Nudity For Fun and Profit Chapter Five: Beer Battered

Door to door, one watering hole after the other. What gives, anyway? Aren’t there any bar jobs left in New York?

Today has been a complete disaster. I’m tired and hungry. I can’t afford to eat in any of the places I’ve been to, so I’ve had to content myself with cramming handfuls of free pretzels or peanuts down my throat. This has earned me more than one dirty look from the service staff. One barkeep actually snatched the bowl of peanuts away from me and hissed, “Those are for the customers! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

I think I may have canvassed the entire city. Now I’m in a First Avenue tavern, trying to ignore the way my mouth has watered at the smell of beer battered onion rings. The bartender, who told me that his name is Billy, is pleasant looking. He’s in his late twenties. He has blond hair and a great smile, which I’m sure is the real reason I’m still sitting here.

Billy said that the owner of the restaurant would be in at six o’clock. Then he offered me a free drink. That was around five. Now it’s close to seven-thirty.

To his credit, Billy has kept them coming. I must be on my fifth Guinness by now.  I still haven’t given him a dime. Perhaps he’s trying to seduce me. If I wasn’t so busy trying to hide the fact that I’m a haggard, worried mess right now, I’d probably let him.

Instead I motion him over and ask whether he’s sure that the owner is going to show up. I’m surprised to hear myself slurring. I hope he doesn’t notice.

“He always works on Saturdays,” Billy assures me, looking apologetic. “Probably hit traffic on the way in. He’ll be here any minute.” He swiftly refills my glass.

I take another sip to be polite. We smile at each other. Billy touches my hand, winks, and hurries off to serve a group of guys that just came in. I feel a head rush coming on so I close my eyes.

“Hey, honey, you okay?” Billy’s voice sounds far away. Disembodied. I think that I mumble an answer of some sort, but I’m not sure.

My eyelids are heavy. I struggle to force them apart, but then I squeeze them shut again because I’m seeing double.

I think that I’m only closing my eyes for a moment. It must be longer than that, though. Because everything goes foggy and I feel like I’m dreaming. The next thing I hear is someone clapping his hands next to my head, which has found its way onto the top of the bar.

“Hey! Look at me. Hey! You can’t sleep in here.” There’s more clapping. A beefy pair of arms lifts me off the barstool and shakes me. “Billy, get me a glass of water for her.”

My vision is pretty blurry. But even through my haze, I recognize the facial expression of the man standing in front of me as one of obvious annoyance. “You gotta learn when to quit, young lady,” he reprimands me. “If I was you I’d go on home now.” Then he vanishes into the kitchen and leaves Billy standing over me.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Billy grimaces. He looks sheepish. “That was the owner.”

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