Let me begin my giving you all a rather upsetting piece of news. Savannah is gone, has been for about three weeks now. Her mother was in a terrible car wreck and she had to take off to go take care of her. We don't know if she's going to come back or not, so we've got Ellen filling in on her spot, and our new bartender, Kit, is taking over Ellen's spot.
That said, this last Saturday night was crazy busy. It was standing room only in the titty bar, and I haven't seen that many people packed in there since we opened.
Usually on the weekend we'll be
moderately busy, with mostly regulars and a few college kids peppering the tables and chairs. Not this weekend.
What bothered me the most was this group of rather large people standing in front of stage one. None of them were drinking, either; so they were basically there just taking up a lot of space. Not only that, but they were apparently suffering from a rare form of specific blindness, which made them able to see the dancers and each other, but not a waitress carrying a glowing tray full of drinks. Finally exhausted with screaming "EXCUSE ME!" at the top of my lungs, I started just bumping into them.
Luckily, they were still in possession of their sensory feelings, and noticed cold beer dripping onto their arms/legs/whatever was closest. Eventually they left.
The evening began rather slowly, with Queenie and I playing a game of pool in the back. After I narrowly beat her (she scratched on the eight ball) we made our way back up to the bar to have a shift shot (for good luck) and smoke a cigarette before the crowd hit. As we were making out way across the bar two rather large Hispanic men were walking in.
"Hey," the big one said, grabbing my arm as I walked past him. "You gonna buy me a drink?"
I just gave him a look and carried on with my business. As I was walking away I heard him make the same offer to Queenie, who politely declined.
Luckily for me they took up root in her section, and were no longer my problem.
Ahh, the luck of the draw.
Later in the evening a group of couples walked in the door and took up residence at two of my tables. I noticed them, but was a bit wary of waiting on them. No offense to any of the women who read my blog, but women in a titty bar can be a detriment to the establishment. Earlier in the week this Gentlemen (ahem) with two ladies got a beer from Ellen's bar. As he went to put a dollar in her tip jar, one of the girls he was with grabbed it out of his hand.
I made my way up to the table, located next to the front door, and noticed the large Hispanic man from earlier sleeping in his chair. I nudged him, mostly to move him out of my way, and he didn't stir.
I'd like to say this isn't common in my bar, but I'd be lying. People fall asleep in a titty bar more than any other bar I've ever worked at. At least two or three times a night we have to wake someone up, and sometimes carry them outside. Last weekend, while I was sitting at the bar, a man fell OUT of his chair and onto the floor. Really classy, let me tell you.
I made it up to my table, and they all wanted beer. I shoved the sleeper out of the way again, and made a mental note to tell CEO to get him out. When I took the beers back to the table I was
surprised in the fact that the women not only paid for them, but tipped me a dollar at least for each beer. It appeared that my night was looking up.
I made my way up to the bar again, this time for some shots for me and CEO. There was a really big man standing at the server station, and I saddled up next to him so I could order my drinks.
This man was BIG. He was about 6'3, but he was muscular as hell. He was wearing a button down the front shirt, and when he stood up straight, the buttons strained against the fabric,
threatening to rip apart if he took in a deep breath.
"Hi," I said, looking up at him, "I'm waitress, what's your name?"
"Trent," he grunted, looking around the bar.
I took the shots to CEO and noticed that Trent had sat in my section, next to the sleeping Latino, and in front of the couples group.
I made my way back to the group of couples to check on them.
"How
y'all doing?" I said,
grimacing at myself for the poor grammar.
"Can we get another round?" the man sitting closest to the door requested.
I was turning to head back to the bar when the woman sitting next to me grabbed my arm. She leaned in,
conspicuously, as she pulled me towards her.
"It's my husbands birthday today," she said, pressing her fingers to her lips as a motion for me to keep my voice down. "Can you do anything special for him?"
"Well," I said, "we can put him on stage for fifty dollars."
She reached into her purse and pulled out two twenties and a ten.
"Don't you want to know what we do to him when he's onstage?" I was a
little shocked, most women don't want their husbands being danced on by thirty women while on public display.
"Oh, honey," she started, "I danced for fifteen years. There's nothing you can do to him that I haven't seen before."
"So
that's why you all are such good tippers," I said, the light finally coming on in my head.
She gave me a wink and handed me the cash. "His name is Steve, just take care of him tonight for me."
"Only if you promise to take care of him when he gets home," I said, returning the wink. She grabbed my ass as I headed back to the bar.
I got about three steps when I felt someone grab me by the wrist. Hard. I looked down to see Trent, holding my wrist in one hand and his Coors Light the other.
"Can I get you anything," I said, as I attempted to swivel my wrist out of his grip. This merely caused him to clamp down tighter.
"You," he said, staring up at me.
I laughed and turned to walk off, but Trent wouldn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he boomeranged me back to his chair.
"What do you need," I said, the
pleasantries in my voice replaced by annoyance.
"Bring me two more beers," he replied, finally letting go of my wrist.
Somewhat shaken, I headed up to the bar to get the beer. After dropping them off, I took the fifty dollars to the front door, and then let CEO know we had a birthday in the house. He was busy adjusting the spotlight so it fell on the sleeping guy.
"Hey Buddy," he yelled over the
microphone, "wake up!"
"I don't think it's going to work," I said, "I've pushed his chair half a dozen times and he doesn't even stir."
I made another round and went back up to the bar. Queenie was standing there as well, and in front of us were two people: one of the girls from my birthday table, and some guy I'd never seen before.
"Oh my God," Queenie said, "can these people move?"
"Yeah, no shit," I offered, "I have drinks to run."
Practically before I could get the words out of my mouth, the girl from my table flung her draft beer all over the guy next to her.
Well, mostly on the guy next to her. The other half went all over Queenie.
"What the FUCK! What the fuck was that?" Queenie was pissed, the hair on the left side of her head was matted down with Miller Light.
I stared, slack jawed, as I tried
desperately to
suppress a giggle. Meanwhile, Ellen was handing out bar towels for the wet and embarrassed to mop off their shame. The culprit had made her way back to the table by then.
I looked at Ellen, and she made a "cut-off" motion at me. I headed back to my table to make sure the girl was
ok. She was bawling.
"What the hell happened?" I asked, leaning my head down so I could be eye to eye with her.
She was sobbing, bawling uncontrollably.
"I just," she said, in between sniffles and guffaws, "I just love him so much."
I looked at the other woman, the ex-stripper, and she nodded at me. I took that to mean I could go on about my business. I turned to leave and almost fell over into the lap of the sleeping Hispanic man. Again, he had managed, somehow in his slumber, to roll his chair directly into my path.
"That's it," I muttered to myself, and went to get Duke and Raymond to take him outside.
As I made my way back to the bar (routine dominates my life at work) my wrist was again assaulted. I didn't have to look this time to know it was Trent.
"What can I get you," I said, peering down at him sitting in his chair.
"You," he again replied.
I rolled my eyes and attempted to walk off again when I was suddenly yanked backwards, this time harder than before, and I ended up in his lap.
"Buy me a beer," he demanded, a glassy look in his eyes.
"You're kidding me," I joked, attempting to squirm my way off of his lap.
"No," he said, grabbing my waist with his other hand, "buy me a fucking beer!"
"I'm not buying you a beer, Trent," I responded, feverishly looking around the bar for someone to notice what was going on.
Trent took his hand off my wrist and grabbed my face, squeezing his thick fingers into my cheeks. "All this damn money you've made off me tonight and you're not going to buy me a beer?"
"Let me go," I managed to get out, even though my mouth was being squeezed shut.
"Buy me a beer," he returned, and I think I noticed a slight look of amusement in his face.
"You're
hurting me," I said, and he finally let go of my face. I scrambled out of his lap, but he still had control of my wrist. As I tried to walk off, he tugged a few more times before letting go.
I headed to the front door to tell Raymond what was happening.
After I filled him in on the details, he went out into the club and sat down at a table behind Trent. I grabbed another drink from the bar and headed back into my section.
As I walked past Trent's table, he flipped me off. I threw him a look, and, as if on cue, he grabbed me by the wrist.
In lightning speed Raymond had him around the neck.
"Let go of my fucking waitress," he growled at him, squeezing.
His friend jumped up and started at Raymond, but Duke grabbed him as well.
I hurried off behind the bar, where I could watch what was happening while still being out of the line of fire. Queenie came up to me.
"Have you seen Raymond," she asked, pulling her money out of her pocket.
I pointed to the other side of the bar, where Raymond was carrying Trent out by the neck.
"Why, what's up?"
"Oh, the pool table is stuck and I need to get the key from him."
We have pay pool tables, where you put a dollar in quarters in and the balls come out. Sometimes one ball will get stuck in the process. Rather than waste another dollar on the game, we just get the key and get it out. Pretty simple.
I headed back out to my abuser-free section, and over to the birthday table.
"Do you know how much longer it's going to be? We've got a limo outside," ex-stripper said, stroking my arm.
"Not off the top of my head, but I can go find out for you," I answered. I turned to head to the DJ booth when CEO beat me to it.
"I hear we got a birthday in the house," he yelled over the
microphone. "Where's Steve?"
I shot ex-stripper a wink and headed back to the bar. I noticed Raymond and Champ hauling some other guy out and saw Queenie crying at the side of the bar. As they were carrying the guy out, I heard him scream "fuck you" a few times before the door closed behind him.
"What is going on," I asked, putting my arm around Queenie's shoulders.
She paused to wipe her eyes before she started in. "Remember when I told you about the pool table?"
"Yeah," I said, fumbling in my pocket for a lighter. "Was that the guy?"
"No," she snuffled. "That guy came up and put another dollar in the machine. When I went over there to check on them he got in my face and started yelling 'You owe me a dollar! Where is my dollar, bitch?'"
"No shit," I mused, taking a drag off my smoke.
"So I told him, 'I told you we'd get the pool table fixed, you didn't have to put another dollar in the machine,' and he said 'Give me my fucking dollar,' so I said 'I'm not giving you a fucking dollar,' and I headed back to the bar but he started
following me!"
"You're kidding me," I exclaimed, shaking my head.
"Yeah, so I get up to the bar and he's right behind me, screaming 'Where's my dollar! I'm going to kick your ass if I don't get my dollar! Give me my fucking dollar!'"
"Jesus, Queenie," I said, "what did you do?"
"Well," she said, "
luckily for me Champ was right there and he jumped in the middle of it." She paused, looking up at me with watery doe-eyes. "It's been a hell of a night for me."
"Me too," I said, musing. "You want another shot?"
Queenie nodded, and I nodded at Ellen, who started making the drinks.
All in all, it was a crazy fucked up night. When I figured it up, I made about 63$ an hour that night, and I worked eight hours.
Not too bad, I suppose, I just could have used a little less drama.
