Bartending equals sweat. It’s hard, dirty work. It’s a craft, a trade — a trade-off of your sanity, strength, liver and circadian rhythm for piles of 1’s and 5’s and a shift drink. It’s a state of mind (the Floriduh of the United States of Gibbering Unctuousness). If you are lucky, you work in a classy joint where the tips are good, the customers are tolerable, your boss isn’t a total cockmunch, and your co-workers are not revolting pieces of oxygen-thieving human excrement.
If you are unlucky (and also, generally, a piss-poor example of well-adjustment), you’re me. I got my start as a waitress at a beer/sandwich hut behind the public golf course when I was 18. My dad had just caught me making out with my first girlfriend, Lil’ Ro, a few days before; and he told me I had one week to get my shit together and move out of his house, because no daughter of his was going to turn into some butch-ass bulldyke on his watch. He told me I could come back home if I went back to peckers, or got knocked up. He really does have a kind soul — encased in crusty wife-beater stretched over several hundred pounds of partially digested chicken fingers, of course. Anyway, he actually did me a favor, because at that shitty little beer hut on the golf course, I met a nice lady lawyer who hired me to bartend topless at her fancy rich-lesbo pool parties. At one of those parties, I met a Portuguese stripper named Loula, whose tiny evil Chihuahua pooped on the rusty floorboard of my ’84 Honda. Loula then introduced me to Stanky Pete, who managed a dockside strip club on Cockroach Bay called the Busty Flamingo.
Stanky Pete hired me to bartend because I have giant boobs, yet refused to dance on the laps of black-toothed shrimpers for sweaty dollar bills. Pete had an unhealthy appetite for bootlegged Chinese porn and homemade absinthe. He also had a very small penis which he referred to as Thor, but in the dressing room it was known as The Light Switch. Strippers rarely agree on anything, but all the ladies in that house had seen it enough times to form a unanimous nickname (er, dickname). Loula invited me to share a rickety trailer down on the beach with her and her gay little brother, Tuo Loco. Job and housing therefore acquired, time began to slide into a skeezy gelatinous river, fueled by booze and the sweet hot titty sweat of dancing girls.
Some bit of time later, during the Summer of Hurricanes, I noticed that every Tuesday night or so, this dodgy-looking chick would come in with a cardboard box, scurry back to Stanky Pete’s office, stay a while, and then furtively duck back out the dockside door. Finally, I caught her eye — a single crazed orb staring at me through a mop of once carefully coiffed emo-hair which was now plastered to her skull as if she had just been thoroughly drenched by the universe’s cosmic chamber pot. She skittered out of Stanky Pete’s office, bounced off the bar and landed hard on a moldy barstool, causing a cloud of toxic yellow stuffing to puff out. She was attractive in that skinny, Euro-trash, trenchcoat mafia, needed a sandwich but someone gave her a hit of heroin instead, kind of way.
“It’s still raining,” says she, in the most erotic whiskey and smoke voice I’d ever heard. “Stanky Pete says I can have a bar tab and some wings while I wait.”
“What flavor wings? Mild, hot, nuclear reactor, garlic nuclear, teriyaki or ranch? And what are you drinking this evening?” says I, leaning over the bar so she can get a good look at my perky lesbian bosom, strapped into a second-hand Vicky’s Secret push-up and presented nicely in a Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top.
“Uh… can I get a dozen garlic nuclear, a Dewar’s on the rocks, a rum and coke, and an ice cold shot of decent vodka with a splash of olive juice?” She glances at the bosom and demurely looks away. Ding ding — I think she’s Family. Or at least willing to give it a try.
“The wings’ll be out in a sec. Any particular order on all that booze, or you want it all at once?”
“All at once is fine.” She glances at my rack again, and pulls out a battered and soggy pack of American Spirits. Before she lights one, she pushes her wet emo bangs aside and gives me a direct, come-hither glance with both of her crazy, lovely, slightly reddened baby blues. Oy, my clichéd hipster darling, I’m in love with you already.
I start lining up drinks in front of her. She downs the vodka shot and makes a delicate little moue with her Revlon-stained lips. She takes a big old drag of the cigarette, and then blows smoke bubbles into her Scotch. Perhaps I should have carded her.
“So, you said ‘while you wait.’ What are you waiting on? Are you meeting someone?” Please not be, I think. Please be all alone in this world.
“Hah. No. I came by boat, my running lights are burnt out, and I can’t see the buoys while it’s raining. When it clears up, I can find my way back home, but if I go out in this shit, I’ll end lost up in the Gulf and be one of those people you hear about on the news — ‘Dumb-assed woman takes boat out in the middle of a storm and gets captured by pirate zombies — film at 11!’”
Hmm. Interesting. I like boats. I like hot chicks who own boats even more. “So… what kind of boat? Like, a party boat? I wanna party on a boat…” Ooo, sounding really classy there. I’m such a dork. Well, I can’t help it, this chick is smoking hot and I’m a sweaty bartender covered in hot wing residue.
She gives me something of a scathing look, and then recovers. “It’s not that kind of boat, honey. This is my dad’s old fishing boat, I use it to help him with the family business, so to speak. My name is Mae, by the way. Nice to meet you.” A hand is offered — tiny unreadable tattoo on the wrist, soft skin, smells of smoke, faint perfume, and diesel fuel. I want to kiss it. I want to take her hand and place it on my thigh. I want to suck her fingers. I shake it lamely instead.
“I’m Barra.” Derp. Stop sounding like a damned moron, Barra. “Well, Barra, that is a lovely name. What do you do?”
“Um. I’m a bartender?”
“No, honey. I mean, what do you do? I’m an acolyte in the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu. I weave baskets. I drink competitively. I read the Tarot. I bake cakes shaped like sexual organs. Saying you’re a bartender would be like me saying I’m a saleswoman of booze and porn.”
Huh — I never thought about that before. I identify as a bartender, and as a lesbian, and that’s it. I don’t really have any hobbies to speak of; I like to read racy science fiction, but stating “I read” makes me sound like I need to wear a helmet.
A diversion! “Oh, your wings are ready. I’ll get them for you.” As I head over to the kitchen window, I want to kick myself in the ass so hard that I walk funny for a month, but I have the distinct sensation that she’s looking at me from behind, so I try for a sexy walk instead. Tuo Loco hands me the wings, and I see Loula behind him making the international hand sign for “Let’s go smoke some adult substances.” I give her the international hand sign for “Gimme five minutes, I’m trying to mack on this chick out here,” she nods, and the plans are made.
By now, Mae has downed a Scotch on the rocks, a large shot of Russian vodka, and three-fourths of a very strong rum and coke. She seems none the worse for wear, and immediately begins to maow on the wings in a most unladylike fashion. Being ladylike is totes over-rated, anyway.
“You seem like you have two brain cells to rub together — what are you doing working for a douchecanoe like Stanky Pete? Don’t you get tired of being groped all the time?”
Fascinating and wittily hip statements about my past just aren’t coming to mind. I decide to be honest: “He hired me as a bartender ’cause I said I wouldn’t dance; and I told him making any moves on me would be like jerking off into the wind… because I’m a lesbian.” Holding my breath now.
“Hey, me too — that hasn’t stopped him from trying to grab my cooter once or twice. Well, you seem much tougher than me — maybe he’s afraid of you.” Sluuuuuuuurp on a wing bone.
Oh snap — wait just a second — did sister here just tell me she’s into chicks? Hot damn! “Um… you got a girlfriend?”
Mae gives me the eyeball again. I can’t tell if it’s good or bad this time. “No. I don’t have very much luck with relationships. I just got back to town a couple of weeks ago, so I haven’t had time to meet a lot of people.”
“Oh. Well. Maybe we should hang out sometime.” So. Lame. Ugh, that is like the limp dick of pickup lines. I really need to work on my game.
She’s smiling at me! “I’ll forgive the mediocrity of that statement — if you’ll do a shot with me. Something fancy. Show me your skills, barmaid.”
Squee! But as I pick up my Boston shaker, I notice Loula and Tuo Loco frantically waving at me from the door of the dressing room. The bar is practically deserted aside from my Manic Pixie Dream Girl, so I could have easily slipped away for a puff; but it seemed bad form to step away right when I’m getting ready to impress the hell out of Mae with my bad-ass mixology. At that moment, Mae turns around and sees those two Portuguese imbeciles doing a silly dance with their butts in the air, trying to get my attention.
“Interesting. What do they want, you to come get high with them, or something?”
I goggle. “Er, yes. Exactly. But I was getting ready to make us a shot.”
“Shots can wait. Mind if I join in? I’m sure they won’t mind — I’m holding some myself. Come on.” She pops out of the barstool and runs over to join in their dance. A few whispered words between them, excitement, and they all run back into the dressing room. I feel a touch put out.
In the dressing room, there is a wide Formica counter that runs around all sides, topped with pitted and warped mirrors. Mae and I take a perch on the counter, Loula and Tuo Loco plop down in the nearest unoccupied seats. A roller is produced and lit, and there’s peace and quiet for a moment while everyone inhales.
Suddenly, there’s high-pitched banshee hollering: “You ignorant gutter slut! How many times do I gotta tell you to keep your hands off my customers!” This is Precious, a tall, stunningly beautiful Puerto Rican transsexual stripper. She makes the best tamales. She’s chasing Bettina, one of our newer girls — a mother of four with an unfortunate skin condition and a penchant for wearing second-hand Catholic school uniforms. Bettina skids into the dressing room on 5-inch clear Lucite heels with dollar bills tucked into them, and spins to face Precious, wagging a crimson-taloned nail in her face.
“You uppity tranny! You ain’t the boss of me! Don’t tell me what to do. If Enrique wants a REAL woman, then that’s what he’s gonna get, so fuck you!” Bettina pushes Precious in the chest area, but Precious slaps her hands away.
“I AM a real woman, you ignorant twat!” Precious takes a swing at Bettina, but she ducks, momentarily teetering on those heels, creating the hope that a stripper face-plant is imminent. The two of them bob and weave like uncoordinated and cocaine-fueled cage fighters. Meanwhile, I’m staring at Mae like a lovesick seal pup, she’s laughing like a loon, Loula and Tuo Loco are bogarting the shit out of that roller. I tap Loula and gesture for it; she leans in and says, “Twenty bucks say Precious kicks her in the asshole.”
“No way,” say I, “that’s a suck bet. Bettina is a bitch-ass ho, I bet she fights real dirty.”
“Either way,” says my little emo darling, “there’s gonna be some weave-snatching any second now.”
And with that prophetic statement, Bettina fakes to the right, then grabs a handful of Precious’s extensions with her left, and yanks with her whole body bent back. On the return, Bettina gets in a vicious punch to Precious’s solar plexus. Precious bends over, wheezing, and steps back to recoup. “You dirty, trashy, whore!” Wheeze. “You smell like Velveeta and your pussy,” wheeze, “smells like a diaper full of shrimp!”
“Come on, punta, don’t give up now! Keek her in the taco!” screams Tuo Loco. “Shit down her neck, quireda! She called you a tranny!” Loula has joined in with her shrieking now. My peaceful smoke break/ getting to know you session with Mae has turned into Bitchfight at the OK Corral. This is ridiculous. Plus, this ain’t my first bitchfight, and I have no interest in becoming collateral damage as this spreads, as they always do. I start looking around for the safest way to grab Mae and make a graceful exit.
At this point, Precious has recovered her breath, steam is pouring out of her ears, and I swear to God her eyes are glowing red. I am so very glad that I am not Bettina right now, because I get the distinct feeling she’s about to get her ass handed to her, Precious-style.
Bettina is backing up, weighing her chances of escape versus getting in the knockout blow. She is looking over Precious’s shoulder, hoping, I suppose, that this feeble move will cause her attention to shift long enough for Bettina to make the coward’s run into Stanky Pete’s office (where he’ll get over his dislike of whiners and tattlers by making her do a disgusting “favor” for him).
Precious stiff-arms Bettina with her left hand, takes a huge step forward, and grabs something with her right. She winds back and whacks Bettina right across the face with whatever it is. I hear a hissing sound, and then the rapidly louder steamwhistle shriek of pain from Bettina. Something heavy clangs to the floor, Bettina bends backwards and forwards, clutching her face and howling.
And now I smell the scent of burning human flesh.
Smoke begins to gently curl up from the floor, where a giant, red-hot, industrial-stripper-sized curling iron has landed on a pile of dead skin bits and fake hair.
Precious lifts her arms into the air and runs around, doing a victory lap, receiving high-fives from the other girls. No one was cheering for Bettina, it seems; Bettina has run out of the dressing room, sobbing, with an oblong pulsating red blister across her cheek.
“Jesus Christ, Precious,” I say.
“What? Fuck her. Don’t you feel bad for her, Barra. Behind YOUR back, she calls you a greasy bull-dyke, and she stiffs you on your tip-out. So I did you a favor too. Bitch can’t dance now with half her face missing. Maybe now she’ll learn to keep her white-trash, government cheese-smelling mouth shut, and quit stealing everyone’s johns!” And with that, Precious and her clique storm back out into the club. Loula and Tuo Loco take the last two tokes, stub out the roach in the ashtray, shrug, and leave the dressing room. Loula gives me a lascivious wink as the door swings closed.
Silence.
“Wow.” Mae looks a bit stunned. She stands and picks up the still smoking curling iron. It has bits of face flesh stuck to it. I don’t think you could use it to curl hair any longer; a weapon it has become, and a weapon it shall forever be. “Stanky Pete should mount this thing on the wall as a trophy.” She rips the plug out of the socket, and sets the iron in the sink.
“Gross.” I am grossed out. And embarrassed. How Dirt McGirt am I for working in some jizz-joint like this, where a bitch can whack another, dumber, bitch across the face with a red-hot hair implement, as an audience of drunks, pervs, and drug addicts watch and cheer? Are we in fucking Ancient Rome here? Oh my God, I work in the Circus Vomitorium.
“You know, I didn’t mention this before, but my tenure as an absinthe and porn smuggler is coming to an end soon. My parents own a shitty dive bar on Bonzai Beach, and they want me and my brother to come home and look after it while they’re on vacation. Would you like to come with me, and help out?”
Mae turns to face me. In the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the dressing room, she is a dark angel, with skin the white-blue of new milk and glistening black hair. She lifts her eyebrow at me.
I step forward and kiss her hot whiskey lips.
“Is a pig’s dick pork?” I say.
She answers, “Of course… but it isn’t kosher.”
“Let’s go do those shots — then sure, I’ll quit my job, get in a boat in the dark pouring rain with a strange woman, and go do God knows what. Sounds legit.”
“It’s totally legit… my darling.”
We link hands and walk out of the smoky hot darkness of the Busty Flamingo, and into the wet night.
This article appears in Jan 5-11, 2012.