A Bartender’s Trigger

When the sales bros want to go to a bar, you’re labeled a pussy if you don’t go. This is a label I’d worn several times, but I wasn’t in the mood on that particular Tuesday.

The bar was one of NYC’s attempts at the faux-rustic/hipster vibe so prevalent in design at the time. The metal tile-work ceiling was clearly a kit. The lighting was lots of bare hanging bulbs from “reclaimed” wooden planks. The whole place was trying a little too hard to have history — it had only opened a year prior. That said, the bartender was “hot, due to the bartender bonus” and so it had become Marcus’ favorite post work spot. Our boss hardly ever came out and tonight was no exception — I had my suspicions why.

Six of us piled into the bar. The boys went for shots immediately, I stuck to beer. Post change, I never drank anything heavier than beer or wine, unless I was home. Marcus, ever the band leader took the prime position, clear of the taps, but right in our bartender’s transit path. He wasn’t a tall guy, but he made it his business to lean over just a little too far over the “reclaimed” wooden plank — just enough to slightly invade the sacred space behind the bar. Our bartender was a good sport. Marcus had been coming in on-and-off for weeks. I could tell the banter between them had been well rehearsed. She liked to use words like “honey” and “baby.” Her clearly middle-New Jersey accent gave her an accessibility not common to the typical “hot bartender.” Her makeup was heavy, not quite caked on, but definitely an attempt to mask her age. The dimly lit back bar helped obscure the years she’d lived and things she’d seen. She had dark eyes and bob haircut. She wore a Def Leppard tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. Her arms were toned and tattooed — a snake coiled down her arm it’s rattle resting the crook of her elbow. She wasn’t thin, exactly, more athletic in build. She wore fancy street-appropriate leggings and sneakers behind the bar. Any observer could tell A) she didn’t have anything to prove to anyone and B) she liked to work out. Sipping a Blue Moon I listened to the guys talk about what they were going to do that weekend. Paul and Josh were going to take a ski trip with their girlfriends. I was going to be stay home with the kids. Then there was Marcus who proceeded to launch into a story about what he was going to do.

“This girl is a fucking freak, dude.” He said just a little more loudly than I would have liked.

“Seriously, the other night she told me ‘Hold my wrists over my head and fuck my mouth.’ I was like ooooh shit.”
The guys roared.

Our bartender kept passing by the group of us, doing her job and listening to Marcus brag. Her movements were light and quick when we first walked in, but I could see she was slowing down. Not exactly lingering to listen, but I could tell she was paying attention. Marcus continued.

“This bitch likes it roooouuuugh. She told me to choke her against the wall. I’m telling you, no, seriously. Eventually, I had her against the wall by the throat and I was smacking her across the face tell her she was mine and she was about to get fucked.”

Our bartender visibly withered in front of me. Patrons were starting to grow impatient as she barely moved. Her eyes grew distant. She was somewhere else — she held the bar for balance. I leaned over the bar and touched the top of her hand. “Hey are you OK?”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” She snapped back without ever looking at me.

“Sorry,” I said pulling my hand back.

She turned and walked back into the ladies room, leaving the bar unattended.

Marcus realizing she had left turned to me and said, “What the Fuck did you say?”