aggravated assault. Felony trespassing. That would stick because they specifically came here to do you harm. We could probably figure out a few more, if we think about it."

The shorter one looked really scared. The taller one still looked pissed.

"We wouldn't be here if this asshole hadn't fucked our wives. It's his fault."

"You're making it real tempting to press charges. What makes you think I'm screwing your wives? I'll give you one chance to tell your story, but not out here in front of the members."

I turned to the Chief and ADA.

"Will you accompany and our 'guests' here to the office? I'd really like to straighten this out."

I turned to the two.

"You won't mind giving us a few minutes of your time, would you? I'd like to settle this now, before you decide to to hide in the dark waiting for me."

The tone of my voice let them know it wasn't a request. The chief made them give him their ID first, and then we went into my office.

"Talk. Why do you think it's me fooling with your spouses?"

"Because the stupid bitches told us," snarled the tall one.

"In those exact words? Jerry Stone is having sex with me?"

The short one spoke up.

"Yeah, pretty much. Even told us where you were."

"Really? Anyway you can get them to come and verify that?"

"Damn straight. The stupid bitches are in the car waiting on us."

They described the car, and the ADA walked outside and invited them in. They came in timidly. One had a pretty good bruise on her cheek, the other had bruises on her arms, looked like someone had gripped her a little too tightly. They weren't ugly, or beautiful, just average. If they hadn't been bruised and scared to death, they might have been a lot prettier.

One looked around, confused.

"Ladies, do I know you?" I asked gently, trying to put them at ease.

"I've never seen you before, mister. Where's Jerry? This man said he was in here," she said, pointing at the attorney."

"How about you?" I asked the other. "Do I look familiar to you?"

"Nope. What the hell is going on here?"

I pulled out my wallet, showed her my license.

"You're Jerry Stone? Are there two of you here?"

"Sorry ladies, I'm the only one here with this name."

The men started to look even more pissed. The tall one, obviously the brains of the outfit, snapped at his wife.

"Bitch, you better not be lying to me."

He was apparently trying to dumb himself into jail.

"I swear, I don't know this guy," his wife wailed.

The Chief had heard enough.

"Boys, apologize to this man, and promise him he'll never see you again, and he might not press charges. I've got your ID, think I'll call Sheriff Costner, let him know about your little adventure."

He pulled out his phone, took a few pictures of the bruises.

"I'm sure he'll drop by tomorrow, check on these ladies. If he finds any more bruises, he won't be a happy man. His mother was battered by his dad, and he doesn't have much tolerance for this sort of thing. Make peace or spend the night away from each other. Understand?"

They nodded, looking ashamed. I let them go, it wasn't worth the hassle of going to court.After warning them I wouldn't be so forgiving if I saw them again, I let them go.

We walked them to the door, and I wondered how the women could be seduced by the same guy. He either had a line of shit a mile long, or they were really dumb. I suspected a mixture of both.

Just as we hit the foyer a man came in, headed towards the bar. He just barely noticed us, but one of the women stopped.

"Jerry?"

He looked over and went pale.

Both girls were clamoring his, er, my name. He whirled and ran back out the door. The men, the women, and the Chief charged out after him. The ADA looked at me and grinned.

"Mystery solved, huh?"

I just sighed, walked back into the bar, and made a phone call.

.................................................

I never started out wanting to be a bartender, it just kind of happened. My parents had six kids. Mom stayed home to raise us, and Dad worked every hour he could get in the paper factory. There wasn't a lot left over for extras, and none for higher education. My uncle owned a bar and grill, a real dive, but he poured an honest drink, the kitchen was clean, and the food good and reasonably priced.

He gave me my first job, bussing tables and washing dishes. I went from that to short order cook, and when I got old enough, bar tending. On the way I got lessons in all kinds of things. Like how to spot trouble.

It's hardly ever the loud ones that start anything. It was the quiet ones you had to watch. Something might upset them, and they'd stay off by themselves, going into 'drinkin' and thinkin' mode, as my uncle was fond of saying. Then they would get the magic drink in them, and explode.

I learned that in my county if someone started trouble, you didn't call the cops, you handled it yourself. Call them too often, and they close you down for being a nuisance. Also, when you're working, there's no such thing as a fair fight. You want to minimize the impact on the crowd before they might decide to join in. So you jump them hard and fast, and make them hurt. Do it once or twice and they learn to behave, or you bar them.

I got a few bumps and bruises, so I learned how to fight, rough and tumble at first, but I got tired of getting hit, so I took a few lessons. I didn't want a belt, I just wanted to be able to defend myself.

When I was twenty my uncle shot and killed a guy who had stabbed him. He didn't go to jail, but the church ladies rose up, and he had to close the place down.

Over the years I worked at better places, going to school part time. Even went to bartending class and tried to keep a straight face long enough to get a certificate. I was almost through my last year, soon I'd have my degree in hospitality management.

I'd been in this job three years, going from bar tender to assistant manager to manager. I was also in charge of the restaurant. I worked ten and twelve hour days a lot, but I never complained. I was hoping for overall club manager in a few years, and in a place like Briarwood Country Club, that came with a near six figure salary.

I could work these hours because I didn't have much of a home life. I'd never married. The divorce rate for bar tenders is astronomical, among the highest per profession in the country

I was serious about one girl, and she developed the habit of coming in while I worked so we could spend my breaks together. She was young, bored, pretty, and the wolves closed in, talking her up and feeding her alcohol, until one night she went missing. I walked outside and found her on the backseat of some asshole's car, panties dangling off her ankle.

I beat the shit out of him, dumped her, and went to work at a better place. She tried to apologize, and I truly believed it, but the damage was done.

My uncle felt a little bad for me, then he laughed.

"What did you expect? Letting her hang around was like taking your prize hen to a weasel convention."

................................................

One universal truth I'd learn in this profession, there's always somebody who wants to fuck the bar tender, from socialites to bar flies to out and out sluts.

It didn't take me long to figure out this was job suicide. If you pissed off the right husband or boyfriend, or wife or daughter, you were out the door.

I learned to define the balance, lightly flirting with wives and girlfriends while still keeping a distance. And I never once came close to crossing the line, either to an inferred offer or a direct one. It was pretty hard sometimes, the ladies had their own cards and were actually there a lot more than their men, who were off working to maintain their lifestyle.

The benefit was they learned they could trust me, so they often sought my opinion on different things. This was especially valuable if they wanted my opinion on gifts. Since I knew their husbands as well, and men often talk about things they don't think the wives would be interested in, I had an edge.

One husband loved fishing, so his wife surprised him with a fishing trip to a luxury mountain resort, where he could chase trout during the day while she tanned by the pool, shopped, and visited the spa. And in the evenings they enjoyed each other, thanks to my friend in the lingerie business. I had a friend that tended bar at the club there, and let him know I'd appreciate it if he took good care of them. He was happy to agree, knowing he'd call in the favor someday.

I did the same for the men. Pretty soon they figured it out, and they would tell me directly what they would like, so I could pass it on to the spouse. Some were unusual, but most were simple.

Once I was asked by a wife if she could trust me.

"On most anything that isn't too immoral or illegal. A good bar tender can keep secrets better than a priest."

It satisfied her, and she told me of a sexual fantasy she wanted to play out with her husband. Seemed she was fascinated by being bound to a bed, giving her husband free access to do anything he wanted with her. She wanted to give it a try, but was afraid to tell her husband.

It took awhile to finesse him to the point, and a little help from my lingerie contact for the proper equipment. She dressed her, bound her down to the bed in the hotel room she'd rented, and left right before he was supposed to arrive. I had the keycard.

I stopped him at one drink.

"You've had enough to drink, Mr. Reynolds. Your wife wants you to follow these instructions to the letter. She wants you to be open and understanding, and give her this birthday gift. Enjoy your night, sir."

I didn't see them for three weeks, and worried that I had alienated a member, when she came in glowing, wearing a sliver choker with a sizable diamond in the middle. She told her friends he had gotten it for her birthday.

Later she caught me alone.

"You know this is my collar, right? It's all in fun, of course, but I can never thank you enough, and my husband wanted you to have this as a token of appreciation."

Five hundred dollar bills, wrapped inside a pair of very tiny, very moist panties. She giggled.

"I wrapped it myself. Make sure we get the most intimate table tonight, will you dear?"

I gravely thanked him for the tip later, after he'd been at the table for half an hour and had his wife practically dancing on her seat.

He grinned, held his hand out to his wife, and she licked his fingers while he thanked me for my service. I was promoted to assistant manager two months later. He was a major backer.

................................................

Every bar tender worth a damn has a book. It takes years to make a good one, but once you do, it's worth it's weight in gold. If requested, I could give you the name of the best mechanic or plumber in town, discreet doctor or divorce lawyer, and talk them into expedient service. My friend the lingerie dealer was in it, as were bar tenders in three states. I also had an understanding with a bookie and several escort agencies.

There again, a fine line had to be walked. If a guy developed a gambling problem and it caused trouble with his wife or financial hardship, guess who got the blame. Same with escorts, if the wife got wind of it, so long job. So I put in fail safes. The bookie would only let the guy have two bets unresolved at any one time, and the women were very discrete. It didn't help either of their businesses to get unwanted publicity. None of these people gave me money, I didn't gamble, and I could pretty much get laid anytime I wanted free. But if I needed a favor, they were there.

Most of the time I tried to steer them to other members if they were in a suitable field. Many of our members owned their own companies, and it was a quid pro quo type of arrangement.

...............................................

I got the idea from a friend. His wife hated football, as she made sure she and her friends had something planned to amuse them.

We always had a big blowout, rented the biggest television we could find, set up the ballroom as a temporary bar. I had the kitchen fix large snack platters to help absorb alcohol. Even then, many wives and girlfriends end up coming to take them home.

I talked to a few of the key women, introduced them to my lingerie connection, and they were off to the races.

While the men watched football, the women were in a smaller meeting room, treated to the latest in lingerie fashions, the newest 'toys', she even had a couple more friends help, one a hairdresser, one a makeup artist. They picked three women at random, different sizes, features, and ages, and gave them a full makeover, then brought them out, complete with lingerie to flatter their shape and age. The kitchen supplied more refined snacks, and I had another friend, the wife of a local vintner, to supply wines.

It was a roaring success. The men actually had to wait on the women after the game. We kept a close eye, and had three cabs on standby.

The women insisted I come in at the end of the night, to thank me. As they were leaving, four waited until they were last, giggling.

"We love Aubrey," one gushed, "she has the cutest things. Look."

She opened her coat, revealing a french maid uniform, very flattering on her. The next had a nurse's uniform in pvc, the next had on an almost transparent teddy, and the last had on a very nice lavender garter, and nothing else.

The whole thing was unexpected, and I flamed red at the end, which they thought adorable. It became an annual event, to the point we had to move it to a larger room.

.................................................

I went to college on line when I could, actually attended classes Wednesday mornings, and Thursday nights. I made a few friends, but didn't have time to establish a relationship. It was college after all, so I did hook up a few times, widely spaced.

There was one woman I really liked. We had an accounting class together Wednesday, and a business class on Thursday. We met sometimes in the library, studying together.

She was a little older than me, thirty one. I could tell she was from money, her clothes, her jewelry, her car, but she was sweet to everybody, even went out to pizza and beer with us on occasion. She paid her share, and never flashed her wealth.

Her smile could melt icecaps, sweet and caring one second, devilish and flirting the next. And she was smoking hot, knew it, but never pushed it. She shot the college boys down gently unless they pushed it, then they got a taste of the bitch. I thought she'd make a hell of a bar tender.

I was walking out of the library one night as it was closing, when I saw her sitting on a bench, shoulders slumped. I walked over to say hi, and she looked up, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Not physical pain tears, but of raw emotion.

"Mind if I sit?"

She nodded, fishing for tissue in her purse. I had always carried a handkerchief, a legacy from my uncle. He might be in jeans and a ragged tee, but his monogrammed handkerchief was always clean and available. I gave her mine.

"Who carries these anymore?" she said, dabbing at her cheeks.

"Only old school gentlemen, in case they find a distressed maiden in need."

It made her smile. She tried to give it back, but I told her to hold on to it. She sat, twisting it in her hands.

"Want to talk about it? Besides providing handkerchiefs, I have a pretty soft shoulder, and very large ears. No personal agenda, I promise."

She actually giggled before the frown returned.

"I think you're the only man I've ever seen that I actually believe when you say that. And yes, I'd like to talk, it might help. But not here, will you buy a sad girl a cup of coffee?"

I knew instantly what she was talking about, a little mom and pop place just off campus. It was clean, cheap, and close, making it dear to the college students. The owners were well liked, and known for their intolerance of drunks and loudmouths. It was quiet, with widely spaced booths. If it was late and they didn't need the table, they'd let you sit and study.

We walked over, got a coffee, a piece of pie, apple for me, cherry for her. She took a few sips, ate half her pie, sat back and sighed.

"You know I'm married, right?"

I nodded, only a blind man could miss the rock on her finger.

"Seven years. I really loved him, you know? Thought I had a forever man, happily ever after. Seems not."

"How long has he been cheating on you?"

She seemed surprised at my plain speaking.

"How did you know? And what makes you think it was him?"

I shrugged.

"Easy, in my line of work you can usually spot good guys and bad, and you're definitely one of the good. You seem to have money, so I don't think that's the issue. You don't have bruises and you don't act mentally abused, so it has to be cheating. Why do I think it's not you? Because if it was you wouldn't be sitting on a bench in the dark crying. You'd be out living the wild life. So it has to be him."