Nudity For Fun and Profit Chapter Four: Bar Back
The elderly Irishman peers suspiciously at me as he wipes down his bar top with a wet rag.
“D’ ya have any bartending experience?” he asks.
I glance down at the floor, and then back up at him. “Not exactly. But I’m a fast learner, I’m really friendly, and I’d be terrific with the customers.”
He frowns. “That right? How d’ ya know? Ever wait tables?”
“No, but –”
“Ya know how to run a cash register?”
I brighten. I worked at an ice cream parlor one summer while I was still in high school. “Sure! Who doesn’t?”
“How old’re ya? Ya look like yer underage.”
“I’m twenty-three. I can show you my driver’s license if you want.”
He grunts. “Are ya strong?”
“Strong?” I’m puzzled. “I don’t know. What do you mean by strong?”
“We don’t have a bar-back. Ya’d hafta haul yer own kegs up from the basement whenever the tap runs dry.” He leans over the bar and stares at me intently for a moment. His face is inches from mine. Close enough for me to know that he drank his lunch today. “Tell ya what. Come on down the basement and we’ll see if y’ can lift ‘er. If ya can, then ya got yerself a job.”
I look around the bar. The place is nearly empty. An old man two stools down from me gazes raptly at the television without blinking or letting go of his mug. Next to him there’s a guy I’d say is in his thirties, clad in a flannel shirt and three days’ grizzle. He’s chain smoking with one hand while aimlessly shredding a bar napkin with the other. In one of the corner booths, a middle aged couple appears to be getting properly hammered as they raise their glasses every few minutes and spill more beer than they’re drinking.
“Does it get busier than this?” I ask the bar man.
He shrugs. “Depends on yer shift. Last night it was standing room only.” He beckons. “Follow me.”
I trudge behind the bar after him and down a cramped staircase into a cold, tiny basement.
“Back stock,” he explains, indicating cases of beer piled one on top of the other and barely leaving space for us to walk through. “The kegs’re over here.”
Several kegs sit behind the wall of cases. Wow, that’s useful.
He bends over, picks up a keg, and puts it down in front of me. “So let’s see what ya got, little doll.”
I squat, taking care to lift with my legs instead of my back, and hoist the keg up with both arms.
“Well, how ‘bout that,” beams the bar man. “Yer much stronger than ya look. A regular little spitfire, ain’t ya! Go ahead now and take ‘er up the stairs for me. That’s a good girl.”
My trouble carrying the keg isn’t due to its weight, but its girth. I take a step with my arms around it. Then another step. I’m almost over to the staircase when I slip on a loose piece of cardboard. By some miracle, I remain upright. But the keg goes flying.
“Shit!”
It crashes into the stacks of beer cases and lands on its side. My mouth falls open in horror when I see those cases implode on themselves. Dozens of beer bottles shatter. A tide of Heineken heads along the floor in the direction of the bar man’s boots.
“Oh, my God… I’m so sorry!” I begin.
The bar man glares down at me with menace in his eyes.
“Get out,” he growls.
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