Faking Life (21 page)

“Are you thinking about that guy, that John?” Esther nodded.

“I think about him all the time now. Maybe too much for my own good. It's just that…I've never felt like this before.”

“Well I'm sure he feels like same about you, sweetie.” Esther laughed through her tears.

“You don't really mean that.”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn't he? If he's as special as you say he is, he's got to feel something. But if you drag yourself down like this, pity yourself all the time and act like the world's gonna come crashing down any second, he's not going to want to think about you cause you'll bring him down too.” Esther looked up, the tears slowly stemming.

“You're right.” Courtney nodded , eyebrows raised, as if to say
of course I am.
“Give me a minute,” Esther said. “I'm gonna finish getting ready.”

Courtney popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box. “Now you're talking, babe. Look out world! Ladies and gentlemen, lock your men at home, here comes the fabulous Esther!”

Esther laughed. She was happy to please Courtney, happy to see her friend so exuberant. But inside, she had never in her life felt less fabulous.

“S
o what gives Artie?”

Per Artie's orders, John had dragged himself out of bed at 9:00 in the morning, showered, shaved and was at the bar by ten. Artie had conveyed the meeting time in a gruff, one sentence message. John, assuming a kiss-and-make-up session prior to being given his job back, held back any complaints about the early hour. With the trip to New Haven behind him, John's peace of mind had grown exponentially. He was willing to put up with a little crap. Artie knew how inconvenient it was for him to be up at nine and starting a shift ten hours later. Must be a test, John thought, to see if he was still reliable. If he flaked or wasn't able to keep his shit together, Artie would be sure he was bartending at Starbucks next week.

When John arrived, Artie was dressed in a navy blue suit, a distracting yellow tie, and polished black loafers with neat little tassels tied to the top. John was tempted to jibe Artie about his newfound taste in clothes, but held his tongue. Hell, insincere flattery for one day wasn't
such
a bad deal if it meant getting his job back.

“Those're some nice duds, Art. Brooks Brothers?” Artie smiled.

“Barney's, actually.” John whistled.

“Must've run you quite a bit.”

“I can afford it.”

“Guess so,” John said, awkward pleasantries finished. “So what's up boss?”

“Welcome to your new shift John,” he said. John watched Artie rub his fingers together. He couldn't detect any bullshit in his voice.

As if reading his mind, Artie said, “I'm serious. Starting now, you're on the eleven a.m. shift. Brian and Lisa will work evenings. The lunch crowd is all yours.”

John's brain shut down. His mouth flapped like a fish gasping for air. Finally he managed to speak.

“You're shitting me, right Artie? The fucking
lunch shift
?”

He wasn't sure, but it looked like Artie was holding back a smile. John glanced around the bar, expecting to see someone hiding behind a newspaper. Maybe he was on Candid Camera or something.

“Artie, I can barely afford rent as is. You put me on lunch and my tips get cut in half.”

“I understand that, which is why I'm raising your base by $1.00 an hour.”

“Artie, that's a fucking joke. I'll lose at least ten an hour on lost tips and you know it.” John said. His mouth felt like sandpaper. If this was a test of his resolve, it beat the hell out of the SATs. “Artie, I can look for another tending job any time I want. You know I make this place money. I could easily find work at another bar.” Artie shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“John, you apply for another job and you'll need references. The last place you worked and former employers and all that. They'll come to me, and then what do I tell them? That you consistently bailed on me and left work without warning? That you insulted the customers and when I gave you a chance to work your way back you quit? No, that won't look good John.”

John struggled lamely to comprehend Artie's logic. John was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and to make it worse, Artie seemed to know it. Even if John could find work—a big if—he doubted he'd find a similar-paying job on such short notice. With the unemployment line growing every day, he didn't want to compete with the gym-buffed bodies coming out of college.

It hadn't occurred to John until now, but working in a bar for nearly all his formative years had left him with pitifully few marketable skills. Not many companies recruited employees based on their qualification to bartend the company picnic.

“So what do you say John?” Artie made it sound as though he had a choice in the matter. The only good thing that might come from the demotion was rejoining the world before noon. Those people looked so stable, so comfortable in their lives, and here he was having his turned upside down by a simple shift in time. He'd need to make the most of it. Besides, a change in scenery might do him some good until he could land on his feet.

“Artie you know my answer, but you also know I'm worth a lot more to this place during nights than I am during the day. So you want to punish me, go right ahead. Not much I can do. But you're screwing yourself as much as you're screwing me. Brian doesn't know dick about talking to customers. His idea of being social is to mock anyone wearing the color black.”

“Maybe he'll learn,” Artie said. “It's not like you were a dazzling conversationalist when you started here. Give him time and he'll work it out.” John took a step back.

Christ, he'd doing this too long. Analyzing another bartender's social graces as if dined with Queen Elizabeth. Before he turned twenty-one, John would mercifully chide any bartender ignorant enough to serve him. He'd been known to attach a string and paper clip to dollar bills, which magically 'disappeared' when the bartender turned his back. He never gave a shit
who
served him—unless it was a female wearing dental floss for a top—as long as the drink had plenty of alcohol and he got it in a timely fashion. So what was different now? When did he become such a…
bartending elitist
?

“How long are you planning to keep me on the eleven to seven shift?” John asked. He tried to add an edge to his voice but couldn't make it click. Edge would only work if he had the ability to put Artie in his place. Artie had his balls in a vice and no reason to let go.

“We'll see,” he said. “I want to see how Brian does, give him a trial run so to speak. Try not to think of it as a punishment. If you can pull in some repeat business on the day side, maybe I'll move you and Brian both to nights, see if that works out.”

John knew that was bullshit. John knew Brian didn't have what it took to keep pace with the evening rush. As well as hurting the bar, it would hurt Lisa and Stacy as well. If he couldn't keep up then their tips would suffer. John couldn't help but wonder whether Artie was mortgaging their lives just to spite him.

“So when do you want me to start?” John asked. His body was aching for another cup of coffee, gravity tugging his eyelids to the floor.

“Noon,” Artie said, checking his watch as though to make sure noon was still a part of the day. John nodded. He was hardly dressed for work. A gray flannel over an NYU tee was hardly proper attire, but maybe the dress code was different this time of day. He could see it working in his favor. NYU-ers might come around after class for a quick buzz; maybe tip well if an alumnus served them. Hoping karma might keep them from turning out to be him some day.

“Go clean up if you need to,” Artie continued, playing with the buttons on his sleeves. “Stacy comes in at one, so if Sal needs a little help with his orders between now and then give him a hand.” John cursed under his breath. Sal Marvio, whom he could barely tolerate to begin with, was sure as hell not going to go out of his way to make John's transition any easier. He prayed the hour before Stacy showed up would be slow. He wanted to save customers the sight of Sal waddling out of the kitchen covered in grease with nails that hadn't been trimmed since New Year's.

“When you get off tonight, go home and get some rest,” Artie said. “Be ready to go at eleven tomorrow.” He checked his watch again. “I have a meeting in an hour, you have my cell if anything comes up.” John nodded.

Artie put his hand on John's shoulder, closing his fingers in a display of affection that felt dishearteningly insincere. “Don't worry about this. I've always taken care of you in the past, right? Sometimes a little shakeup is good for everyone. Maybe you'll even like the new shift, ask me to stay.” John felt like laughing in Artie's face, but deference was the best path as long as his job was in limbo. As Artie was walking away, he turned back to John, scratching his head.

“John, one more thing.”

'What's that?”

“I want you to bartend topless.” John laughed.

“Yeah, sure. Maybe Lisa and Stacy will want to join me. And you too, what do you say Enzo?” Enzo shrugged and lifted a case of bottles over his head.

“John, I'm serious. I've been heard studies show that a little skin gets the crowd going. Plus if I ever put you back on nights, you'll be used to it.”

“Artie,” John said, desperation in his voice. “It's gonna be winter soon.” Artie glanced about the room and breathed into his hand.

“What, it's not warm enough in here for you? I didn't say you had to come to work topless, just when you get here. Tell you what, I'll throw another buck an hour your way. Start working out more, maybe go for a jog when you get off. Lift a few weights. Just keep in mind the recommendation, or lack thereof.”

“This isn't happening,” John muttered under his breath.

“Oh it is,” Artie said, a hint of malice in his voice. “You have until twelve, then you're behind that bar without a shirt and without a word. You're a minute late, I don't have to tell you how many applications I've been faxed this week.”

Artie gave John an awkward military salute that even a film director would have been ashamed at for lack of authenticity and walked away. John patted his stomach.
This is not happening.

John sighed, gazed around the bar, and took a seat. The air felt thick, like time was attempting to prevent itself from moving forward. Dust particles filtered through the sunlight. John had trouble adjusting his eyes to the glare. Thankfully he had time to run home and grab a change of clothes. Fifty pushups and a hundred sit-ups later, he was back at Slappy's, his top off, diners staring at him trying to keep a straight face. Besides the chill, John pushed it out of his mind, ignoring the snide remarks and one patron's claim that his nipples could double as ice picks.

Between 12:30 and 1:00 a dozen people sauntered in for lunch. They placed orders with Sal, who in turn delivered drink orders to John, who made sure to be standing by the kitchen when the food was ready, Chippendales lunch service ready to go.

John grimaced as he eyed the empty tip jar. He thought about putting in a few singles from his wallet, hoping people might notice and be motivated to tip. But the chance that his money might get swept into the collective pot made him decide against it. Explaining to Stacy that he was owed an extra four bucks was one argument he didn't need.

John called Paul from the house phone at quarter to one. Every day, Paul ate lunch at the Yummy Panda, a Chinese restaurant six blocks away from the school where he worked. He purposefully ate there to get away from the job—and the students—for a delicious solitary hour.

“Hello?” came the greeting through a mouthful of what John guessed was shrimp fried rice.

“Hey kid, what's up?”

“Oh hey John, just a second.” He heard the sound of noodles being slurped, following by the swishing of a beverage. “So, how'd it go with Artie?”

“Well, he's knocking me down to the lunch shift indefinitely. And I'm currently standing here without a shirt.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Nope, got it right from the man's mouth.

“Geez, I didn't realize you worked at that kind of bar.” Suddenly, John regretted calling Paul. “Man, I figured most owners would want
more
money, not less. So how long is your topless detention?”

“I thought I explained that in the 'indefinitely' part.”

“Right, right. Shit, so what's that mean for you? I can't imagine people order many drinks at lunch. And it's getting pretty damn cold outside. What're you gonna do?”

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I'm not sure yet. As of right now I don't have a choice.” He waited for the inevitable question.

“So does that mean I can't drink for free anymore? Are you even going to
go
there at night?”

“I'm not sure. It's been a while since I went to any other bars. I guess we'll see.”

A customer approached and said, “Hey, nipples, when you're off the phone get me a Wild Turkey.” John frowned, nodded.

“Listen, Paul, I'll give you a call when I get off.”

“Sure, good luck bro.”

“Thanks. Have fun corrupting the youth of America.”

“Already taken care of. Later.” He hung up. John filled the order and waited.

At 1:15 Stacy strode wearing a furry red coat and platform shoes. She hung up her jacket, gave John a quick hello and went into the bathroom to change. She emerged wearing 'Get Sloshed at Slappy's!' tank top. John could hear her jeans stretch as she walked. She did a lap around the tables, gave a less-then enthusiastic greeting to Sal, and took a stool across from John.

“Welcome to daytime television,” she said in a monotone voice. “I'll be your host Wink Martindale. Here in this corner we have lucky bachelor, John Gillis. Today we'll see if Mr. Gillis can handle the day-to-day chaos of making rum and cokes while simultaneously being bored out of his mind. Well Mr. Gillis, do you have any words before we begin?” He laughed and cleared his throat.

“Yes Wink,” John said. “I'd like to thank my parents, Ma and Pa Gillis, without whom I never would have received a college education and therefore would never have been able to use my degree to enter a workforce with unlimited opportunity for advancement. Thanks guys.”