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

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.

"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.

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.

I hate it when the World Series only goes four games.

No matter who plays in the Series, business is always great and the tips flow freely - and as with most of the other big tip nights, the most senior barmaids get first crack at working those nights. And I'm the most senior; I have been for nearly a year. The difference here is that if I sign up to work Superbowl Sunday, at least I know the Superbowl will actually happen.

So here I am working on Monday night, my sixth night on in a row, which I hate to do unless there's a really good reason, and the Dr. Suess Series ("Rox vs. Sox") is already over. The Red Sox have won their second Series (and second Series sweep) in four years, and there's talk about how the "Nation" is already getting as obnoxious and entitled as we Yankees fans supposedly are (or have been, or were), but whatever they're doing tonight, they're not doing it here. Monday Night Football is always good for a decent crowd, but for whatever reason Green Bay and Denver isn't a marquis matchup for customers of The Bar, so it's not a good crowd. Maya and I are doing a lot of hurry up and wait.

The one real saving grace is a group of five women in business suits drinking at my end of the bar. They've clearly had some success in whatever their field is, because they're treating themselves to a significant amount of top shelf liquor - premium vodka martinis, single malt Scotches, even an Opus One wine, something we don't advertise we carry unless someone asks for something of its caliber - and round after round of it. Unlike a lot of the women who drink here, they're holding it pretty well and not making asses of themselves. Best of all, even though one of them gave me a credit card to hold onto and run a tab for them, there's been a steadily growing pile of cash in front of their spot on the bar with my proverbial name on it. Unless my experienced barmaid's eyes are mistaken, they're tipping me two or three dollars a drink, which might just make my sixth night on in a row worth getting through.

I love it when customers know how to make me happy - it makes me want to make them happy, and then everybody has a good night.

"How long have you been doing this?" asks one of them as I'm serving another round. They're all probably in their thirties, and this one is the tallest and by all indications the leader of the group, if not in the office, then certainly in The Bar.

"A little more than four years," I reply, and clear away the last of the previous round's empties.

"I don't know how your feet can take it," she says. "I lasted less than a year."

"Oh, where did you tend bar?" I guess that helps explain the generous, and cash, tips.

"A little dive near the University of Arizona, where I was going to school."

"Hey, I'm a Wildcat, too! Just the University of New Hampshire variety."

"That's funny! I've never been up there, but I hear it's pretty."

"Likewise with me and Tucson."

"Yeah, I miss it all the time - I'd go back to visit, but I don't really know anybody there anymore. And my firm doesn't recruit from their law school, so I can't sign up for a free business trip."

There's a pause, and my experienced barmaid's sense of timing leads me to say, "Well, just let me know if you ladies need anything else." I go to enter their drinks on the register, and out of the corner of my eye I see a few more bills land on the pile of cash.

I've been talking a good game these last several months about making it back to New Hampshire for a visit, but with Jessica's wedding, my other trip to California, my problems with Gary and our eventual break-up, and working long hours here, I haven't gotten around to it. And now it's hockey season again, and UNH's men's team is 3-0-0 and ranked #4 in the country.

Well, right now I'm free of obligations to anybody but myself. I haven't been at UNH or seen a UNH hockey game since 2002, and it's time to do something about that. I resolve to look up their schedule when I get home, pick a weekend, and just go.

It's well past midnight when the Wildcat and her crew pack it in for the night, vowing to return some other time. I wait an appropriate interval after they're out the door before scooping up what they've left me, and giving it a quick glance with my experienced barmaid's counting eye.

It's close to two hundred dollars.

They just paid for my weekend in New Hampshire, it occurs to me. I start to think about ice and sharp skate blades, about hot chocolate and tattoo parlors, about local hockey fans and the smell of wood burning in a fireplace. And I smile.

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.

Thursday evening, Maya and I are on, with Jocelyn expected later. Most eyes are on the television watching the Yankees, but shortly before eight I hear Bill shout, "Vince!" and half a dozen heads sporting curious looks turn just in time to see the barback in question high-five the bouncer who greeted him. Entering behind him are the reasons we're all so curious, his girlfriend/my roommate Jill, and Vince's father.

Vince hasn't talked much about his past, so we have no idea what to expect - only that Vince's father is in town for a few days for a conference, that Vince wanted him to meet Jill, and that he would be coming back to the Bar after they went out to dinner to see what his son does for a living these days. What we aren't expecting, given that Vince is a wiry, hip-looking, tatooed guy who wears nothing but black jeans and t-shirts, is what walks in the door with Jill on his chivalrously extended arm: A middle-aged man sporting a fancy walking cane, and wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

"Everybody, this is my father, the Professor," says Vince as he approaches the bar, and his father introduces himself to Maya and me, and then to Mario and a few other regulars who have gotten to know Vince well.

"What can I get for you, Professor?" I ask.

"Debra, my dear, I would be most grateful and, indeed, most impressed if you were to mix me a burnt fuselage." He smiles warmly.

I freeze for a moment, and then I remember something I read a while back, something about Paris during the Great Depression. I nod and smile back at him, then I turn to the back of the bar and mix equal parts Grand Marnier, dry vermouth, and Courvoisier cognac over ice, with a bit of lemon rind. After four years of doing this, every now and then someone still stumps me, but it won't be tonight. I also mix a cosmopolitan for Jill, and then serve the drinks. The Professor takes a sip, then turns to his son, who's now behind the bar starting his shift, and says, "Vincent, your colleague seems quite knowledgeable. So far, I most heartily applaud your choice of workplace." I beam, and Maya chuckles.

"What did you think of his last job, Professor?" she asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean, young lady. Are you referring to one of the musical combos he traveled with?"

Maya laughs. "Yeah, the punk bands - you know, Cheap Sex and 7 Seconds?"

"Well, personally I thought that 7 Seconds were rather derivative of the Dils, but Vincent seemed to learn an awful lot about life in their employ. And quite frankly, how often do you find a punk rock band capable of conveying a positive message?" With her jaw practically bouncing off the bar, Jill offers a toast to the Professor, while Maya skulks off to the other end of the bar to serve some thirsty Yankee fans. Vince just shakes his head, smiling, and goes off to collect some glasses.

I think I recovered pretty quickly and pretty well from our mugging on Tuesday. Sometimes I can be stronger than I realize - it helped even just to write about it, and doing so made me realize what a hero Gary is and how lucky I was to have him with me that night. But today I feel a little bit like I've been kicked while I'm down.

There seems to be some confusion, and maybe it's because the previous post was an excerpt of my novel in progress wherein I had some trouble with the old "show, don't tell" maxim of fiction writing. So when I returned to reality with the next entry, I guess I could have chosen "In This Post, Gary and I Get Mugged" as the title, but it never occurred to me that anybody would have trouble understanding that from reading what I wrote.

I can't give you descriptions of our assailants. I don't know what they did to me to knock me down, it happened so suddenly. I don't even know what Gary did to scare them off, because I haven't asked and I'm not sure I want to know. I didn't set out to confuse anybody. I swear I don't even remember what street we were on - what I wrote on Wednesday is the entirety of what I observed and what I remembered. If you feel the need to critique it, I suppose that's your prerogative, but don't expect me to apologize or say I'll try to do better next time I'm mugged.

I'm not going to write about me yelling on the phone with Jessica, or breaking my favorite coffee mug. There will be no account of my taking it out on Maya last night. And Gary holding me while I cried this morning will not suffice. Some of you apparently need to be told, not shown, so now I'm telling you:

I'm upset.

Saturday evening I'm working a double, to help make up for the time I spent away for Jessica's wedding the previous weekend. It's too early in the season for people to be out at the Hamptons, the Yankees are playing their cross-town rivals the Mets in iffy weather, and the Bar is very crowded with fans of both teams, though mostly of the Yankees. Jocelyn is on with me until midnight, and Maya will join us at eight.

A small group of Mets fans arrived early to stake out some stools at the bar, all of which are usually taken up by Yankees fans. One of them is drinking Glenlivet, and when I stop by to ask if he's ready for a refill, he asks me to recommend other good single malts. I quickly launch into my usual "peaty vs. smoky" spiel, pointing out some of the other options we have on the shelf, but when I'm done, he asks, "What's that one in the middle, in the back row?"

I look, and smile when I see the silver bottle. "That's Eddie."

"Eddie's not a single malt Scotch, is he?"

"No, Eddie's the brother of one of the owners."

"The owner keeps his brother's ashes in the bar?"

"Her brother's ashes, and yes, that was Eddie's wish. Some of his ashes here, some in Yankee Stadium."

"The Yankees let people do that?"

"The way I hear it, they actually don't. But Lanie managed to bring them in anyway, and scattered them on the Yankees' dugout during warm-ups."

"So is he there because he was a Scotch fan or something?"

"No, he doesn't stay in one place. Lanie says he was like that when he was alive, too - he'd sit in a different place in the Bar every night. I've never seen anybody move him, but one night he's next to the beer taps, the next, there he is among the Schnapps. Um, Schnappses?"

"Now you're just yanking my chain because I'm a Mets fan."

I smile, and pour him half a finger of Lagavulin. "Give this a try. If you like it, you can pay me for a full one." He thanks me and tosses a couple of singles on the bar for me. As I turn back from the Scotches, I see Gary making his way through the crowd, and I tense up. I've been back for six days and he still hasn't called - and as tempting as it's been to call him myself, he said he would call me, and that's the one time I think it's not unreasonable to expect someone to be the caller and not the callee. But he came into Manhattan on a night he's not working, so the least I can do is listen to what he has to say. After checking with Jocelyn that it's okay, I step out from behind the bar and take him to the back room.

When we emerge ten minutes later, I've made a promise not to blog about what we talked about, but I'm smiling - partly because I'm happy that he came down here to see me, partly because of what he said to me and how it made me feel about him, and partly because I think it's funny that it seems like the back room at the Bar is becoming something of a no-blog zone. I give him my apartment key so that he can go wait for me there, and he gives me a big kiss. Then he's gone.

By the time Maya comes in, the Yankees have mounted a respectable rally to within one run, but it's not enough, and the Mets score a couple more runs to take their second win in the first two games of the three-game series. That's going to stick in a lot of people's craws. But the Mets fan drinking Scotch is gracious about it, as are his friends, and they stick around for a while afterwards.

"How did Eddie die?" he asks after a few more fingers of Lagavulin.

"September 11," I reply. "He was a firefighter."

"And they recovered some of his remains?"

"One of the few."

The Mets fan repeats the story to his friends, then he orders another round for all of them and one for me. In the middle of a noisy, crowded bar, the four of them take off their hats, raise their glasses toward Eddie, and observe a moment of silence.

Monday is another gorgeous day, and I'm walking to midtown to meet Gary for a late lunch at a nice restaurant with outdoor seating, so we can spend some time together and catch each other up on our weekends before I head for my shift at The Bar. Everybody is really starting to dress for the weather, which is wonderful, but awfully distracting - there are some incredibly attractive people in New York City, and the more skin they show, the more I have to remind myself to watch for traffic when I cross the street. So when I'm crossing Third Avenue, and crossing in the opposite direction is a curvy blonde woman who must be close to six feet tall, I'm mostly paying attention to her tan, and how the light blue spaghetti-strap tank top she's wearing flatters her form.

And then only a few feet away, I finally notice what's on her shirt. It's a Barmaid Blog t-shirt!! In those few split seconds, I stop and open my mouth to say something - then once I realize I have no idea what I would say without revealing who I am, I start walking again - then I stop short, and wonder if I should lie and tell her I'm just another Barmaid Blog reader to have an excuse to talk to her and find out who she is, but I'd have to run after her at this point, which would just be weird, so I start walking again. I'm so flustered I'm sure I've gotten in other people's way, but nobody says anything, so I just keep going, my heart racing and a smile on my face.

Over the last few blocks to my destination, I remember to my chagrin that it's been several months since I launched that t-shirt store, and yet I still haven't figured out how to order the two shirts I owe Rebecca Sweeton (Yoo) for her winning logo design sent to her without my name and address on the packing slip. I make a mental note to ask a friend to do it on my behalf - the same friend who's acting as a sort of casual, de facto agent/lawyer for me on a couple of other things that are brewing. If he reveals who I am, I get to sue him. Goodness knows Rebecca's waited patiently long enough.

At lunch, I tell Gary what happened, and he seems amused by the whole random encounter and tiny little bit of fame thing, but he also seems confused.

"You were staring at the chick's chest before you noticed she was wearing an ad for your blog?"

"Yeah, she was gorgeous. And almost as tall as you are, I think."

"I don't get it, are you into chicks as well as blokes?"

"Haven't you - well, yes. I am."

"Haven't I what?"

"Read my blog."

He puts down his fork. "Just the first bunch, so far. Do you blog about having sex with women, too?"

"Well, the one time it happened with my friend Jessica, yes, I did."

"Jessica - you're going to California in a couple of days for her wedding, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm really excited about it."

"Are you going to...?"

"Am I going to sleep with her the weekend of her wedding? Are you really asking me that?"

"I guess I am."

"No, of course I'm not. It was just something she wanted to get out of her system before she moved out there. Besides, I'm with you now."

"Are you sure?" He actually looks nervous. "I mean, you like girls as well as boys, are you sure I'm enough?"

"You think I'm going to go behind your -- look, Gary, do you like blonde women?"

"Of course."

"I'm brunette, are you sure I'm enough?"

"That's not the same at all!"

"How is it not the same? You think just because there are twice as many people I could be attracted to, I'm less likely to be faithful?"

"You're sharing a hotel room out there, right?"

"Yes, with Amy, another girl we used to work with."

"Well, you wouldn't expect me to be okay with you sharing a hotel room with a man I've never met, would you?"

"Yes, I would - if you trusted me, yes, I would expect you to be okay with it. What do you want me to do, spend twice as much on my hotel room because you're afraid I'm going to cheat on you - with a woman who as far as I know is completely straight? And after this wedding, what then? I can't ever go by myself to visit a friend of either sex because my being bisexual means I can't control myself?" A man at the next table turns to look at me, and I realize I've started talking a little too loudly.

"I just - I just wish I had more time to absorb this. I mean, you're leaving in two days."

"Yes, I am - and you either trust me or you don't, and it has nothing to do with what parts you have." I watch his eyes for an answer, but he just looks away and says nothing. I drop my napkin on the table, push my chair back, and leave, waiting for neither dessert nor check. I walk briskly - angrily - in the direction of the Bar, trying not to bump into people in my haste. It's a good several blocks before I start to take slower, deeper breaths, and then I reach the Bar. I look at my watch, and roll my eyes. It's barely three o'clock, so I've got an hour to kill before I open the place - I'd expected a longer, more relaxed lunch than the one I ended up getting.

Well, nothing a stiff drink might not help with, I decide, and I unlock the door. Locking it behind me, I head for the back room to drop off my bag. When I open the door, the first thing I see is tits bouncing up and down. When she stops in surprise, I see it's Maya, and she's astride some guy who's lying on a towel on the floor, just as naked as she is. "Oh, for God's sake," I say, and shut the door again. I leave the Bar, locking up behind me, and head down the block to another bar. Make that a few stiff drinks.

I awaken slowly, from half-remembered dreams of performing onstage in a Broadway musical about barmaids in the big city, the last few oddly dissonant notes ringing in my brain. Before it disappears forever, I get the sense that the song was about bad tippers, and I grin. Then I remember what happened last night, and I pull myself out of bed and into my alpaca-lined slippers.

There he still is, sleeping on our giant, L-shaped leather couch, under a spare comforter.

We talked quietly almost until dawn, taking care not to wake my roommates, and then I insisted he crash here instead of dragging himself home to Park Slope at that hour. He was the perfect gentleman. Even when I came back out of my room in my pajamas to say goodnight, he just sort of waved from the couch, and I began to wonder if he had really, literally just wanted to make sure I got home okay. But then he probably wouldn't have stuck around to talk for so long.

I pad my way into the kitchen, pour out the last of the coffee that either Cassie or Jill made for the two of them, and start another pot brewing. I stick my head in the fridge to see if there's anything there I can make for breakfast, but there aren't even any leftover bagels in the freezer from Sunday's brunch. Then I realize I'm presuming he'll stick around for breakfast in the first place, when it's entirely possible he has to get home and get ready for another day at work.

Soon the coffee is done. I grab a couple of mugs, and pour myself one. I'm inhaling the aroma deeply when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, and Gary's standing there. "Smells good," he says. I reach the mug out to him, and he takes it, but then sets it right down on the counter, steps forward, and kisses me. It's a sweet little kiss.

"Good morning," I smile.

"Did I mention how great your accent is?"

I laugh. "My accent?"

"Good MORE-ning," he spoofs, drawing out the R that he would never pronounce himself, and I kiss him again.

"Can you stick around for breakfast, or lunch?"

"Wish I could. I've got the rundown on Thursdays, and it wouldn't do for me to be late for my own meeting or show up in the same gear as yesterday."

"No, it wouldn't."

He kisses me, a little longer this time. "Can I make it up to you this weekend, then? Maybe Saturday night?"

"I can't, I'm working at the Bar."

"Right, lunch on Saturday, then?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll pick you up at one." He puts his arms around me, draws me in, and kisses me like he means it.

When he lets go, I say, "Explain to me again why you're leaving?"

"Because I'm a stupid, stupid man."

Nevertheless, a minute later, he's gone, and I sit down with my coffee to catch my breath.

Friday night I'm on with Jocelyn and Maya, with Vince barbacking. When I arrive at eight, Samantha and Will are standing at the bar. Before I get a chance to ask about their travels or offer my condolences to Samantha on Ohio State's loss, or even for that matter get to the back room to drop off my bag, Samantha steps into my path.

"Tell me it's true! You really took a boy home with you Wednesday night?"

I glance at Maya, and wonder whether she waited until today, or called Samantha the minute Gary got into the cab with me two nights ago. "It wasn't like that."

"Which part - a boy, home with you, or Wednesday night?" She's got me, and I grin. "Oh, Maya," she cries, a hand over her heart, "our little girl is growing up!"

I manage to get through the early part of my shift without them pestering me too much for details, but the teasing doesn't stop. I'm beginning to remember some of the pretty good reasons I try not to go too far in responding to guys' advances here at the Bar. First off, there's no privacy - and second, nobody ever lets the truth get in the way of a good story.

"So Debra," Jocelyn says at one point, "when you're with a guy who produces a newscast, is there a little scroll that runs across his chest that says, 'BREAKING NEWS: I'm about to come'?" I smile and keep mixing martinis.

"What I want to know is," Vince joins in, "does a guy from the southern hemisphere go down on you in a counter-clockwise direction?" Not everybody gets it, but I laugh and blush at the image.

I don't even bother protesting that nothing happened, because I know - as much from having been on the other end of the teasing, as anything else - that it won't help a damn bit. "Truth often suffers more by the heat of its defenders than the arguments of its opposers," William Penn said, but I assume he wasn't talking picking up guys at his tavern. As with most other things in my life, I know the truth, and that's all that matters.

Later on, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and they manage to squeeze in at the bar. It's the first time I've seen him in here since Warren and I broke up a few months ago, and I guess I'd started to think he was staying away out of loyalty. After I serve their drinks, he and I make a little small-talk, nothing too serious that would reveal how either of us feels about the break-up. We're still chatting about his kids when Samantha comes over with a fresh Long Island Iced Tea.

"So Debra, how was this guy? Are you gonna do him again? I mean, see him again?" I glare at her, with FBA throwing looks back and forth between her and me. She finally looks at him, and points. "Hey, I recognize you from TV! You're that actor guy. Wait, hold on, didn't Maya say you were friends with --" Her voice and her hand gestures trail off at the same moment, but it's still another good ten seconds before I think she's actually gotten it. She looks back at me, and takes a long sip of her drink. Finally she says, "Wow, that could have been really awkward," turns, and walks to the other end of the bar where Maya is serving.

"I'm sorry," I say to FBA, almost as if he's Warren - who will, undoubtedly, hear about this later.

FBA shrugs. "Life goes on. And it's none of my business."

"You're always welcome here, you know that, right?" He nods. "And so is Warren."

"I'll let him know you said so." I blow him a kiss and move on to serve other customers.

It's a soggy Wednesday night in New York, and I'm tending bar with Maya. People at the Bar are in a bad mood - not just because of the rain, but because the rain has forced the Yankees to postpone their game against Tampa Bay, in which Andy Pettitte was to return to the pitcher's mound for the Yanks for the first time in four years.

But I'm upbeat, because my friends Bria and Henry are supposed to come by after work to say hi. It's been a few months since I've seen them, and I've missed them.

When they arrive at about midnight, they introduce me to their friend Gary, another colleague from their newscast. He's tall and very skinny, and he buys the first round. Henry throws me a wink so broad I think the whole bar must see it, and I realize immediately that this is a set-up attempt. It doesn't seem like Gary knows it, though, so he's probably just been invited out for "a drink at this bar where we know the bartender."

He seems like a decent guy, but that's about it - though I admit I'm a little bit of a sucker for his unique accent, which sounds halfway between Dutch and Australian. I learn that I'm not far off, either, when he tells me that he grew up in both New Zealand and South Africa. I ask him what it was like growing up under Apartheid.

"To be honest," he says, "it was hard to notice sometimes. It didn't affect me directly, and I feel bad for saying that, but I think the rest of the world was more ga-ga over the changes to come than we were until the changes actually came. What struck me about New York when I moved here, though, was not just how everybody takes it for granted that the city is a grand mix of every color skin you can imagine - but that there's Jews everywhere, too. In Cape Town we had this intimate little community where we all looked out for each other, but outside of it nobody seemed to know that Jews even existed."

Oh, he's Jewish, is he, I think to myself, as I catch Henry grinning out of the corner of my eye. I make a note to smack him later for springing this on me, but in the meantime, I get back to serving drinks, as the crowd inexplicably continues to get bigger.

After Bria's group has had a few drinks, she says they're heading out to meet some other friends, and asks if I want to join them. I decline, noting that I'm on until we close, probably around four in the morning if the crowd keeps up like this. But I wish them well, and Gary shakes my hand firmly as they go. Thirty seconds later, Henry runs back in, leans over the bar, and says, "Hey, doll, in case you were wondering, he's straight." I throw a bar rag at him, and he runs back out.

When I have the opportunity, I stop Maya for a moment. "Hey, have you heard from Samantha since Ohio State lost to Florida in the title game on Monday? She must have been devastated."

She shakes her head. "I'm kind of surprised, I thought she would at least check in. But yeah, she was pretty excited on Sunday when I talked to her after the semifinals."

"Her dad managed to get them into all the games?"

"I guess."

"What did he think of Will, did she say?"

"Nope, she didn't bring it up."

"Damn," I mumble more to myself than to Maya. It's a bizarre relationship, that's for sure, but the romantic in me kind of wants to see it all work out.

A couple of hours later, Maya and I are cleaning up and shooing the last few patrons out the door, when Gary walks back in. I stop in my tracks, surprised to see him. "You know we're closing, right?"

"Yeah, that's kind of why I came back. I hope you don't mind, I just wanted to make sure you got home all right."

Um. "Gary, thanks, but that's - well, to be honest, a little bit creepy. I barely know you."

He sticks his hands in his pockets. "It is a little dodgy, then. Right, thought it might come off that way, I took a chance, can't blame you. Listen, then, I'll just get you a cab, and then I'll naff off, okay?"

"Well, I've still got some cleaning up to do here."

"Go home, Debra," says Maya. "I've got it covered." I'll be damned.

"Thanks, Maya. Gary, I'll be out in a minute." He steps out the door of the Bar, and I go to the back room to get my bag.

When I come back out, Maya stops me. "Listen, Debra, it's none of my business, but what's wrong with you? This guy is tall and charming, he works with people you know and trust, and he clearly likes you. And when's the last time any guy just wanted to make sure you got home all right?"

I want to say something cutting because of how she treated me last month. I want to say that I don't take sex or relationship advice from retired groupies. But I don't, because the more I think about it, the more I think she's probably right. And she's not the only one who's said so recently - Nancy said something in an IM chat a couple of weeks ago about how easy it should be for me to let a guy pick me up (or at least get to know me better) if I wanted to, I just haven't. So I just smile and say thanks.

Outside, Gary has lined up a cab and is holding the door open for me. Instead of getting in right away, I stop next to him. "Why did you really come back here? Didn't Henry and Bria tell you how much of a pain in the ass I am?"

He smiles. "Are you tuning me?"

I have no idea what that means, but it makes me smile, too. "Get in the cab, Gary."

"Right," he says, and climbs in. I follow after him, and tell the driver where home is.

It's Saturday night, and all is right with the world, because I'm tending bar.

It's good to be back, at least so far. After the