“Huh,” I grunted. “And number two?”
Jacks paused and set down the glass he’d been not-polishing to look at me directly.
“Number two,” he said carefully, “was an experience.”
“Define experience,” I said.
“Number two arrived in a trench coat. Without introduction, he removed said trench coat. Underneath, he wore only a thong with the word SPICY bedazzled across the front. Mr. Spicy climbed the bar, knocked over three bottles of well vodka, and performed what he described as ‘a fusion of contemporary and burlesque’ that was neither contemporary nor burlesque. His dance did, however, include a move where he licked a beer tap.”
“Wait, what?” My eyes flicked to the beer taps. Oh, shit. The handles did look kind of phallic. I’d never noticed that before. “Helickeda beer tap?”
“The Modelo tap, specifically, with his tongue. I’m going to have to sanitize it, possibly burn it. Should we hold a ceremony for the burning?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Was it at least a good lick?”
“There is no such thing as a good lick of a beer tap, Benji.” Finn finally joined the conversation. “There isnocontext in which a human tongue on a beer tap is acceptable unless the licker is a leprechaun. And no, I’m not being metaphorical. It would have to be a real, live, actual leprechaun with a fucking pot of gold and everything.”
I looked at Jacks.
He looked at me.
We both shrugged.
“Finn,” I called. “How many more?”
“Three. Next one’s at 3:30.”
“They’re auditioning on my bar top while I’m prepping. I have limes to cut and garnishes to organize and a speed rail to stock. You’re running a strip club audition on my workspace. I need HR’s number right now, please.”
“It’s not a strip club audition. It’s a performance evaluation for a themed entertainment position. The bar surface is the stage for the themed nights, so the audition should replicate the performance conditions. Besides, you’d normally pay for this kind of workplace disruption, and you know it.”
Okay, he had a fair point. Getting paid to watch mostly naked men shake their mostly nakedparts wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever done to feed myself. Still, I had to at least feign some level of professional standard. “These performance conditions include me trying to make a Rescue Sour while a man in bedazzled underwear licks the taps?”
“That was an anomaly. The listing specifiesprofessionalgo-go experience. We’re looking for someone who can engage the crowd, maintain appropriate energy levels, and enhance the atmosphere of the themed events without disrupting bar operations.”
“Finn. A man licked my Modelo. I feel violated. And a little excited. Though more violated.”
“Which is why we’re continuing auditions. The right candidate is out there. We just have to find him.”
I tied my apron, assumed my position behind the bar, and began cutting limes. I would get my damn station ready regardless of whatever was about to happen on the counter above me, damn it.
Candidate number four arrived at 3:30 and was, in fairness, a significant improvement over number three.
He was in his early thirties, dark-haired, with the lean build of someone who had actual dance training and who understood that go-go dancing was a skill rather than a personality trait. He removed his shirt with professional efficiency, revealing a torsothat was well maintained and tastefully tattooed. He kicked off his flip-flops, shimmied out of his shorts, and climbed onto the bar with a grace of an elf gliding across a field inLord of the Rings.
He danced.
And he was good.
His body moved with the kind of trained fluidity that I recognized from my own years in dance, a controlled articulation of someone who understood rhythm as a physical language rather than a suggestion.
His hips knew what they were doing.
His arms knew what they were doing.
Everything was technically proficient and aesthetically sound and entirely, completely, devastatinglyboring.
He danced the way a textbook reads.
