The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Barmaid Blog reader "J" wrote to me last week, saying:

I'm...writing because I wondered how you deflect unwanted attention and harassment, not just when you're behind the counter but also when you're on the street. I'm moving to a large city in the summer for the first time with my boyfriend and my sister and I've been offered a couple jobs as a bartender and a barista. I'm more inclined to take the latter position, even though bartending would allow me to save up more for college, not just because I have more experience but because I know the customer base is more, shall we say, sober by nature. I'm an Asian-American woman, in my early twenties, and have a petite frame - even in the college town where I work and live now, I can't really go a single day without a man asking where I live, or if I want a ride, or other unsettling questions that look tame in writing but feel invasive and unwelcome. And if it's this pervasive in ultra-PC Professorville, I imagine I'll have to brace myself for worse when we move. I've spent enough time in the city that I already know it's worse.

The intelligent, assertive, feminist response to street harassment is to confront the harasser, ask him about his motivation and try to make him understand how discomfiting his comments are. A commendable sentiment, but utterly impractical when I'm rushing to class, or - as is usually the case - I'm simply too scared that any kind of retaliation, rational or no, will escalate the situation. And the fact that I'm Asian only serves to exacerbate things (judging from the nature of a lot of comments, it seems like colonial perceptions of submissive, exotic oriental women are still alive and well today). The one time I lost my temper and volleyed back at a guy he followed me for seven blocks, muttering racial slurs and threats under his breath, until I turned a corner and raced to the bar where I was meeting my friend as fast as I could. Sometimes, especially after a really vulgar comment, I wonder what would happen if I just faced the man and started sobbing at him.

I'm worried because my sister is a few years younger than me, and right now I'm her only real guardian. She's beautiful and bright, and looks even younger than she is, and I'm worried that by making this decision to move to a more hostile city I'm exposing her to the same treatment. I want to shield her, but short of barricading her in our apartment I don't know what to do.

This sort of attention doesn't seem rare in your workplace, but in your posts it's rare that you seem to lose your humor or grace. Do you have any advice for me?

First of all, I'm flattered that you think I usually don't lose my humor or grace, and maybe that's true a majority of the time. I certainly don't think there was much humor in my reaction to being groped by a customer, and there definitely wasn't any grace to how I behaved when my ex Peter last showed up at the Bar.

But let's assume I'm willing to grant the premise that I handle that kind of attention well a majority of the time. I have a theory about that - well, two theories, I suppose, acting in concert.

The first theory, unfortunately, is that after nearly five years of slinging drinks I may just be desensitized to it. For whatever reason (and I really do think there's a lot of grant money in this if anybody ever wanted to study it), people will behave in a bar in ways they would never consider behaving at home, at work, or in most other public places. It definitely has something to do with the alcohol, but that can't be the only reason, because some people switch into asshole mode in the ten seconds it takes them to get from the front door to their stool. So it happens all around me every night, and therefore I'm used to it. That doesn't mean that what they do is right, it just means that what may have bothered me my first month on the job might not bother me now.

And remember, although I started this blog with the intention of telling old stories as well as new, there's been no shortage of new stuff to talk about, so it's been 99% new, all since the end of my third year as a barmaid. So you haven't heard about the keg delivery guy who nearly lost a few fingers when I stepped on his hand for trying to look up my skirt in 2004, or about the half-dozen or so times I actually succumbed to the temptation to throw a drink in someone's face before I thought better of it in general.

The second theory is that if I don't handle the attention well, I might lose my job, and even if I don't I'll definitely make less money. For better or for worse, if I can manage to ignore the lesser offenders, I'll still get their tips, and the Bar will keep their custom. And let's face it, I think the vast majority of them are lesser offenders, and the money is good enough that I don't have any problem tolerating it. It's the ones who cross the line I have problems with, but I also have enough autonomy in my job that I'm allowed to address the problem head-on, and at every moment of every shift, I have at least one other barmaid, a barback, and often a manager and a door bouncer to back me up.

Of course, I can't tell you where the line is, I just usually know it when it's been crossed. When I'm not sure, I have to admit, I usually err on the side of "lesser offender" - if only because I remind myself frequently that the Bar, like most New York City drinking establishments, hires us barmaids because we're friendly and attractive, and the way I dress on the job certainly isn't calculated to turn men off. That doesn't make the behavior okay, any more than a rape is justified by revealing clothing, but I really do think I draw the line differently because of it. When I decide the line has been crossed, believe me, I do something about it.

What's difficult for me about answering your question is that I don't think this helps you or your sister very much. You don't work in a bar, and you don't have back-up. Nobody should be subjected to unwanted attention just because she's walking down the street. I'll admit, I think my experience at the Bar has desensitized me to that, too, but I still recognize it when it happens. I mostly just manage to ignore it, or if I'm wearing my iPod, never hear it in the first place.

Maybe "Sex and the City" had it right years ago - maybe you really should just turn around and respond. I don't know if asking the construction guy to examine the paternalistic roots of his behavior or explaining the emotional and sociopolitical impact of his behavior to him is necessarily the way to go even when you do have time, but maybe just having the courage to turn around and do or say something is enough. What you do at that point is entirely up to you. Maybe you return his innuendo twice as forcefully, shock him into shutting up, then say, "I thought so," and turn and walk away. Maybe turning and sobbing, as you suggested, might work - I don't think most men actually mean to hurt your feelings, so maybe seeing how badly it hurts you might give someone genuine pause.

Hell, I don't know, maybe you take a deep breath, give a wink, shake your ass, and keep right on walking. As boorish and unpleasant as the method is, I think most men intend this crass behavior as a compliment, and just don't have the wherewithal to express it better. So sometimes maybe you just need to take it that way, and you'll both be able to go on with your lives knowing someone paid you a little more attention that day. Some might say it's not the classically feminist way of handling things, but I don't believe that every man who whistles at me on the street is ready for a scathing lecture about Simone de Beauvoir, either.

As for your sister, I have often found that the people I worry about the most are the ones best prepared to handle the world around them. I know you love her and want to protect her, but sometimes it's more important to trust her, first. I think you should talk to her frankly about what your experiences have been, and ask her about hers, then warn her that you believe it's going to get worse in your new city. Tell her you'll always be there for her if she wants to ask questions or if she needs help.

And then prove it.

Thursday evening I'm working with Cindy, and we're doing a decently brisk business, but nothing unusual. At one point Cindy comes down to where I'm cutting limes.

"Didn't you say that single malt Scotch is better than blended?"

"If I did, I wasn't explaining it well - why do you ask?"

She gestures discreetly toward the other end of the bar. "Those guys in the suits have been drinking Johnnie Walker Blue for the last couple of hours, and acting like it's a big deal."

"It is, kind of. Have you seen what we charge for it?"

"Yeah, tonight for the first time, though. That's why I'm asking."

"Okay, let me try again. Single malt isn't necessarily better, it's just more individualized. Every year's batch comes out differently, and a single malt is only made from that one year's batch, so it has a distinctive taste, kind of like a vintage wine from one year will be a little different from the same wine the next year." Cindy nods, and furrows her brow as if she's taking mental notes. "A blend is the distiller's attempt to make a Scotch that tastes exactly the same every year, by mixing a bunch of different batches together."

"Okay, then - is Johnnie Walker Blue so expensive because they somehow manage to mix a bunch of different batches together that tastes fantastic and exactly the same every year?"

I shrug. "Honestly, I have no idea. I don't like it, but then I don't like blends in general. Maybe if you're nice enough, they'll buy you one."

"Nah, I don't drink."

That stops me in my tracks. "Seriously?"

Cindy smiles. "Seriously. Nobody ever asked me at the interview, so I figured it was okay." She turns and goes back to the other end, where the suits seem about ready for another round. Not that I would've been looking for it, but now that I think about it, I can't remember noticing her with an alcoholic drink in her hand. How about that, I think to myself.

In the interim, Jack has come in, the first time I've seen him in a few weeks. I walk over with a smile and hand him his usual Stella Artois, and the first thing he says to me is, "Hey, Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Jack, I'm doing fine, why?"

"Well, your Facebook status last weekend said you were bawling like a little baby or something. I was a little worried."

I smile. "You didn't come all the way down here just to ask me that, did you? You could've e-mailed me."

"Oh, no," he laughs. "I was actually hoping to get some advice from Mario, and maybe you, too."

"Mario's not around tonight, at least not yet. What's the problem?"

"I asked you first," he grins.

I shrug. "No, it was no big deal... I was watching 'Band of Brothers' with Jenny all last week, and that night we got to the episode where Easy Company stumbles on a concentration camp they didn't even know was there, and there were all these hundreds of emaciated Jews, and thousands more dead. It just upset me more than I expected, I was a wreck the rest of the night."

"Oh, sorry. How did Jenny take it?"

I don't take my Judaism all that seriously; I mean, I work almost every Friday night, and I refuse to believe in any God who wants to take my bacon cheeseburgers away from me. But I guess I take it seriously enough that all things considered, if I ever manage to convince myself that having kids is a good idea, I'd like to have Jewish ones. And that has sometimes colored my dating habits with men, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it mattered with women before I made that leap.

I remember wanting to see "Schindler's List" when it first came out, but my parents wouldn't take me because they felt I was too young to handle it. When I finally rented it in college, I watched it at my sorority house. I was inconsolable at the end, but the few sisters who'd watched with me seemed kind of put off by my reaction, as if I was deliberately overdoing it. When I spoke with my father about it later, he asked if the other girls were Jewish. "No," I said, "but human suffering is human suffering, isn't it?"

I heard him sigh over the phone. "Debra, I think you know I'm the last guy who would ever encourage you to think of yourself as different or better in any way than anybody who's not Jewish. But the Holocaust is one thing that some people just don't get, and in my experience, it's been people who aren't Jewish."

I was genuinely shocked that he would say such a thing, and I dismissed it, thinking that maybe his feelings on the matter were shaped by growing up in a different time. And then I watched "Band of Brothers" with Jenny.

She asked me if I had lost any family members in the Holocaust. Not that I know of, I said between sobs, and it was true. As far as I know, both sets of my grandparents were here in the United States long before World War II. Maybe some distant cousins were still in Europe, but nobody's ever told me about them. To her credit, Jenny's only further reaction was to look at me a little funny; then I suppose she gave up wondering, and focused on just holding me instead.

So as I notice a large, co-ed crowd of softball players coming into the Bar, I shrug at Jack. "She spent the rest of the night comforting me." We made love well into the night, too, though I don't say it out loud to Jack - probably the best sex we've ever had, not that I could begin to explain why. Me and my white-bread, Episcopalian sweetheart getting each other off a half dozen times so that maybe we don't have to talk about how she doesn't get why I'm so upset and how I don't get why she isn't.

"That's certainly something."

"Hey, stick around, okay?" I say to Jack as I move off to help Cindy with the thirsty athletes. "What is it you need advice about, anyway?"

"A woman," he says, "but take your time."

Things don't quiet down for a pretty solid two hours after that, and by the time I have a chance to catch my breath, Jack's gone home.

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

It's a couple of Thursdays ago, and while most of the people in the Bar are watching the Yankees walk all over the Kansas City Royals, I've got one television tuned to college hockey. It's not even really for me, though I'm watching when I have the chance; it's for Will. It's the first time he's been back here since Samantha died, and we're all naturally worried about him. But for the moment, he's sitting at the bar talking to Mario, and Maya - Samantha's friend, and the reason she started coming here and met Will in the first place - is mostly just standing there and listening to him. Simone and I are taking up the slack willingly.

Notre Dame is playing Michigan in the national men's hockey semifinals, and they've jumped out to a 3-0 lead. Will has said in the past that he doesn't really care that much about Michigan's hockey team, even though he played on their football team, but it's the reason he's supposedly here, and he keeps shaking his head as things look bleaker and bleaker. During the second intermission, after Michigan has finally made a game of it by scoring two in a row, Will asks me a question I'd sort of been hoping wouldn't come up. But I suppose if it was to come up at all, it's best coming from him, because the main reason I wasn't going to talk about it was not to rub it in his face. "How's things with you and Jenny?"

"They're good, thanks. We've been spending a lot of nights together." Maya slips off to serve some customers so that I can stick around and talk for a while.

"Is it love?" he asks, the second reason I was going to avoid the subject.

"I have no idea, Will." And that's the honest truth. "But whatever it is, it feels very good."

"Okay, I'm - listen, I'm only going to say this once, but I'm sorry, there's just no way I can let it go without saying it at all, it's just who I am... can I, uh... please come over and watch it feeling good sometime?" Will finishes by smiling the most innocent smile. If it were anybody else but him, I might actually be a little angry, but with Will I have to laugh - and I have to be relieved that he's in a good mood.

"I'll make you a deal - as soon as New Hampshire wins the Frozen Four, you can videotape Jenny and me having sex."

Mario laughs, but Will just sticks his hand out for a shake. "You've got a deal, Debra. And you've made a brand-new New Hampshire fan." I wonder, for a moment, what I've gotten myself into... and then I wonder for a few more moments whether Jenny and I will still be together when next year's Frozen Four arrives, much less whenever my alma mater finally wins one. We've never really talked long-term.

Will sips from his Anchor Steam. "So how did you and Jenny meet, anyway?"

"Oh, it was a blind date. It's all her fault," I say, pointing to Simone, who's a few yards away trying to convince a customer that she doesn't really want to order a tall glass of Goldschläger on the rocks. "We road-tripped up to New Hampshire for a few days in mid-December. I met her family, we hung out at their brewpub in Portsmouth, then she came with me to see UNH play hockey against Maine... we got totally socked in by a snowstorm that weekend, and ended up raiding her Dad's wine cellar. She was bitching about the pressure she was feeling to get a boob job, I was bitching about the online dating thing, and suddenly she said, 'Hey, you and this lawyer I know would totally hit it off.' So she gave Jenny my e-mail and here we are."

"Wait," says Mario, "how did Simone know Jenny in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Simone used to be a Starbucks barista across from the courthouse in Brooklyn Heights, and Jenny used to come in a lot, or something."

"Nice," nods Will. "You really never know how you're going to..." He can't seem to finish the sentence, and looks away as he drinks more of his beer. Mario puts his arm around Will's shoulders. I really don't know what to do except reach for his hand on the bar, and give it a squeeze before I go back to serving drinks. When Michigan finally loses to Notre Dame in overtime, 5-4, Will has long since left for home.

First of all, many thanks to Barmaid Blog reader Stacie for sending me "5 People Who Died During Sex" from my Amazon.com wish list. It's a fun read, and much appreciated!

Barmaid Blog reader Michelle e-mailed me an article from the New Yorker's blog, "The Point of Tipping." Other than not having any idea why they picked that title for the article, I think it's well-taken. Amy, the Bowery Ballroom barmaid profiled in the post, isn't the first person to come away from a service industry experience with tipping stereotypes. In my experience at The Bar, gay men are usually the best tippers, and young, straight, immediately-post-college men are usually the worst. Women who are or have been barmaids or waitresses in the past (and they're usually not shy about telling me) also usually tip well. There's a pretty huge spectrum in the middle, but some patterns emerge, and shift over time.

But one principle holds true no matter who you are: "If you can't afford to tip, don't buy a drink," Amy says. Damn straight.

Michelle also mentioned, in the spirit of the article, a few artists she's been listening to lately - Priscilla Ahn, Sea Wolf, Beirut, Santogold, and A. A. Bondy. Of those I'm only familiar with Beirut, but I'll check out the others. My favorite recent discovery is Libbie Schrader, whom I saw a few months ago at the Bitter End... check out her incredible song "War on Science," but make sure you find the version from her self-titled album, not the one from "Letters to Boys." She's also pretty hot, but don't tell her I said so. Thanks for the recommendations, Michelle!

Barmaid Blog reader Dennis, who talked a little trash about UNH vs. Miami (OH) hockey last year, sent me another note in between New Hampshire's awful, inexplicable loss to Notre Dame (who even knew they had a hockey team?!) in the first round on Friday and Miami's first-round game against Air Force on Saturday:

I have been writing this email in my head for about a week now and since I have finally sat down to write it I am afraid that I am a bit too late. I was hoping that I could goad you into a bet should my Miami Redhawks play your UNH Wildcats.. but as I am sure you know by now that won't be happening. We are in the second year of a new building and have spent the entire year within the top five in the country, really only playing poorly in two home losses to the Great Satan of College Sports, Michigan.

I hope Michigan loses and hopefully that will pave the way for us... Also if you look at the bracket assuming we win in the first round I am hoping to play Minnesota in the second round cause I think it's unfair to play BC in Wooster, MA. Neutral site my ass.

We went over the "neutral site" thing last year, so I won't address it again... I haven't heard from Dennis since the games played out, but I have to imagine he had quite the heart attack when theoretical patsy Air Force took Miami to overtime before finally losing. I also imagine he wasn't too thrilled when Miami coughed up their 2-0 lead over Boston College, allowing three goals in less than two minutes... and eventually losing to BC 4-3 in overtime, the third year in a row that Miami's elimination from the NCAA tournament came at BC's hands.

You know you have my sympathies, Dennis, and not just because both of our teams are now playing golf - but because overall #1 seed Michigan is now in the Frozen Four and seeking their 937th national championship. *sigh* Maybe next year one of our alma maters (almas mater? almae matres?) will finally have their turn in the spotlight.

Lastly, Barmaid Blog reader Derek e-mailed to alert me to his own new site, "Tip the Hottie." It's a clever idea - barmaids post their photos, web surfers "tip" them based on how hot they think the barmaids are, and the winning barmaid each month gets $200. It's free for a barmaid to post a profile, and it's free to "tip," but the prizes are real money, so I gather that it's advertising-driven. There aren't all that many women on it yet, though - only one in all of New York state (and none in the city)! For the amount of effort it takes to post a photo, the possibility of $200 at the end of the month seems like a pretty good payoff, so I encourage my fellow barmaids to join up, and all my readers to show them some love with virtual tips.

It's a laundry day, people... time to add the fabric softener.

"I thought Bike Week was only in Florida," Maya shouts to Cindy and me as she passes with four pints of beer precariously balanced in her hands. I'm quickly trying to show Cindy how to layer drinks, and Maya's briefly picking up the slack until we're done. It's not an unusually busy Friday night, but Friday night is busy enough, so we're working as quickly as we can.

I shout back, "I think it's earlier in March, too," and after she sets down the pints, Maya shrugs and moves on.

"Is this Bike Week?" Cindy asks, and gestures to the back end of the Bar, where about a dozen men and three women have taken up residence in all their leather-jacketed, tattooed, rowdy glory. Their motorcycles made a horrific noise when they pulled up in front of the Bar about an hour ago, and since I've never seen these people before, I wonder if they chose their bar for the night based entirely on where they lucked into a couple of empty parking spots. Either way, they're running a credit card tab, so we know they're good for their drinks.

"I have no idea what this is," I tell her. "Bike Week is in Daytona Beach, and it's supposed to be one of the biggest gatherings of bikers in the world. Maybe they're on their way back from it or something."

"They're a little scary, don't you think?" She looks genuinely nervous, and I glance at them again.

"Think of them like you would any other large group of customers. I doubt they'll give you any trouble, but if they do, we've got your back - and you know Bill and Diego do, too." The layering lesson ended, we go back to slinging drinks, much to Maya's relief.

An hour or so later, I'm serving a third round of Cabernet Sauvignons to a very cute gay couple, when one of them points to the other and says, "Tony has something he wants to ask you."

"Carl, I do not!" Tony protests. "At least let me get another glass of wine in me."

"Fine, then I'll ask her."

Tony closes his eyes, covers his ears with his hands, and says, "I can't hear you!"

"Whatever it is, fellas, ask me soon, there's a lot of people I have to get drunk."

Tony sighs, and Carl puts a hand on top of mine. "Okay, Reader's Digest condensed version: Tony's never been with a woman, he's still curious about it, all his girlfriends have crushes on him and he doesn't want to screw them up, you're beautiful, blah, blah, blah. So?"

I smile. "Okay, my first reaction is, when you want a woman to sleep with you, you need a better compliment than 'You're beautiful, blah, blah, blah.'"

"You are, though," says Tony. "Your smile and your cute little ass are the best things about this place." I feel myself blushing, and for a moment I actually consider saying yes. He really is adorable.

"That's incredibly sweet, Tony, but I'm seeing someone right now."

Tony sighs again, and Carl pats his thigh. "That's one very lucky man."

"Woman," I correct him, winking.

"Look at you!" he marvels, and I head off to take more drink orders.

It's not much later that Diego taps me on the shoulder and directs my attention to Cindy, who's at the other end of the bar trying to take a drink order from one of the larger, leather-faced biker dudes, who has three other biker dudes behind him as spectators. She looks a little bit like a deer in the headlights, so I starting heading in their direction and tell Diego to give Bill a heads-up.

"...loosen up a little," is what I hear as I approach, "I just want to know what kind of woman you are, whether you've ever had a man like me." It's not really that far out of bounds from what we tend to put up with all night around here, so I let it slide and keep listening.

"So that's another round of beers, then?" she offers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. Nice, I think, but I stick around just in case.

"I mean, have you ever had so much beer you woke up the next morning with a brand-new tattoo and a guy you didn't recognize, and you didn't remember screwing him the night before so you screwed him again just to make sure?" All three members of his current entourage laugh.

"I don't have any tattoos."

"I'm not sure I believe you, I might have to check you for tattoos myself. Slowly."

I step in. "Sir, can I help you with anything?"

Leatherface ignores me completely. "Have you ever sold your house, bought a new wardrobe made entirely of leather, chains, and denim, and gone on the road with a man because you just knew you couldn't live without his vibrating engine between your legs every day and his dick between your legs every night?"

"That's... I, you don't..." Cindy's not happy.

I try one more time. "Hey, that's really not cool, okay? Why don't you back off for a minute, and we'll get you something to drink." His friends laugh again. And then it suddenly occurs to me that I might have been just a little bit hasty with my earlier advice. All told, there are an awful lot of them, and not very many of Diego and Bill. I think about my options, and slowly start reaching into my pocket for my phone, wondering if I could dial 911 without looking. That's when he leans forward, rests a hand on the bar, and gets right in Cindy's face, but doesn't lower his voice at all to ask his next question.

"Honey, have you ever been fucked on a Harley?" He leans back again and smiles, one of his compadres patting him on the back.

I almost have my hand in the air to signal Bill when Cindy leans forward and asks with great force and conviction, "What model and year?"

And that's when the hooting starts. Leatherface laughs right along with it for a minute, then says, "You're all right, sweetheart. Get us another round, willya? And this is for you." He throws down a twenty, and turns around to chat with his buddies while Cindy draws their pints.

"You all right?" I ask.

"Holy shit, Debra, where the hell did that come from?" she says, laughing and shaking a little.

I shrug and move on.

It's St. Patrick's Day, and the Bar is jammed. It was a tough decision for me, because with my seniority I'm allowed to schedule myself for the busiest nights and the best tipping situations, but St. Patrick's Day... well... pisses me off. People in bars are rarely using their best judgment to begin with, but something about March 17 every year makes people - and New Yorkers in particular, I think - cast off every bit of good sense, common sense, common courtesy, and inhibition that they might have previously had.

It's like spring break on Daytona Beach and Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street got together and had a baby, and it was raised by the cast of "Jackass." And only dresses in green.

Did I say "jammed"? I meant to say that the Bar is "a fucking zoo." I can usually judge how bad a night I'm having by how many times I have to remind myself what a great night of tips I'm having, and tonight I've lost count of both my tips and my reminders.

Sometime around ten o'clock, I'm pulling a few pints of Guinness when I see a petite woman desperately struggling to force her way through the crowd to the bar. I set down the pints to let the heads cascade for a minute, and try to get those bellied-up to make room for her. She finally makes it, and I see she's wearing a smart business suit, with a look of abject terror on her face. "I totally forgot it was St. Patrick's Day!" she shouts, which would explain the terror.

I nod. "What can I get you?"

"Do you have a lost and found box back there? I left a shopping bag with a brand-new pair of shoes here yesterday, they're very expensive and I feel like an idiot!"

I look up and down the bar and notice at least a dozen customers waiting to place drink orders, Jocelyn and Maya madly pouring and making change, and Diego barely managing to keep up with demand for clean glasses, cold beers, and full bottles of booze. "The lost and found is in the back room, I'd have to go get it, and it's really crazy right now - can you come back another time?"

"I made a special trip down here tonight - I'm sorry, could you please look now?"

I shrug and gesture "one minute." After serving and making change for the pints, I head for the back, hoping this might do something for my karma that I don't believe in. But I don't find anything resembling a shopping bag, a shoebox, or a pair of shoes, and I return to deliver the bad news.

"Oh my God, I can't believe anybody would do that - why would someone take my shoes? My feet are so tiny, they've got to be too small for whoever took them!" She's on the verge of falling apart, so I try to distract her with possible solutions.

"Do you remember where you were sitting yesterday?"

"Yes," she says, turning, "right over --" And as she points, I'm not sure if I can't hear the next word because it's so loud in the Bar, or because she never actually said it. Either way, I follow her finger visually until I see, hanging from a coathook on the wall beside the last table, a shopping bag bulging in a suspiciously rectangular fashion. She turns back, mouth open. "I'm so embarrassed! I'm sorry!" I wave her off as if it's nothing, because it really is nothing. As she goes off to reunite herself with her footwear, I dive back into the weeds.

A few minutes later, Diego comes back behind the bar with a tall stack of used pint glasses, sidles up to me, pivots, and presents his hip. There's something sticking out of his jeans pocket. "Lady said thank you and to give this to you, she didn't want to try to push her way back to the bar." I pull it out, and it's a ten dollar bill, which makes me smile, however briefly.

My only other real smile of the night comes when I'm leaving, at a little bit after two in the morning. Things are still going pretty strong, but I think Maya and Jocelyn have a handle on it - it's certainly no worse at this point than the peak crowd of your average Saturday night. So I cash out, grab my stuff from the back room, and make my way to the front door. I'm feeling sweaty and disgusting, and I know it's not too freezing out, so I carry my jacket instead of putting it on; when I step outside, I feel instant relief from the sudden chill.

I scan the area around the Bar to make sure I'm not going to step in anything green and disgusting. A group of five people is hanging out on the sidewalk, eating falafel or gyros or whatever they've bought from the cart down the street, but only four of them are standing. One is sitting down, in his own green mini-portajohn with the door open. It's a Hallowe'en-worthy effort, and I have to smile.

That's when he looks up at me from his sandwich, and says, "Your nipples are fantastic." I take a deep breath, put on my jacket, and start out on my walk home.

What would it take, I wondered, to bring me out of hibernation? Ten weeks of working, dating, writing my novel, and living my life without worrying about the instantaneous judgment of strangers.

No doubt about it, a girl could really get used to that.

I didn't even go into hiding intentionally - I was just posting less and less often, and then a few more days went by without blogging, and then a few more days, and then a few more...

In the meantime, Bonnie's modeling agency contract finally paid off, and in early February, Susan started coming around instead with Grace, a lovely Asian woman. The Coors family of products can rest confident in their place at the Bar. I haven't seen Bonnie since, and the few times I saw her in January, we managed to be civil.

Redhead took a huge leap and asked Danny out. She told me later that she'd finally thought of a good way to frame it: She asked him, hypothetically, if he could handle having a girlfriend who went out with other guys a few times a week as a wingwoman to earn a living. When he responded that he doubted it would ever come up, she asked, "Are you sure?" That was enough of a clue for him to figure out what was going on. That was the second weekend of February, after he'd been paying her for her company on a weekly basis for four months. Their first real date was on Valentine's Day, and she reported later that it was the most romantic evening she'd ever had.

I wanted to blog about it, I really did. For about five minutes, anyway. And then as usual I got busy with other things. I've been on half a dozen dates with Jenny, a very cool entertainment lawyer who writes poetry and has a beautiful black lab puppy. I like spending time with her, and it's not heavy or moving too fast or dangerous or bitter in any way. I've been working on my novel from time to time, but not nearly at the pace I'd like. At Lanie and Victor's request, I took an insurance seminar about managing bars - not because someone's leaving, but just to have me prepared as an alternate or substitute or whatever. Life, as they say, happens.

So why am I resurfacing now?

Valentine's Day wasn't a good night for just Redhead and Danny. Of all the improbable, absurd, absolutely wonderful things to happen, Will asked Samantha to marry him that night, and she said yes. She cried for nearly a half hour, I was told, while Will managed to keep the staff of the restaurant from freaking out completely. Then they danced for the rest of the evening, and argued about whether their kids would go to Michigan or Ohio State. They came into the Bar the next night to tell everybody the news, and show off her ring.

After that weekend, Samantha got sick.

Sam thought she had the flu. Will and Sam's roommate thought Sam had the flu, too. There's little about bacterial meningitis that doesn't make people who have it think they have the flu, unfortunately, and I guess timing is everything. Will was working all that next week, and although he was stopping by every night, by the time he got there that third night, she was hunched over awkwardly, barely conscious, and not responding to him. The hospital pumped her full of antibiotics, but by the time the spinal tap results came back positive, she was comatose.

Samantha died last Saturday.

I can only imagine how devastated Will is, because I haven't seen him or spoken to him yet. He accompanied Samantha's body back to Ohio for the funeral and everything else, and he's supposed to be back later today (Sunday). Maya went for the funeral and came right back, and she's worked the last few nights in a row to keep busy - in fact, she asked me for my Saturday night shift, which is why I'm sitting here at home, watching "Patriot Games" and writing in a blog I thought I might have left behind nearly two months ago. Some of you have claimed over the last couple of months in your comments that you came to care about the people in my life and what happens to them, so I thought you deserved to know what happened to Samantha.

I'm a little numb - partly because I was never Samantha's biggest fan, though it might seem callous of me to say so on this particular occasion. But it's also because I don't think her absence will change my life all that much. I wish there were some kind of deeply life-altering lesson I could take from all this, but "life is short" seems pretty useless to me. Will and Samantha couldn't have found each other any sooner than that first night they met each other in the Bar, so what good would it have done either of them to remind themselves how short life is? And I surely hope nobody would suggest that Will shouldn't have gotten involved with her in the first place, because it could have saved him the pain he's in now.

I would be deluding myself to believe that I am, every moment of every day, doing exactly what I want to do and making the most of my opportunities. But who really gets to live like that, besides people with trust funds and underdeveloped common sense? I'll take the joy I can from life and do my best not to hurt people in the process. But I can't live as if I'm racing against a clock, and I don't want to try.

When I finally tell her on Sunday, she's braiding my hair, an act at once childish and intimate. She doesn't pause or slow down, and I think maybe she doesn't get it. But when she's done she asks me what we'll do when her job brings her back to the Bar every few weeks, and I know she understands. I tell her we'll act like adults, and I hope like friends.

"I don't know if I could handle being just your friend again," she says. "It's not enough."

No, it's absolutely not enough. "I know it's not your fault, Bonnie, but it breaks my heart to be with you."

"Did you make up your mind before you came over here tonight?"

I made up my mind before I came over here the first night. "I'd been thinking about it."

"But you wanted to fuck me again."

Okay. I take a deep breath and reach for my jeans on the floor. I've got one leg nearly through when she reaches an arm around my chest and yanks me backwards onto the bed, my yelp meek like a puppy's. "Maybe I get to fuck you again, too," she says, and pins my arms. I don't even have time to think about the incongruity of the desire and the threat before she gets up again and walks to her window. I lie there equal parts sad, excited, and afraid. "You don't have to go now," she says, her back to me. "It's not a place to be walking around in the middle of the night."

I just stare at her body in the dim wash of the streetlight at the end of the block, and wonder how I'm going to watch her flirt with my customers without wanting to tear them apart. "Please don't leave yet," she says more quietly, and then she comes back to bed. We sleep, a little, here and there, but mostly we just grab at each other, unsure of how to let go. When I leave in the morning I'm leaving a gap in a part of me where, not so long ago, I never even knew I had a part of me.

Tuesday afternoon I'm at the Bar with my laptop, Jocelyn over my shoulder, taking advantage of the nearly complete lack of customers at this hour. I've logged into the one dating website on which I've ever had a profile, and I'm reactivating it and editing it ever so slightly. "I can't find the damn setting," I bitch at her.

"There," she points. "Wow, that could be a little less intuitive."

I switch from "Straight" to "Bisexual," and just like that, I've come out. I did it here many months ago... but this is a different kind of anonymity. On the dating website I'm just another 26 year old woman with a few witty sayings... it doesn't even say what I do for a living. But right there at the top is my photo. This, the profile now says, is a photograph of a girl who likes both boys and girls. Step right up and take a gander, you might see her on the street. My head spins.

"So what are you looking for in a girlfriend?" Jocelyn asks.

"Huge tits."

She laughs, "I'm taken!"

We craft a search for women around my age in or near the city who are also interested in women, and we start browsing. "Hey, she's cute," Jocelyn points, and I smile, thinking how far we've come since our first conversation after she found out I was bi. She is cute, though, and I scroll to read more about her. I barely get past "poetry," though, because the laptop goes "ping" and a new little instant message window opens up in the corner.

"ur hot," the IM says. The tiny little photo is of a mostly bald guy with a big, toothy smile.

"Thanks," I type in response.

"my gf & i love 3somes, u?"

"Wow," Jocelyn says. "That didn't take long."

"I might have to make a few more edits to my profile," I reply, and close the IM window just as a group of businessmen enters the Bar.

Saturday night is cold and busy at the Bar. Maya, Cindy and I are hustling to sling drinks, which is fine because it helps keep us warm - something the Bar's usually adequate heating system isn't doing too well tonight. I swore tonight would be the last night of the season for wearing something that shows my midriff and my navel jewelry, but I'm regretting not making that decision earlier. I'm ready to start setting small campfires, using bad tippers for kindling.

Vince was the smart one - he's quite comfortable in his black anarchy sweatshirt. And of course there's always a silver lining to everything... tonight, not a single patron will accidentally leave a coat hanging on a chair or barstool, to be stolen or thrown into the Lost & Found box.

Shortly after eleven o'clock, in walks Redhead with a man in tow. Redhead is a "wingwoman" for hire, and she's been in here several times since she worked my friend Dara for a client, though not in a few months. She looks good, maybe even better than usual - but her client, I'm afraid to say, doesn't. Not that he's dressed sloppily, though I suppose he could stand to be dressed in clothing from sometime this decade... he's just not that good-looking. Plus, he's a little scrawny. I can see why he might need the confidence and the credibility he'd get from Redhead introducing him around.

I am the barmaid Redhead knows best here, and I know she likes to make sure her clients tip well, so it's worth some effort to make sure I serve them their drinks (merlot for her, gin and tonic for him). But with things as busy as they are, I don't have much time or opportunity to keep tabs on whether she's able to be of any help to him. I do notice at one point that Redhead has managed to engage someone in conversation with her client, a blonde woman who's actually got a good few inches on him - but the very next time I turn around they're on their own again.

It's only just past one when things start quieting down a little - maybe the cold is chasing people home, or maybe people have after-hours parties to go to, but it's definitely lightening up earlier than usual for a Saturday. So I'm catching my breath and doing some mental tip math when I see Redhead's client give her a hug, drop some cash on the bar, and head out the door. She sticks around, though, and is just finishing up her fourth glass of wine when I wander over with a freshly poured glass as a buy-back. I slide her client's tip into my pocket.

"Thanks, that's really nice of you," she says as she stops biting her nail and takes a sip.

"What's the matter, did he have a rough night?"

She frowns at me for a moment, as if she's deciding whether to talk to me about it. "No rougher than usual."

"So you've been out with him before?"

"Once a week for two months now," she nods.

I whistle. "That is rough."

She smacks her hand down on the bar. "I just don't get it. I know Danny's not the best looking guy around, but I'm doing the best I can to vouch for him, and they're just not taking the time to get to know him. I feel awful, like he's going to start asking the agency for a refund or something."

"Hey, listen, you can't take it so personally. Whatever it is, some people just don't have enough of it, and maybe that's all that's going on. Remember, this can be a rough town for guys who aren't handsome, rich, or both, just like it can be rough for girls who aren't young, skinny or both - you should know that better than most people. You wouldn't have this job otherwise."

"I guess. Maybe I wouldn't be so upset if I hadn't gotten to know him so well myself already. I just feel like the next time he calls the agency and asks for me, I should... I don't know, tell them to send someone else."

"Maybe that's not a bad idea. Let someone new take a fresh crack at him, and let yourself off the hook."

She sighs, then takes a long pull of her merlot. "Yeah, but I won't."

"Why not? It's not like you won't get other assignments, right?"

"They won't be Danny." Her lip starts quivering, and then she covers her face with one hand. "Shit," she says, shaking a little.

I lean over the bar and lay my hand on her other forearm. "Hey, what's the matter?"

She lifts her hand, and I can see tears in her eyes. "I'm falling for that scrawny little guy," she says. "I started out just feeling bad for him, but he's so nice, and so patient, and such a good person, and I just want to scoop him up in my arms and take him home. I feel like I can't do my job properly because I don't want other women to like him, but I know he'll never see me the way I want him to. We only met because he hired me to be his friend."

"Wow. Well - are you sure about that? I mean, you're a beautiful woman, don't you think he might be able to get past the whole paying you to spend time with him thing?"

"That's -- thanks, I just -- I don't know. I mean, most guys, if they're interested in me, I can tell. I just don't see it with him. And there are strict rules about even giving him my phone number, let alone seeing him outside of our official appointments. If I tell him how I feel or ask him for a real date, I could lose this job. If he doesn't feel the same way about me, I've lost my job for nothing."

"You have a day job, don't you? I mean, business isn't so good that you're earning your whole living as a wingwoman, are you?"

"Well, kind of, yeah, I am," she says. "I'm a grad student, and my stipend is barely enough for rent - three nights of Wingwomen a week is how I eat."

"Sorry, I didn't realize. What are you studying?"

"Clinical psychology."

I'll be damned. I refill her glass, and pour a couple of fingers of Lagavulin for myself. With occasional interruptions so I can serve other customers, Redhead tells me about her grad studies, and about the sliding scale clinic where she already practices individual talk therapy under faculty supervision. And with a gleam in her eye, and a smile she can't wipe off her face, she tells me about Danny.

It's time for a confession: I hate Starbucks.

"But wait, Debra," I hear you cry: "You post from Starbucks more often than just about anywhere besides home!"

Yes, well, this is probably true. But I'm never there for the coffee - I really prefer the Ethiopean stuff we brew at home, which I can make anytime. I'll cop to enjoying a few of their specialty drinks, like chai lattes and frappucinos, but most of the time I stay away from those because they're expensive and absurdly fattening. No, when I'm at Starbucks, I buy the smallest, cheapest beverage I can, and I nurse it for as long as possible, because I'm there for one reason, and one reason only: The wi-fi.

T-Mobile Hot Spot is expensive if all you want to do with it is get online at Starbucks. But I gather it's not too pricey as an add-on if you're already a T-Mobile customer. And guess who added it on while I was dating him? My obnoxious ex from a few years ago, Peter. And he hasn't changed his password since. Not that I'm costing him any extra money, but I think it's fitting that he's been providing me with free wi-fi at any Starbucks in the country since he dumped me.

So there I am sitting in one of my several neighborhood Starbucks options on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, catching up on e-mail, happily IMing a few friends, occasionally writing a few words of my novel, and trying to sip the final remnants of a small (I absolutely refuse to call it "tall") coffee. A man walks up to me, and says, "Excuse me, are you Pamela?"

He's kind of cute, so I'm tempted to throw him a line like "I might be," but instead I just smile, and say, "No, sorry." Must be meeting a blind date, I imagine as he frowns, and I go back to my e-mail. Out of the corner of my eye I notice him leave only a few minutes later, and I idly wonder how long most people give it before they consider themselves stood up.

Twenty minutes later I'm merely pretending to sip, when another man approaches me, this time short, bearded, and not as cute as the first. "Pamela? Wow, you're --"

Now I'm intrigued. "No," I say without smiling, "I'm not Pamela."

"Sorry, I -- sorry," he says, and practically breaks the doors getting out of there.

Another ten minutes, and another man walks up, this one overweight and bespectacled. "You must be Pamela," he says.

I push my chair back, and stand up. "You're the third guy to mistake me for someone named Pamela since I've been sitting here. Is this one of those jokes where the next person to come in is Pamela, asking if I've got any messages for her?"

"You mean -- you're not --"

"No, I'm not!" I say just a little bit loudly. "Now, who's Pamela?"

"Well, according to the ad, you are! I don't see anybody else like you in here," he adds, gesticulating grandly.

"Wait, ad? What ad?"

"On... on Craigslist." He reaches into his jacket, and unfolds a printout. "I Reward Courage," the headline reads.

I'm lonely today, and I want to meet a new man. I've always admired men who had the guts to approach me and be clear about what they want. So this afternoon, I'm at the Starbucks at [intersection], waiting for a man with the guts to tell me he wants me, so I can take him home with me. I'm a beautiful woman with shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair with brunette roots, I'm wearing glasses and a navy blue sweatshirt, and I'm posting this from my Mac laptop. If you have the guts to approach me and be honest with me about what you want, you might just get it.

I look up at my third suitor, who's sweating a little. "And you're definitely beautiful," he says.

I fight not to roll my eyes, since it's not his fault. "Listen, that's sweet," I say, handing back the ad. "But I'm not Pamela, and I didn't post this ad. I think someone is having a cruel bit of fun at my expense." I look around the room, wondering if that someone is still here.

"And mine," he adds.

"Yeah, I guess so." I close my laptop and start wrapping up the adapter cord, hoping to get out of there before the place is packed with Pamela-seekers.

Tuesday night I'm on with Cindy, who's been with us for a few weeks since Kira decided she couldn't work on her feet anymore. I'm not sure exactly when Kira is due, but we're expecting good news sometime during the holiday season. Cindy is a capable, hard-working barmaid, but she doesn't talk much. She hasn't really made any friends on the staff, but she's friendly enough to the customers, and as long as she does her job and doesn't make our jobs harder, she'll be just fine.

Business has been light, so I've been working on an experiment all evening. My friend Dara happened to mention to me during brunch on Sunday that she would come back to The Bar more often if we served something that tasted like Starbucks's pumpkin spice latte. So I'm determined to create something that tastes as good, isn't nearly as fattening, and (of course) gets you drunk, something Starbucks can't do.

I strain from a shaker into two small glasses for the sixth time tonight, sprinkle cinnamon over them both, and hand Dara one of them. We clink our glasses - again - and try a sip. I close my eyes.

"Oh, my God," she says, "that's it. That's it! What's in it??"

"I can't tell you what's in it, Dara, you'll just make it at home!" But she's right, I think I've got it.

"No, I promise - I'll even bring Dennis by to try it, he loves the lattes, too!" I must look skeptical, so she continues, "You don't even have to tell me the quantities - just what you used."

"Okay," I shrug. "I started with that new rum-based chai liqueur stuff, Voyant. Then these last couple of times, I added Stoli Vanil instead of plain vodka, which I think really helped. But I also topped it off with a little bit of something else. Remember that stuff I brought back from the Netherlands Antilles a couple of years ago, that I keep stashed in the cooler?" I hold up the tall, narrow bottle of Ponche Caribe, the closest thing to an eggnog liqueur I've ever had.

"Are you going to be able to get more?" Dara asks.

"I'm pretty sure it's available in the States. But listen, if it means keeping your money out of Starbucks's hands, I'll go back to Curaçao for a case."

She finishes off the test-size glass quickly. "Make me a full-size one this time, and then start packing." We laugh, and I start mixing some more. "Wait, what are you going to call it?"

I pause for a moment. "I have no idea. Pumpkin spice latte is already taken."

"What about Jack-o-lantern, or Pumpkin Pie?"

"No, those are already real cocktails."

"Well, we'll come up with something."

Three days later, we still haven't. Anybody want to take a crack at it?

Todd Rundgren plays on The Bar's jukebox, a sappy, needy ballad that seems out of place on a semi-rowdy Saturday night. Cleveland and Boston are playing baseball on our televisions, and they've been battling it out for what seems like ten or twelve hours already, with the game now in extra innings. For reasons I've never quite understood (other than the obvious financial bottom line), as much as this is a Yankees bar, other teams' fans are strongly encouraged to drink here anytime their season extends past the Yankees' - which is more often than usual these last few years, I suppose. So the place is packed, with a ratio of about three Indians fans to every Red Sox fan.

Jocelyn pokes me in the side as she passes on her way to the wines, and yells over the din, "Wake up, Debra!" I'm having kind of a hard time maintaining an appropriate level of interest in what my customers want and how frequently their glasses are empty. It could be the Yankees' seventh-in-a-row early departure from the playoffs several days ago distracting me, but I doubt it. When I have a spare moment I turn to the top shelf and glance at the usual suspects. I finally choose the Macallan 12, and pour myself a finger.

Here's to you knowing me better than I know myself, I toast internally, and drink my Scotch.

The crowd erupts in cheers, and I see that Cleveland has scored on a Trot Nixon RBI single to go ahead in the eleventh inning. It's the wee hours of the morning already, far past the usual time for even night baseball, but I've got nothing against people staying longer and drinking more. Indeed, I'm almost hoping the Sox tie it up in the bottom of the eleventh so that I can sell more beer, and get more tips.

Here's to independence, I toast, and drink some more Scotch.

But that tie becomes far less likely after Cabrera scores on a wild pitch, and then a short while later, Martinez comes home on Garko's own single. So now it's 9-6, and the atmosphere is festive. I can barely keep up with the orders, but I find time to pour myself some more Scotch as I go.

Here's to the law of unintended consequences, I think, and then I drink.

The score has somehow become 10-6 without my even noticing, and Vince is even having trouble keeping the cooler filled with beer. My cell phone vibrates for the first time in days, and my heart leaps with a bizarre mix of hope and cynical certainty. Ignoring my usual habit of waiting to look, I take an immediate glance at it. It's a text message from my friend Henry, comprising exactly three words: "What the hell?!" It's like a punch in the gut spreading guilt to the rest of my body. I take a deep breath, delete the message without responding, and pour myself another finger of Macallan.

Here's to the power of public humiliation - his and hers, a matching set. And down it goes.

Gutierrez puts the final nail in the coffin with a three-run homer, and everybody goes berserk. Jocelyn and I are in the weeds, just barely keeping up. When Boston is back up at the plate, and clearly not about to have a similar seven-run rally, the place gets so loud I can barely hear the orders. A big girl in a Cleveland cap orders a couple of cosmos, and I reach behind me for a shaker and two glasses, without even looking.

"Debra!!" Jocelyn runs over, grabs my shaker hand, and nearly knocks me over - the glasses in my other hand slam into the bar, and shatter. Somehow, I escape without a scratch.

"What the hell?!" I scream, and the indignance of the phrase resonates in my throat with irony.

She holds up my shaker hand, and it's not holding a metal shaker, I'm holding a metal bottle. "You almost mixed some drinks in Eddie," Jocelyn says.

"Well, what the hell was he doing next to the shakers," I rationalize. It's not my fault, these things just happen. The intervention of another human being in a well-laid plan. Mistakes were made. Nothing to see here... move along.

I overmix for the two cosmos, so that after I fill both glasses, I have a good, long slug left for myself. Soon the game is over, and although a decent part of the crowd sticks around to celebrate, it's very late. Soon enough it's down to a few regulars, die-hards, and disbelieving Red Sox fans, and before long even they have to leave. It's after four in the morning, and I'm not numb enough yet for my feet not to hurt.

After cleanup and another couple of fingers of Macallan, I manage to get a taxi with ease. "Brooklyn," I tell the cabbie when I get in, and then I tell him which intersection.

He hesitates when he hears the street names. "At four-thirty in the morning?" he says. "Are you sure?"

I don't have the time or the patience for this. "Are you turning down a twenty-dollar fare?" He shakes his head, and activates the meter. I send a text message reading "On my way," and then I close my eyes, waiting for the dread to go away.

I catnap for part of the ride, in my warm, fuzzy, Scotch-induced blanket. At this hour the traffic is light, so it's not even five when he pulls up in front of the building. He makes good on his promise and waits until he sees the door's been buzzed open for me before he drives off. I take my time climbing the three flights of stairs, not in the mood to be out of breath or to stumble, and when I arrive on the landing, the door is already open.

Bonnie stands there in a white kimono and slippers, looking down into my eyes, looking for - what? I avoid her gaze by staring at the curves in the silk where it meets her body, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to understand the red patterns in the design despite the poor hallway lighting and the Scotch in my eyes. The quiet fills the landing, and all I can think about is how badly I want to know what her skin smells like. My stomach is still on its way up the stairs, I feel like I want to start crying, and she holds out her hand.

I let Bonnie lead me into her apartment and close the door, and then I let her lead me into her room and close that door. And then I let her lead me, and lead me, and lead me, and that closes another door, probably forever. Her skin smells of freedom, and choices, and collateral damage, and burnt bridges. Friction drowns out the emptiness. Sweat silences the pain. Rhythm suffocates the guilt. And as the sun slowly starts to rise over Bushwick, our cries justify everything. Everything.

Two Weeks Ago (Friday, August 31)

It's a warm, busy Friday evening. The Devil Rays are gradually having their way with the Yankees, bending them over just a little bit more each inning. Maya and Kira and I are holding our own; another couple of dozen customers and we'd be in the weeds, but it's the beginning of Labor Day weekend, so a lot of people have left town.

There's no mistaking it anymore; anybody who looks at Kira knows she's pregnant, and to her pleasant surprise she seems to have found the one thing that guarantees good tips even more than huge breasts. It's a little counterintuitive, maybe, since being pregnant means she's even less likely to go home with any customers than usual, but it's certainly nice to see people treating her well. That's especially true since she's determined to keep working until she decides she can no longer stay on her feet for an entire shift.

Bonnie and Susan, the Coors promo girls, are in the Bar tonight getting guys to play their music trivia game, giving out swag, and drinking bottles of Coors like they're going out of style. When they take a break, Bonnie seems uncharacteristically silent, but Susan comes behind the bar, coos at Kira's tummy, and even gets permission to lay her hands on it for a minute. Nothing's moving around in there much yet, but Susan still gets... well, a kick out of it.

There's time for a quick break right around when the baseball game ends, and I take myself to the ladies room for a bio break and to splash water on my face. When I come out, Bonnie is waiting in the short hallway, taking a pull from her bottle of Coors with one arm, and with the other holding out a full bottle for me. "Take five, Debra," she says, after swallowing. She's a little flushed from what must be six or seven beers by now. I smile and take the beer, and we lean up against the wall next to each other while people come and go.

She asks me what's going to happen when Kira takes her maternity leave, and the truth is that I don't know. I imagine Lanie and Victor, the owners, will hire someone temporary, or maybe they'll beg us all to work more shifts, but it'll all work out somehow.

"Debra, when did you do... that with your hair?"

"Oh, I did that while I was on vacation out in California a few weeks ago. What do you think, do you like it?"

Bonnie smiles, and doesn't say anything, but keeps looking right at me.

"What?" I say, getting self-conscious. She rolls off the wall, puts a hand in my hair, and kisses me.

It's such a soft, easy, unexpected kiss that it's the most natural thing in the world for me to kiss back. It's a friendly kiss, a "what if" kiss, a "your new blonde hair turns me on a little and I just want to innocently show you" kiss, a "we've become close enough friends that I can kiss you like this" kiss. And after a while, it's lasted long enough that it's no longer any of those things, it's an "oh, my God" kiss, a "why haven't we ever done this before?" kiss, a "this is really fucking hot" kiss, and an eternity later, as her free arm goes around my waist and pulls me in toward her, and I feel myself start to get wet, it becomes a "shit, what am I doing, what the fuck am I doing?!" kiss, and I push her away.

We're breathing heavily, and not saying anything, just looking at each other, when a random guy standing in the men's room doorway says, "Could you do that again?" Reality comes crashing back in, and without saying a word I turn down the hallway to get back to work. Everything he was worried about, I think to myself, everything I've managed to convince him he's just simply paranoid about, I just became that. And he's going to find out whether I tell him or not. And he's going to learn what kind of person I really am and he's going to leave, and I don't want him to leave, I love him. I love him and I just did the one thing he's been most afraid of since we started dating, and how could I do that when I love him?

The rest of the night I manage to stay behind the bar mixing drinks and earning tips without allowing my eyes to meet Bonnie's. She and Susan leave a little after one in the morning, and I go to the back room and cry.

It's a rare quiet moment on a busy Thursday night, my eleventh shift at the Bar in fifteen days, making up for eleven days out of town. I want to go lie down somewhere, but I can't do that. Bracing myself for a moment on the shelf the cash register occupies, I let my head relax and look at the floor.

Jocelyn puts a hand on my shoulder. "Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired."

"Hey, I hope you don't mind my asking... you haven't posted on your blog sinc