Sometimes I miss the wild, trashy nights with all the college kids. They still come out here, and this place can shake it on a Saturday, but we’re not party central like back in the old days before Monroe took over.
Then again, we were going out of business by the time Monroe took over, so I guess I should be grateful. It’s not even the old crowd I miss; I love what Monroe has done with the place, and for the most part we have some lovely, interesting people stop by for a beer—and tip much better for it—now that our dusty tube lights have been replaced by pretty bulbs hanging in strings along the ceiling. The new Taverne Toulouse is the kind of place you can sit for hours talking about life with your best friend, but that’s the thing: you can talk.
I miss the noise. I miss the chaos. I miss how crazy things used to get.
That’s my happy place: right in the middle of a raging dance floor. That’s when everything makes sense. You stop thinking about what things could be or how theyshouldbe, and you just move. You let the night carry you. You let the music pull you under and fill up your lungs until you’re breathing it in. There’s no other high like dancing in a sweaty crowd, spotlights painting your skin in shifting colours until you’re not really yourself anymore. You’re something bigger. You’re something better. You’re that shiny happy thing people spend their whole lives searching for, and it reels everyone around you in so you can’t possibly be alone.
Or something like that.
My newest little friend—which is what I call all the trainees Monroe puts me in charge of and which always makes her regret putting me in charge of them—clocked in an hour ago, and she’s struggling to keep up with me at the bar. I take a quick look at the order chits she has stacked up and then start pulling pints, pouring shots, and popping bottles until we’ve got things under control.
I glance over my shoulder after passing the last of the orders off to a server on the other side of the bar. The trainee—whose name Roxanne would really be making fun of me for forgetting—is staring at the pint glass in her hands like it’s a dying puppy as she fills it with way too much foam under one of the beer taps.
“I don’t know how to make it stop!” she calls out when she notices me watching.
She’s a cute little thing, with big brown eyes and a freckled face that’s covered in an overworked sweat.
“Give it to Mamma DeeDee,ma belle.” I slide in next to her with a fresh glass and show her how to avoid giving the customer a pint full of foam.
“Merci,” she says sheepishly after I’ve handed the order off.
I wave my hand at her. “Don’t mention it,chérie. It’s kinda my job to train you, you know.”
She laughs and starts wiping off the counters with a rag as we wait for the next rush to come in.
“Speaking of training you, you’re doing really great tonight! I know it gets a little crazy here sometimes, but you’re killing it, lady. You even did the lemon wedges right!”
I pull one out of the garnish station and point out the little slice made down the middle to fit over the rim of a glass. Then I pop the wedge into my mouth and suck the juice out before tossing the peel away.
Trainee tries to hide it, but I see her grimace like she’s the one who just got a mouthful of lemon juice. I know it’s weird, but I could eat my way through our whole supply of lemons in one night if I knew it wouldn’t get me in trouble.
Another order comes in, this time for a tray of specialty shots, and I start lining them up before grabbing the vodka, grenadine, and schnapps. I get a little flashy with it just for fun, shaking my hips to the indie rock on the stereo and spinning around between pours.
I glance over at trainee to see her eyes bugging out of her head. “How do you make it look so easy? You’re like a full-on mixologist—adancingmixologist. I can’t even pour a pint.”
“This is what I was made for, baby!” I joke. “You’ll get the hang of it soon.”
She might not get the dancing part. It’s kind of my thing.
We work our way through the shift until it’s just before midnight and the last server heads home. There’s still a handful of customers left talking over their beers, but they’ve all settled up, and the only thing left to do is wait for them to finish as we start on the closing duties. I have my groove on, doing all the little tasks I’ve practiced for so long I hardly even think about them. I have to keep reminding myself to explain things to the trainee.
“Okay,” I announce, once we’ve done everything we can possibly do without actually closing, “before we kick thesemecsout, you wanna make a little more money?”
I make my eyebrows jump up and down. The trainee’s mouth drops open like I just asked her to strip naked, but I’m used to it by now. People tend to get a little scared when I have an idea.
What can I say? Not everyone is born with a taste for adventure.
“How...How are we going to do that?” she stutters.
I reach for the tequila. “Shots.”
Once I’ve got a tray full of shot glasses ready to go, I grab a salt shaker and load up a little dish with lemons. I carry it all on a platter and make sure my crop top is sitting just right before I sashay my way onto the floor.
Nobody can resist tequila shots, not when I wink and tell them they’ve just gotta take ‘one for the road.’
It’s an old trick of mine. Monroe keeps threatening to print those words on a t-shirt and make me wear it, and Zach is always saying he’s going to turn me into a meme. They can tease all they want; I always sell every shot I pour.
After we’ve finally shut the place down, I walk the trainee through how to do her tip out and then ask her how she’s getting home.
