Disclaimer: Fiction … mostly *cheeky grin*
Working at the Qwapa Club seemed like a good idea. The name may have been bad omen. The bar looked a lot like the one in Coyote Ugly, and I didn’t exactly plan to have water fights on the counter. But it was a really pretty bar. It had these tiles on the floor that shimmied when you looked at them just so. I couldn’t wait to try staring at the tiles while drunk. Of course, ideally, I wouldn’t spend much time being drunk. After all, my designated title was Bartender.
It wasn’t my first choice – this club. My first choice was this place across the street, Zip-zap. There’s no particular reason why I chose Zip-zap. It’s the first joint I walked into when I got off the bus four years ago, and I’d promised myself that I’d work there someday. So I went through the motions, paid for boot camp, went there, did that, got the t-shirt. The t-shirts – by the way – are for uniform. These cute little burgundy numbers that make A-cups sag with cleavage. I hear they’ve got Nubras hidden in the changing room, but I never found out where because I never got to use them.
Anyway, two days into the job, we had Management come in for a drink. Apparently, they do it once a month, and since they own the club, they own … well … everything in it. Now that in itself would have been fine. I’m used to people grabbing my lady bits. A lot of hands have been broken that way, so I wasn’t worried on that account. What did worry me were the guys in management. One guy in particular – Tom – was … well … let’s just say we had history and he wanted to dredge it up. In public. With all his buddies watching.
I quit the next day.
And that’s how I ended up here. See, on the two days that I’d worked the club, I made some pretty good sales. Sam, the bartender, thought I was brilliant. He said he’d never sold that many pinacoladas. And I didn’t even flash any skin! The tequila girl was mad at me though, because she was flashing lots of skin but her sales were barely half of mine.
Anyway, turns out Sam knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. He gave me a name and a number to call. I took the tip and ended up next door. At least this way, I could look in on Sam as I left work every day.
The moment I walked into Qwapa Club, I knew I had a future there. I can’t really tell why. It might be because the guy at the gate was nice to me. He was so different from my previous gatekeeper. The bouncer at Zip-zap was grabby. He’d always turn off the metal detector minutes before I walked in. It gave him a chance to ‘inspect my stuff’ in person. Pervert.
But this doorman was polite. He introduced himself, asked me about my hairdo, translated the Chinese script on my tattoo. In another world, I might have been offended that he was hitting on me, but here, I was just glad he kept his hands where I could see them.
The hostess was great too, so nice. It made me paranoid. I’m not use to women being that nice to me. For a second, I thought she might be gay. After a while, I saw her making out with George from accounting, and that made me relax for about five minutes … which is when I noticed her noticing me smack in the middle of a make-out. It’s a bit worrying that she shifted her focus to me, and it wasn’t a look that said ‘This is our little secret.’ It was more like ‘Hey, wanna join?’
Yes, it’s possible to say all that in a single look.
Still, the place is pretty fun to work, and the perks are good, so I’ll forgive the hot bisexual hostess. I love learning about their new drinks and fixing cocktails with creepy names. There’s a bar guy who thinks I’m an intern, so he’s always making me mop floors and clean broken glass, but the boss lets me make my own concotions. Yesterday, I even got to name one! He likes his bartenders to be adventurous, so when he liked the drink I’d mixed, he put it right on the menu, and I got to name it. I sold 4000 shots of Diva Drama that night. How cool is that?
It might be n00bie psyche, but I really like it here. Everyone keeps saying that I’ll jade out soon enough, after I’ve made the same boring drink for forty-seven nights in a row. I’ll deal with that monster when it gets here.
They have this room in the back of the club that connects to an underground aquarium. It’s absa-freaking awesome! I could spend hours in there just zoobing at the fish. It’s why I stopped taking cigarette breaks – you can’t smoke in there and I have five breaks a day. At this rate, I might stop smoking completely!
A strange thing happened in the back room yesterday. I met this boy. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but there was some kind of smoke alarm hazard thingie and we ended up locked in the back room for hours. I was fine with it – more time to chill with the fish! But my … companion … wasn’t so hot on the idea. Turns out he’s claustrophobic. Also, he could have a passing fear of water. What a hydrophobe was doing in the fish tank room I have no idea. Maybe he just followed me there.
Anyway, I taught him a little yoga, got him to relax and not think about the water. Or the doors. Or the alarms. I played with his mind and convinced him we were out in an open field with goats and cows and … peas. Don’t ask me how I did it. Let’s just say there’s a thin line between voice-prompted meditation and hypnosis. There’s also a lot more to yoga than gravity boots and potentially gymnastic sex.
And no, we didn’t have any.
We spent four hours down there, and we got to know a lot about each other. We had … a moment. It was actually pretty cool. So when Sam called me later with some news, it wasn’t really Sam on my mind.
Let me explain. See, Sam got promoted to manager. Turns out Tom – the grabber-ex-turned-manager – ended up grabbing the wrong girl. Long story short, Sam was now in charge, and he wanted me back at Zip-zap.
It should have been a pretty easy decision. I mean – I’ve known Sam for … well …. not exactly years. More like days. But we connected. We bonded. We had joint karma! Plus, he was offering me twice the money.
Still … I wasn’t quite so keen to leave my underground aquarium, and the bisexual hostess, and the shimmy-ing floors. Plus, I didn’t have to wear heels or minis at Qwapa. And did I mention Yoga Boy? We had a moment for chrissakes!
In the end, I told Sam I’d think about it, but I think we both knew I didn’t really mean it. He did ask if I could serve at his place on weekends. He’s got a minibar at home and throws up quite a party. Now that I could do. That I could live with. It meant more time with Sam, and there was lots that I could learn from the master. Besides, I served at his place on his birthday, and I know for a fact that his guests give great tips.
So, back to my new job. I walked into my shift all cheerful and ditzy, hoping to pick things up with Yoga Boy. I mean, you don’t spend four hours locked in a room and not feel something. Heck, if it was a movie, there’d be a baby-making scene in fifteen minutes flat! So … shock on me when he walked right past as if he hadn’t even seen me. Can you say ouch? Clearly, our ‘moment’ was all in my head. Le sigh.
I tried to brush the nagging thoughts away. Maybe he was embarrassed about showing off his phobias. Maybe he was rushing for a meeting with the boss. Maybe my yoga hypnotism has the same side effects as rohipnol. Maybe I forgot to snap my fingers at the end. Whatever the reason, Yoga Boy didn’t seem to think the little session in the fishing tank was worth writing home about. Sigh. Talk about #ThatAwkwardMoment!
I didn’t have a lot of time to mope about it because The Other Guy walked in. He’s a customer – a regular, apparently. Comes in every morning at 7.48. The precision level of that timing is disturbing. Very disturbing.
He generally orders water, and sips on it while he reads the paper. Then as he’s about to leave, he’ll grab some form of candy. Usually it’s Cadburys, but sometimes he’ll go with cereal bars or Kitkat marbles. Some days, he smiles at me, and other days, he looks like he almost wants to ask for my number.
He did a strange thing today though. He asked me my name. It isn’t strange to ask the girl behind the bar for her name. It is strange when you’re staring at her chest and she’s wearing a name tag. Sigh. Why are all the hot ones perverts?
Well, it turns out he isn’t a pervert – just clinically blind. Apparently, he’d just gotten new contacts and could barely see a thing, so he decided to test out his new vision on my … chest. Smooth. He ended up ditching the contacts and pulling out a pair of glasses. In the awkward moment between machinations, I noticed his eyes. Green. Hmm…
I was still planning what to do with the green when Yoga Boy showed up and took my hand. I turned in partial distraction as he asked for the number of the dry ice supplier. I ducked under the bar to get it and came back up to find the two guys having a stare down. Haiya!
I gave Yoga Boy the number, gave Green Eyes his receipt, then walked away to take a call on my cell. When I came back two minutes later, both guys were gone, and there were two numbers scribbled on my order pad. I couldn’t tell which number belonged to who, or why they’d scribbled them there, so I just stuck them both on the fridge with a magnet and a shrug. Men are so strange.
♫ Cloudboy ♫ USS ♫