At five to six, I step into the bar for my shift. Today’s Wednesday, so the money won’t be that great. Still, it’ll be a few bucks more than I had before.
Jenna bustles by. She’s short and wiry and always bristling with excessive energy. The red shirt makes her face appear ruddy. She pulls up short when she notices me and throws her small hands up in the air. “Hallelujah! You’re here!”
I pause on my way to the employee locker room. “What?”
“Satoshi and Mick both called in sick, and I’ve been going crazy. We’re doing happy hour with the VC folks.” She jerks her chin at a huge throng of people in business casual pouring into the place. They crowd around the bar and tables like thirsty locusts.
Now I understand the true magnitude of her panic. The people from the venture capital firm drink like fish, and they want their drinksnow. Alcohol is apparently their preferred way of relieving work stress, especially when the company’s footing the bill. Although they’re demanding, they’re fantastic tippers. Or at least the guy in charge of paying the bill is. They come in twice a month on average, and never tip under thirty percent.
Satoshi’s not being here is unfortunate because that means whoever’s manning the bar has to work even harder. But it comes with a huge tip—the kind of money I can’t normally make on a Wednesday. And I badly need the extra.
“Anyway, I want you to help at the bar and cover the tables with the VC folks, since they’re just going to want to drink,” Jenna says. “They won’t eat anything, except maybe some of the pretzels. So you focus on serving their slosh.”
“Got it.” The margin on drinks is huge, and of course, Jenna wants them to have as much as they want. The last time they were here, they only ate a couple of chicken wing platters, but put away enough alcohol that Jenna had to place an extra order with our suppliers afterward.
I dump my purse into a metal locker and pull my hair back in a tight ponytail, ready to rock and roll in my black shirt and skirt. The management said black pants are fine, but a skirt always gets me better tips.
Zack waves. “It’s gonna be a gooood night!” He knows about Grandpa, and the crazy bills I’m dealing with. His own grandparents were in an assisted living center in Colorado until they passed away a couple of years ago.
“Yeah.” I grin. “Thanks.” He’s the one who told me about the opening at this bar last month. It’s more upscale than the one I worked at before, and the customers tip better. The area is safer, too.
After grabbing a few baskets of complimentary pretzels, I hurry over to the huge table where at least thirty financial types are milling around. Suits, loosened ties and expensive haircuts dominate. I paste on a big smile as I distribute the appetizers.
Before I can utter a word, one of the guys waves. “Hey, you ready to take our order?”
“Of course. How’s everyone tonight?”
“Awesome!” he says.
I get my pad out and start writing. Most of them want hard liquor. A few ask for wine and cocktails. I note everything—more for Jenna so she can tally up everything at the end of the happy hour than for myself, because I already have it memorized—then reconfirm each drink, mainly so that if they’ve changed their mind, they can tell me now.
They chat and laugh at volume, creating an uproar. I go back to the bar, fill their order and bring everything back over. Then I hand everyone their drink.
“Here you go.” I smile as I give out the last glass—two fingers of whiskey to a dark-haired man about my age who smiles back politely. Something about him seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
I must’ve seen him before. This is my second time working happy hour.
The venture capitalists at the bar demand my attention too, shouting out their orders. I keep track, making sure everyone’s happy.
“I love you,” Jenna says after she hands a glass of chardonnay to a blonde.
“I love you too,” I say with a grin. She’s feeling grateful, so maybe it’ll be easier to get her to agree to give me more hours on Friday and Saturday evenings. When I tried to bring it up last week, she said she wanted to see how I did first.
Hours later, when my neck and shoulders are tight from pouring and serving more drinks than I have in the last two evenings combined, the group finally calls it a night.
Zack goes to the register to settle their bill, then frowns. I serve a Stoli vanilla and Coke—the last order from the VC people—and go over to him. He lets out an uncharacteristic curse under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“The machine’s acting up.” He shakes his head. “It was working fine just a minute ago.”
I look at the all the things they’ve ordered. The machine has some items down, but it won’t total the amount. And I realize it’s missing more than half the drink orders from the tables I covered.
Jenna comes over and fusses with the machine, but can’t seem to fix it either. It still refuses to add up some of the orders from the table I served, as well as a few from the bar.
She huffs out a breath, not bothering to hide her frustration. Math isn’t her forte, and all the numbers and money have to match at the end of the day to prevent theft. The bar also handles quite a bit of cash.
“Is there a problem?” It’s the familiar-looking guy.
