“All right,” he grunted, not bothering to look back.
The way he left didn’t sit right, but I wouldn’t let it bother me. Things were starting to finally look up, and I was going to celebrate tonight.
“That’s great news,” Rob shouted over the loud music while mixing another cocktail. “It’s not gonna to be the same without you, though.”
“You know I just love working here and all—”
“Eh, cut the bullshit. A piece of your soul dies every time you take an order for fried pickles.”
“Well, maybe if I didn’t have to say, ‘Hope this tickles your pickle’ every time I serve them, I wouldn’t seem so soulless.” We looked at each other for a moment and laughed. “Plus, being a server in a gay dive bar isn’t exactly paying the bills.”
“You know I’d pay you more, but I’m struggling to keep this place open as it is.”
I carried a tray of beer and aforementioned fried pickles to a corner table illuminated by the orange, green and purple neon letters on the wall. Seated were five partially drunk college guys, all obnoxiously talking over each other.
“Here’s your order.” I placed the food and drinks in the center of the table before letting out a sigh. “Hope it… tickles your pickles,” I muttered the last part.
“How about you ticklemypickle?” the taller guy on the far end of the table asked with a ridiculous grin. It made me cringe a little, but I didn’t mind the extra attention as long as it came with amazing tips.
“Tempting,” I said with a flirty inflection, walking my fingers over the table before grabbing his hand. “But there are just so many guys that need service tonight.”
That felt as gross as it sounded.
He pulled out a pen and scribbled his number on the back of a beer-stained napkin. “Well, if you’re not too tired for another service call, here’s my number.”
And just like that, I was now a pretend hooker. I grabbed the napkin and slid it into my pocket. “I might take you up on that some time,” I said with a slight wink before turning away. Forsome reason, I could still hear their conversation, even though I should have been out of earshot.
“What is it with you and really hairy guys?”
When I got to the bar, I set the serving tray down and tried to examine myself when another man called to me, pulling my attention to a table with three men in their mid-thirties. They were regulars, but I never could remember their names. The bar was getting harder to handle, and the music was louder—so much louder. The strobe lights in the dark, stuffy room were also starting to hurt my eyes.
“Hey you,” I said, forcing a smile, while trying to push away the throbbing in my head. “What can I get you guys?”
“We’ll take whatever’s on tap tonight.”
“Anything else?”
“Got a boyfriend?” one of the other men asked.
I was used to the attention, but never like this. Sure, people got drunk and would sometimes hit on me, but I started to feel like I was standing naked in the middle of a crowded room under a spotlight. And none of these guys ever showed interest before.
“Unfortunately, I do,” I shouted over the deafening music.
“You smell amazing,” another man said, and I backed away, trying to maintain a smile. “What cologne is that?”
“Thanks. I uh, always try to smell my best,” I said awkwardly as I backed toward the bar. The confidence I’d exuded earlier drained as quickly as it had come. I wasn’t even wearing cologne.
“Are you okay?” Rob asked.
“Not really,” I said, pointing to a pitcher. “Could I get one of those filled?”
“Why don’t you go home? I’ll call in Zack. He’s been pestering me for more hours.”
“Are you sure? It’ll be overtime for him.”
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.” He handed a drink to one of the guys sitting at the bar before staring at me again. “Did you get a haircut or something?”
“No,” I replied, as I stepped behind the bar, grabbing my bag. “I’ll call you later.”
