I deliver the beers to Mr. Patterson’s table without incident, but that small success goes straight to my head. I start noticing other things. Things that need improvement. Things a professional establishment simply should not tolerate.
The tables are not arranged efficiently. There is also wasted space near the wall that could accommodate at least a couple more tabletops, four tops, if someone would consider traffic flow. The lighting is inconsistent. Some areas are too bright, while others are too dim. It creates an atmosphere that feels more like a haunted house than a welcoming establishment.
And then the customers.
Oh, the customers.
Their posture is appalling. People are slouching and hunching, practically melting into their chairs as if they have never heard of spinal alignment. One man is sitting with both elbows on the table, one on each side of his plate, and I have to physically restrain myself from going over and correcting him.
I do not restrain myself with the woman at table twelve.
She’s young, maybe in her mid-twenties, sitting with her legs crossed in a way that makes her lean awkwardly to one side. That’s terrible for her back and looks uncomfortable.
And before I can think better of it, I’m standing at her table.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I couldn’t help but notice your posture. If you uncross your legs and sit with your feet flat on the floor, you’ll feel a lot more comfortable. The way you’re sitting is putting unnecessary strain on your lower back.”
The woman stares at me.
Her companion, a bearded man, stares at me, too.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says slowly. “Who are you?”
“Eleanor Whitfield. I own this establishment.”
The words are becoming commonplace for me.
“I also have extensive training in deportment and physical presentation, and I’d be happy to give you some tips if?—”
“I’m good,” the woman interrupts. “Thanks.”
“Are you sure? Because that posture really is?—”
“She said she’s good.” The bearded man’s voice has an edge. “Maybe you could just bring us our drinks?”
I open my mouth to explain that I am not actually their server, that I was just trying to help, but something in their expression stops me. They are looking at me like I’m crazy. Like I’ve done something wrong.
So I walk away without another word, my face burning.
The incident with the biker happens around ten o’clock.
I have been trying to stay out of the way, mostly hanging out by the bar, watching the controlled chaos unfold. The band is on a break, and people are walking around, drinking and chatting.
And it is during this lull that I spot him.
He is large. Not as large as Boone, but substantial, with a leather vest, tattooed arms, and a beard that could house a family of small birds. He is standing at the bar waiting for his drink, and he has just been handed a beer by Presley.
And he takes that beer with his left hand and shakes her hand with his right.
Except it is not a handshake. It is that thing that men sometimes do, that limp-fingered grasp that is more of a little squeeze than a shake. The kind that suggests they don’t think women deserve a real handshake.
I am moving before I can even stop myself.
“Excuse me,” I say, inserting myself into the interaction. “I couldn’t help but notice your handshake technique.”
The biker looks at me. Up close, he is even more intimidating. Small eyes, a scar on his chin, and an expression that suggests to me that he is not used to being interrupted.
“My what?”
