Help Wanted

The cabbie kept eyeballing me from in the review mirror, I ignored him and told him to drive slower. I looked around, there were targets everywhere but they weren’t quite right. As the cabbie turned on Harrison, the one I had been waiting for was suddenly before me like a gleaming beacon. I had barely been in the cab twenty minutes.

I paid the cabbie, when he asked me for a date I told him to see me when he was off. If he had enough money I would play. The place wasn’t exactly a bright spot on the street and the neighborhood didn’t look like the best, but it had potential.

I doubted if the neon HELP WANTED sign was for real—probably just a bid to draw people in but it was worth a try. The door was propped open a couple of inches, I bumped it with my hip and stepped in making an entrance that wasn’t necessary… There was no one on the other side.
The room was bathed in a soft light, but it still showed me enough. The floor was grubby cement that had been painted over a dozen times. Pink, red, gray…they had tried them all. I heard someone coming, heavy footfalls moving with quick deliberation. I made myself walk in further, I set down my bag in a nearby chair and waited.

The door directly across me opened, a young man stepped through it—he was about half the size of his footsteps and was carrying two trays of glasses and flat of soda.. Small and wiry he had a shaved head and Buddy Holly glasses. I watched his arms flex with weight, but he didn’t seem strained. He glanced at me and continued over to the bar that snaked around the wall to my right.

A large neon on sign behind the counter said "The Pink Pussy", the outline of woman with a cat tail and ears straddled the P’s in the sign. He set the goods down and turned his attention to me. He didn’t speak—which immediately unnerved me—he simply stared. He closed the distance between us and I realized that I had lost my voice as well.

"I saw the help wanted sign."

He didn’t laugh, or smile.

"Where have you worked?"

His voice was deep and silky, I tightened my body up at the sound my arms covered in goose bumps and was sure that he noticed.

I rattled off a list of bars and cities. I saw the doubt in face and waited.

"Whiskey Sour"

"Fresh or that mix shit."

I didn’t mean to curse, he smiled.

Fresh.

1 whole lemon squeezed, 2 oz of whiskey customers choice, 2 tsp. confectioners sugar, garnish with a lemon slice and a cherry.

He rattled of a series of drinks, to which I quickly laid out the recipes.

When can you start?

Tonight

He looked me up and down.

"What your wearing is fine, but you won’t survive in those shoes."

I have others.

He stepped closer.

"May I ask a personal question?"

I was about to tell him to fuck off, then my curiosity got the better of me.

"How old are you?"

I shifted from one foot to the other.

"29"

Two hours, and ten pages of lies later I was working behind the bar under my legitimate name. The other bartender, who went by Shack and three waitresses had all arrived as Don was showing me around. The waitresses were younger than me, at least the looked like they were, Shack was in his forties and Don I found out was 31. They little barmaids were sitting down waiting for the after work crowed to start teetering in and eyeing me. Every once and a while they would giggle or lean over to each other and whisper with a hand covering their mouths.
I didn’t give a shit. I had all of them on any given day—the best looking one was a train wreck compared to me.

At exactly 4:07 PM the first group of customers walked through the door.
Show time.