bartenderbaby

I live in a very small Midwestern town with literally one stoplight and one flashing light. I haven’t always lived here,but here I am. The people in this town are very friendly and obliging and in order to get myself better acquainted with the townsfolk I got a job at the local watering hole. This little bar has been my gateway into the circle of people that reside here. On weeknights it’s pretty low-key with some kind of game on the TV and a handful of regular customers discussing anything from the election results to their niece’s confirmation on Sunday. The weekends are a different story entirely. The bar is transformed into a completely different place with a completely different atmosphere, the only thing that is the same are the faces from the weekend before. Last night Red comes in and brings along two friends with whom I haven’t been introduced. Sarah and Keith. Upon our introduction I am immediately asked where I’m from, because it’s obvious I’m not “from around here” and what my last name is. That question inevitably leads to the “possible relatives” discussion. These questions I’ve come to expect because they are impossible to avoid in a town of this size and every single person I’ve become acquainted with here has asked the same questions. From time to time I make up some bizarre background for my own amusement and they always believe these ridiculous stories. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a good liar or they are just incredibly gullible.

So, I tell Sarah and Keith that my name is Mary I was raised in Pennsylvania within an Amish community but I ran away at 18 with a boy from town then we were married and settled here. They swallowed the fabrication without question, and continue on to ask how life with the Amish was. (Good Lord, these people are hilarious)

I come clean with my real story, which is terribly boring in comparison, we all have a great laugh and I get back to work. The door chimes and, oh joy, Adam whatshisface pushy and annoying walks in. When he’s sober he’s not half bad, but by the end of the night he’s seriously trying my patience. Last week I got tipped five bucks to slap him across the face, so I did. He was totally aware of my intent and angled his face just right so I could land a good blow to the left cheek. (Drunk people are so fun)

He immediately orders his regular drink and asks to start a tab. As usual he argues with me when I ask for a credit card to hold the tab but gives in when I raise a hand in a mock slapping gesture. ha-ha! He continues to be a jerk for the rest of the night however and I start to regret my little joke until he swaggers up to the bar and tells me I’m a bitch. I reacted so fast that he didn’t see my hand fly up to slap him again. and hard. He walks away. Later, when he closes his tab, he smirks as he hands the receipt back. No tip, but I don’t care it was totally worth it. Dick.

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