TheNeon Possumhung like a multi-colored bruise across the corner of the college strip, its green-and-purple glow spilling onto the cracked sidewalk outside.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of spilled beer, sticky cocktail syrup, and the faint tang of cleaning solution someone had sprayed earlier but that would never fully disappear.
The hum of the fridge mingled with the thump of bass from the jukebox, and every clink of glassware added another layer to the chaos.
I grabbed a rag and began carefully tracing the pattern of the wood grain as I wiped down the bar. I’d been working at theNeon Possumfor just over a year, ever since I turned twenty-one, and by now I could move through the chaos almost as if it were choreographed.
A guy leaned on the bar, hair sticking up like he hadn’t met a brush in years — frankly, his head resembled a broccoli — and asked, “Hey gorgeous, you bartending tonight?”
I raised an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth curling up. “What gave me away?” I deadpanned.
He blinked at me and I suppressed a sigh.
“Umm … so, you here often?”
“I work here.” Pursing my lips, I shot him a pointed look. “Yes, I’m here often. What can I get you?”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“Any of the European beers you got on tap.”
Can’t believe he actually didn’t say it.
“…and your number.”
God fucking damnit.
My eyelid started twitching as I took in his smug smirk, but nevertheless, I pasted on my tried and truecustomer service smile.
“Sorry, not allowed to fraternize with customers. And we only have domestic beer.”
“Aw man, that’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Did I actually agree with his sentiment? Not in the slightest. But I’d learned it was easier to make them think some kind of higher instance set the rules.
Once I placed his beer on the counter, he muttered something under his breath, threw a handful of cash down on the bar and shuffled off to a booth.
The bar filled fast as the night wore on. Patrons stumbled in, some testing boundaries, others oblivious. I managed them all with the same mix of subtle humor and precision — a raised eyebrow, a dry quip, a firm hand on a wayward glass.
The regulars never caused any trouble; they had learned long ago what I would and wouldn't tolerate.The college kids who rotated through each year, though? They liked to test the waters, just to see how deep they ran.
Men who tried to charm me learned quickly that flattery didn’t replace cash, and cash didn’t replace boundaries.
One guy leaned across the counter, his voice too smooth. “Hey, you ever let a guy buy you a drink?”
I gave him a small smile, just enough to be polite, and set a shaker down. “Sure. Buy the drink, not my attention. It’s one of my better deals tonight.”
He laughed nervously, tilted his head and moved on without leaning again. Stacked up over time, small victories kept the bar in order, the tips coming in, and my savings account growing. At this glacial pace, however, I might just about be able to afford another semester by the time I turn thirty.
Hours passed in a blur of clinking glassware, shouted orders, and the occasional spill I swooped in to contain.
I corrected the bar back stacking glasses, redirected the couple arguing quietly in the corner, and reminded the group of frat boys at the back to keep it friendly without scaring them off. I didn’t need to be cruel to assert myself; sharp timing and a confident stance were enough.
Most of the patrons didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of one of the only bars in town.
By the last hour my apron was smeared, my hands sticky, my hair damp, and my muscles tight.
