The dim lighting reveals a small, narrow place, with the bar taking up two-thirds of the wall on the right side. A sign for the restrooms hangs above a doorway at the end of the room. Three tables with chairs occupy the remainder of the area between the restrooms and the bar.
And thankfully, no Christmas decorations anywhere in sight.
Two older guys sit at the far end of the bar, talking with the bartender. Said bartender looks back over his shoulder, and all three men stare at me like I’m an alien from outer space.
Which, considering what really I am, is not such a crazy idea.
But this isn’t what I’d call a real hopping joint.
And it’s likely not hiring.
As I start to turn around and leave, Andrea’s voice echoes in my head.
You never know until you try, Mom. That’s what you’ve always told me.
Nodding to myself, I turn back and walk up to the bar.
The bartender saunters down to my end, studying me the whole way. I feel like squirming beneath his intense, knowing gaze, and experience a sudden urge to run. The creatures within me sit up, assessing the situation.
“Can I help you?” he asks, reaching a hand beneath the bar.
Suddenly tongue-tied, I stammer out a reply.
“Uh, maybe. Is there a chance you’re hiring?”
Astonishment crosses his features, then is gone just as quickly.
“You’re looking for work?” His disbelief lingers in the tone beneath his words.
I nod.
“What kind of work?”
“Bartending.”
“Okay.” He slowly withdraws his hand from beneath the bar, then rubs his balding head as he appears to consider my request.
He’s a bit on the portly side, maybe in his early sixties. Laugh lines frame his brown eyes, but the area between his bushy grey eyebrows also carries the deep furrows of a hard life.
“Do you have a car?” he asks.
The question catches me off-guard. I’m not sure what having a car has to do with bartending.
“No. No car.”
This appears to take him aback as well.
“But transportation’s not an issue,” I reassure him.
He nods.
“Can you drive, though?”
It’s been a while, but I think it’s kind of like riding a bicycle. You never really forget.
“Yeah, I can drive.”
“Okay. How much you want?” He places both hands on the bar.
“What do you mean?”
“How much do you want to be paid?”
That’s strange. Shouldn’t I be asking him what he pays?
“Uh, whatever the going rate for bartending is here.”
“Well, it might be a little more than bartending. I need someone who can run a few errands for me. You know, pickups and deliveries and that sort of thing.”
That sounds . . . shady. Now his question begins to make sense.
“These errands. Are they anything I could get arrested for?”
Instead of being offended, he laughs.
“No. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Well, that’s not so comforting. He didn’t come right out and say the errands weren’t illegal.
“How much are you willing
to pay me?”
“I’ll give you a flat rate. Eighty-five per day.”
I think back, trying to recall my pay when I last bartended. It would’ve been about five years ago, around year 2000 or 2001. Average wages then were roughly six or seven dollars an hour, plus tips. He’s offering me ten.
“That seems a little high for bartending.”
“As you can see, business isn’t such that you’ll earn much in tips. We’re kind of a ‘family’ around here, but not a big one. Besides, that covers the extra work too.”
“Payable in cash?”
“No problem.”
“And I can only work nights.”
“I figured that.”
He figured that? Why would he think that?
Little alarms have been ringing in my head during our whole exchange, but they’re considerably louder now.
“How soon can you start?” he asks.
Desperate for a job, I can only give him one answer.
“Anytime.”
“Can you be here tomorrow evening by six?”
Since daylight savings time ended a month or so ago, the sun goes down earlier now, giving me plenty of time to wake and get here.
“I might be able do that.”
We size up one another for a silent moment longer. His brown-eyed gaze, though filled with curiosity, holds only respect—no attraction, no disdain, nor any of the other judgements I see so frequently in human eyes.
He nods to himself, glances down the bar at his customers, then looks back at me.
“It’s a deal then. Welcome to the family.” His cautious grin is somehow reassuring. “By the way, my name is Joe.”
He reaches out for a handshake.
Keeping my hands in my pockets, I just smile and nod.
“I’m Sunny. Sunny Martin.”
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