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

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.

Mario leafs wordlessly through several pages of the magazine, then hands it back to Jocelyn and looks down at his beer.

"What do you think?" asks Simone.

"I'll tell you when I figure out how to look at you again, okay?"

Jocelyn laughs. "I think that means your photos turned him on." It's been several months since Simone did her first shoot with John, a porn photographer who left his card here, and some of the photos finally ended up in a magazine. Jocelyn and I are working the relatively docile Wednesday shift; Simone just came in to show us the mag, hot off the presses.

"Debra?" Simone holds it out to me. I've been avoiding this since I knew the photos existed, but now I feel like I'm being a bad friend, so I shrug and I take it. The title makes me want to roll my eyes; then I flip to the page marked with a Post-It, and the first thing I see...

"Holy shit, Simone," I say. "They couldn't ease me into it a little more than that?" She smiles, and shrugs. I flip through her layout, and wince a little at the story accompanying the photos. But I have to admit two things - she looks great, at least in the shots where they're not too close for my comfort; and this guy knows what the hell he's doing. "You did a fantastic job, honey. You look just great."

"Thank you, Debra! That means a lot to me."

Jocelyn grabs it again to take another look. "Are you going to do more?" I grin as Mario gets up from the bar and goes over to the jukebox to stare at the selection, something I'm pretty sure I've never seen him do before.

"Well, I'd like to! John said he's already gotten some calls asking for me specifically, but he said a few of them were... well, conditional."

"On what?" asks Vince, cleaning the taps. "You already told him you wouldn't have sex on camera."

"No, nothing like that - and that's still true. No, he said he thought he could sell a lot more layouts if I had my boobs done. They want my face and most of my body, but her tits," she says, gesturing at Jocelyn.

"Oh, no, don't do that!" Jocelyn shakes her head. "You have no idea how lucky you are not to have these! Please tell me you won't make yours bigger just to make some money?" I decide to stay out of this one, given that I happen to think there's only one good reason that Jocelyn's tips are usually better than mine.

"I don't think I'm going to, but I haven't decided for sure."

A debate on the issue continues for a while, and I try to stick to serving drinks, though at one point I'm a little surprised to overhear Mario talking about how difficult it sometimes is for him and Jocelyn to find a comfortable position. I mostly take orders down at the other end of the bar.

"Could I have a dry martini, please?"

He's easily six feet tall, but his face makes him look about sixteen years old. Bill's not working the door tonight, so I ask him for some ID. As he pulls out his wallet, I notice he's wearing latex gloves on his hands. He hands me his license, and I check it over. Twenty-four, and it looks legit, so I hand it back and mix his drink. He leaves enough cash on the bar to cover the drink and a decent tip, and wanders off to join a friend on the other side of the room, holding his glass with a gloved hand. I wonder what his story is, but it's not really the kind of thing you can ask about politely, so I just go on with my night.

Simone taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, before I leave, Debra, are you still thinking about going up to New Hampshire for a weekend?"

"Yeah, but I haven't really decided when. Why?"

"Well, I was hoping to get back to Portsmouth sometime to see some friends from high school, I thought maybe we could roadtrip together - maybe rent a car, share the driving, make it more economical?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Okay, I'll call you and we'll figure out when, okay?" She waves, and leaves The Bar.

Not a minute later, she comes back in, and marches right over to me. "Hey, uh, you know I'm not making a pass at you, right? I'm not into that, I just, I mean, I know I've said I think you've got a great body, that was professional, John wanted you to -- well, I'm saying it was an objective -- not objectifying, that's not what I meant to -- look, I know what you're into, but just because I take off my clothes..."

I can't help laughing out loud at this point. "What?!" she says.

I clear my throat and do my best to get rid of the smile. "Thanks for letting me down easy." She blushes, and I laugh again.

For the last month or so, both Gary and I have been feeling a little burnt out. We've both been working hard, and neither of us has had a real vacation in a long time - a chance to get away, relax, and recharge without the pressures of work or the "realities" and responsibilities of home impeding. But because we've only been dating for a few months (and not without a few stumbles), whenever one of us brought the subject up, it wasn't "We should take a vacation," it was "I need a vacation."

Late Tuesday night Gary comes over to my place after his newscast is over, and after he kisses me, the first words out of his mouth are, "Come away with me."

"What?"

"I got one of those super-saver e-mails today, and there's a really unbeatable fare to fly somewhere I've always wanted to go. I want you to go with me. On Friday."

I laugh. "Supah-savah," I mock, and laugh again. Then I stop. "This Friday? Are you serious?"

"Never more. Start making calls, get your shifts covered, I want you to come away with me for ten days."

"Wait, where are we going?"

He grins. "Do you trust me?"

I search his eyes for a moment, and I realize that what I told him on Sunday wasn't a mistake or a slip of the tongue. I love this man. "Just tell me what to pack," I reply.

So I leave him alone on my laptop for a little while to make the reservations, and I start making phone calls. It's late, so I have a little trouble getting hold of some of the girls, but by the time Gary is done I have this weekend covered. By the end of Wednesday, I have next week's shifts covered, too. I'll be working a lot when I get back, but I think it'll be worth it.

Thursday night I'm on with Jocelyn and Simone, and the speculation is rampant.

"I think he's taking you to Vegas to get married," says Jocelyn.

I sputter. "What?! That's ridiculous! We'd never even talked about taking a vacation together up until two days ago, much less spending our lives together."

"Maybe you're going to Chicago to see Lollapalooza. Isn't that next week?" offers Simone.

"I have no idea," I shrug, "but I doubt he's into alternative music enough to fly us out there for ten days just for that."

"Toronto to see the Yankees play?" says Diego.

"Hm... I wouldn't put it past him, but I think we're coming back Monday or Tuesday, so we'd only get to see the first game of the series at most."

"Well, what did he tell you to pack?" asks Jack.

"It's all about the logic with you lawyers, isn't it, Jack?"

"I prefer to think of it as detective work," he smiles.

"Well, I can't help you solve this mystery, because he hasn't told me yet. He said I would have to wait until tomorrow, but he knows for a fact that I have everything I'll need."

"What if what you need isn't clean?" frets Jocelyn.

"He sent out my laundry yesterday."

At this, everybody kind of stops what they're doing for a moment, and all I can hear is the Yankees/Royals game on the TVs. Diego clears his throat, sticks one last beer in the cooler, and says, "I think you should take him to Vegas to get married."

The group gets a nice laugh out of that, then goes back to focusing on the doomed baseball game, or on serving drinks.

And now it's Friday, and I'm packing as I write this, and I still have no idea. Light clothing for days, a sweater or two for nights, a couple of swimsuits, one nice dress, comfortable walking shoes. There's a cab coming to pick us up in a couple of hours, and we're just praying that the rain will hold off long enough to let us fly out on time. I know only two things with certainty right now: I won't be around for the next ten days, and I'm starting to fall in love with this man.

It's a warm Thursday night, and I'm double-shifting again, with Jocelyn until 10, then Simone until close. This should be my last double for a while unless I'm needed to fill a shift in an emergency, which is just as well, as I've been finding them truly exhausting. I never seem to get home with twice as much in tips as I would in a normal six, or even one and a half times as much as in a normal eight, and I blame my waning enthusiasm at the end of the night. On the other hand, there's an unwritten rule that if someone works a double, the other barmaid(s) on at close have to clean and close - I'll get to go straight home tonight.

A little after eight, Jocelyn comes down the bar to where I'm drawing a few pints of beer, and gestures for me to lean down. "Do we have any Manischewitz?" she asks loudly enough for me to hear, but as quietly as she can manage. [EDIT: It's pronounced "man-uh-SHEV-itz"]

"Are you kidding me? Somebody actually came in here and ordered Manischewitz?"

She points to the guy. "Debra, he didn't just order Manischewitz, he ordered Manischewitz and milk!"

"What?! Manischewitz is disgusting enough, why would you add milk to it?"

"I know! But I thought that, you know, if anybody knew where we might keep a spare bottle of kosher wine..."

I smile. "Yeah, yeah... let me just check something with the guy, then I'll probably send you to the store."

I walk over to the customer in question, a middle-aged man in a suit in a group of four, all of whom practically scream "police detective" in their bearing. "Sir, my colleague just told me your drink order, and I wanted to ask if there was a particular flavor you wanted."

"Flavor?" He looks confused.

"Yes, sir - most people are familiar with the concord grape, but there's also blackberry, cherry, malaga... I've seen a few others, but I can't remember what they are. I'll have to send Jocelyn to the store either way; we don't stock kosher wine, since we don't get much call for it."

"Kosher wine? Young lady, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry - didn't you order Manischewitz and milk?" His jaw drops, and his three friends burst out laughing.

"Chivas and milk, young lady - Chivas, the whiskey. The milk is so it doesn't upset my stomach."

I can't stop grinning. "I'm really very sorry, sir - sometimes the noise in the bar makes it harder to understand. I'll explain to Jocelyn." Which I do, still grinning, and she blushes.

"Oh, God, I can't believe I thought... shit, Debra, just kill me now, I can't face him!"

"Don't worry about it; if that's the stupidest thing you do all night you're doing just fine." She goes to serve him and apologize, and he seems to take the minor absurdity in stride.

Simone comes in at about 9:45 to get ready for her shift. When Jocelyn cashes out at ten, Simone hands her a black binder, and she heads for the back room.

"You want to see it when she's done?" Simone asks me.

"What is it?"

"It's the contact sheets and a bunch of samples from my shoot with John. I think they came out really well."

"You're letting people see pictures of you naked?"

"Yeah! They're going to be in a magazine anyway, this way you just get to see them for free."

"And you don't feel weird about it?"

"I feel fantastic about it! Debra, don't you enjoy when guys look at you with desire?"

And girls, too, I think silently. "Sometimes, when it's not so obvious and desperate it scares me. But I'm okay with them doing it while I have my clothes on."

"Sure, in public! But I feel like my body is a work of art, and in all modesty, I think it's a much finer work of art than the clothes I put on over it. And let me tell you, Debra, your body's a masterpiece."

Now it's my turn to blush. "You're just saying that because John still wants me to pose for him."

She grins. "Maybe. And maybe I'd get a bonus, maybe not."

Jocelyn comes back out, and hands Simone the portfolio. "Simone, these are fantastic! I'm so jealous... I really wish I had the guts."

"Thanks! You do have the guts, you're just choosing other priorities, don't worry about it." She holds the portfolio out to me, but I wave her off, and she stashes it below the bar. "Don't let me forget that later," she grins.

I go serve my friend on the job his fifth Chivas and milk, and his friends their refills as well, and ask if they need anything else. I see one of them looking me over, as if appraising me. It's the three millionth time a customer has looked at me like that, but the first time I've ever pictured myself naked, in a large, gilt frame, mounted on the wall, as he does the appraising. I think to myself: This is what she likes about it?

"Hey, honey, what's the difference between ale and lager?" He's a big guy, wearing a Dartmouth ballcap, and accompanied by a couple of friends. They've been sitting at the bar for a little while drinking mid-level American beers, and I get the impression they're genuinely shocked at our beer selection - not just that the Bar itself serves so many different ones, but that so many different ones even exist.

"Um, I can never remember which is which," I reply, "but one is top fermenting and one is bottom fermenting."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that in one of them, the yeast forms a foam on top of the liquid while it's creating the alcohol, and in the other it doesn't."

Simone, who's pouring a few glasses of Chivas nearby, adds, "It's ale that's top-fermenting and lager that's bottom. And they call the liquid 'wort.'"

"Hey, she's pretty good," Big Green says.

"We've all got our strengths," Simone smiles, then points at me. "You should hear this one when she gets going on single malt Scotch." She whips her long, blonde hair back around, and heads back down the bar with the (admittedly pretty good) blended Scotch for her customers.

"Yeah, I'm not much on the fancy stuff," he says. "What about stout?"

"That one I know," I bounce a little. "That's when they roast the malt or the barley before making the beer with it."

"And porter?"

"Same as stout."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean stout and porter mean the same thing - beer made with roasted malt or barley."

One of Big Green's friends, a guy who has clearly shaved his head only to beat his hair to the punch, chimes in. "Why don't they just pick one word and call it that? It's not like they're from different languages, like 'Cava' and 'spumante' both mean sparkling wine."

"I swear I haven't the faintest idea," I shrug. Nice to know at least one of them has some answers as well as questions, though.

"Hey, blondie!" calls out Big Green. Sadly, it being the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, with the Yankees game already over, the crowd is thin enough that she can hear him pretty well, and has time to bother.

"Call me Simone," she says when she returns to our end.

"Simone, why do stout and porter mean the same thing?"

"Linguistic accident," she says. "Stout used to just mean a very strong beer. But the breweries used the word stout to describe porters so much more often than other beers that they just started using it as a shorthand."

"Well, what about chocolate stout? There isn't really any chocolate in it, is there?"

"No, it's just a stout made with chocolate malt, which also has no chocolate in it. They just roast it at higher temperatures, which caramelizes the malt. I think a couple of microbreweries actually add chocolate, but that's a gimmick."

"Damn, where did you learn all this stuff?"

"I kind of grew up in a brewpub."

"Shit, really? A gorgeous blonde who loves beer and knows everything about it?" Big Green swats Intentionally Bald on the shoulder a few times. "I think I've died and gone to heaven."

"Can't stand the stuff, actually," she tilts her head and grins. "I'm a wine girl, through and through." Big Green is starting to ask her about the difference between Beaujolais and Bordeaux when I head down to the other end of the bar to take some orders.

Vince swings by with some empty glasses, then leans over the bar as I'm pulling a pint of Guinness. "I've been thinking about going back to college."

"That was out of nowhere."

"Yeah, I was just trying it out, seeing how it felt to say it out loud. 'I've been thinking about going back to college.' How do you think your roommate will take it?" Vince and Jill have been dating for several months.

"You haven't told her?"

"Not so much. She's got an MBA, and I've got three years left as an undergrad, assuming anybody would even let me in."

"If you're worried about how you measure up to her, I wouldn't. She could be dating another MBA, but she's dating a barback who used to roadie for punk bands. Why would you suddenly be beneath her if you became a college student?"

"That's not it - well, not quite. I'm a little worried about that, but look at what she does for a living. She could get an offer halfway across the world a year from now, and I'd be stuck going into my junior year."

"You're worried about her moving away a year from now? I didn't know you guys were that serious."

He nods slowly for a moment, looking past me. Then he pulls his shirt up. I've seen him in just pajama bottoms or boxers often enough that I can see he has a new tattoo. It's only a few inches tall, and I have to get pretty close in the Bar's limited lighting, but there's no mistaking it - that's a picture of Jill's face over his heart.

By popular demand, here are some more random conversation snippets I've recently overheard while tending bar:


Dude #1: Definitely the roller-blading girl in the Match.com TV commercial. She's got a killer body.
Dude #2: Not bad. Mine is the girl who sang "My Box in a Box" - you know, the parody of the SNL thing, "Dick in a Box."
Dude #3: I don't know, I think I'd have to go with LonelyGirl15.
Dude #2: Wait, isn't she only sixteen?
Dude #3: No, the character was, but the actress is nineteen.
Chick: What are you guys arguing about now?
Dude #2: If we could fuck any girl from a YouTube video, which one would it be?
Chick: Oh, that's easy. Taser Girl.
Dude #1: What?
Chick: What can I say? I go for the screamers.


Woman: What kinds of wine do you have by the glass?
Kira the Barmaid: Right now we have Chardonnay, Merlot, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon.
Woman: And what about red wines?


Man: Do you have Romulan Ale?
Simone the Barmaid: I don't think so.
Man: Saurian Brandy?
Simone the Barmaid: No...
Man: Chateau Picard?
Simone the Barmaid: No, but how about some Cardassian Ale?
Man: Will you marry me?


Dude #1 (on May 2): So Alex Rodriguez is still on a pace to hit about ninety-eight homeruns this season. Wouldn't that be something?
Dude #2: I'm on a pace to have sex with thirty-one different women in May. Doesn't mean it's gonna happen.
Dude #1: No, but you'd sure put Barry Bonds to shame if you pulled it off.


Chick #1: I'm feeling kind of hungry... we should go home and get high, and then pick up some Taco Bell.
Chick #2: Taco Bell is on the way home, we can get high after.
Chick #1: Are you kidding? You can't have Taco Bell before you get high, it's illegal. It's like smoking before sex. Or stalking your boss's wife before you have an affair with him.

Hope you all had a great weekend.

Wednesday evening, 8pm

"You checked him out?"

"Of course I did, silly. He's totally legit."

"Did you talk to anybody else who's posed for him?"

"Yeah, I e-mailed one girl, and we talked on the phone a little."

Simone, the newest barmaid at the Bar, is wrapping up a short early shift as I take over, and she's heading out for a modeling session with John, a guy who was in here a couple of weeks ago.

"You sure you want to do this?" asks Vince, as he's wiping down the taps.

Simone gapes. "Wait, are you sure you're a guy? I thought guys love porn."

"Yeah, we just don't usually know the girls in the pictures."

"Is it really going to change what you think about me? It's just my body. It's not like I'm even having sex on camera, I'm just taking off my clothes. I can earn half my rent in two or three hours, and I can do it legally."

"Legal doesn't mean smart."

She shrugs. "Okay, well, do you really picture me running for president someday?"

"I think she's brave," pipes in Jocelyn. "I've always wanted to do something like that."

"You have?" I ask.

"You have?" repeats Mario, a regular and her boyfriend of several months.

Jocelyn turns to Mario and smiles. "Yeah! I get really turned on by the idea of posing for a camera, and thousands of guys lusting after me. Plus, with these babies," she hefts her considerable breasts in her hands, "I'll bet I'd be in serious demand."

Simone asks, "So why haven't you ever done it?"

Jocelyn shrugs. "It's not like I haven't been asked. Hell, this weekend in Prospect Park, it seemed like every jerk in Brooklyn with a camera phone asked me to flash him. I guess I'm just afraid of what would happen if my father found out. He's pretty old-fashioned."

"Wouldn't your father have to buy the porn magazine you posed for to find out you posed for it?" Simone offers.

"I don't know, I never thought it out that far. I just know I would never go ahead with it, and I'm a little jealous that you have the guts. So I say, you go get naked, girl!"

Simone finishes cashing out, and takes off. I dive into my shift, wondering if I'm the only twenty-something woman in New York who's not a wannabe porn star, and trying not to picture Simone naked.

"Do you suppose she talked to Lanie or Victor about it first?" Vince asks me a little while later.

"I don't know - but do you really think the magazine is going to mention the Bar? I thought they make up fake stuff to say about the models."

"I don't think that'll matter if someone comes in here and recognizes her from the photos."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that." I've certainly thought about it for myself, in the context of my blog, which is one reason I won't post photos of myself here, but even that may not be enough to prevent me from being "found" eventually.

"Yeah, but at least she isn't planning to run for president." He wanders off to collect glasses.

I stand there wondering how much it would affect an aspiring novelist's career to have posed for nude erotic photos - and for that matter, how much money I would have to be offered before I'd consider not turning it down.

I'm nervous.

It's Sunday evening, the first time I've been scheduled to work a shift with Todd managing the Bar since the incident at the end of February that upset me so much. As part of the deal we worked out with Lanie and Victor, the owners, there were things Todd had to do before we'd work a shift again, and he's taken care of that obligation. Plus, he apologized to me weeks ago. But I still can't help feeling a little apprehensive; whether it's because I'm afraid of backlash or because I don't want him to resent me, I'm really not sure. Maybe a little of both.

But all things considered, the shift goes pretty smoothly. I'm on with Simone, and Diego is barbacking. The only thing wrong is that none of us wants to be there on such a gorgeous evening - the weather has been spectacular all weekend. Luckily I've managed to take advantage of it, but I still don't want to be inside just yet. Gary and I spent the afternoon in Central Park, just wandering around, taking in the scenery, people-watching, and stopping frequently to partake of food from carts. He didn't drop me off at the Bar until minutes before my shift started, and I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.

Through the front window of the Bar, I can see the colors of the street changing with the progressing sunset, when an attractive, sharply dressed woman in her mid-thirties steps up to the bar. "What can I get you?"

"It's the Lord's day, young lady, nobody should be drinking."

Of all the responses that occur to me in the next few seconds, I settle on, "How about a soft drink, then?"

She smiles. "That would be nice, thank you. I'll have a Coke."

As I serve her, a cheer goes up in the Bar. I turn to the TV just in time to see my boy Jason Giambi hit a third-inning RBI single that puts the Yankees up 3-0 against the Red Sox. "Yes!" I yell, with a fist-pump that seems to alarm my newest customer a little bit. "I'm sorry, I'm just a huge fan of his," I point to the close-up shot of Jason on the screen.

She sips from her Coke, and tilts her head. "You lust after him?"

"What? Well, yes, I guess so. He's attractive. There's nothing wrong with lust. None of us would be here if it weren't for lust."

"Young lady -"

"Please, call me Debra."

"Debra, there is a world of difference between the lust you feel for a married man and the expression of love between a husband and wife that brings a new life into this world."

"I wouldn't know, I've never been married."

"You will be, and then you'll understand."

"I don't know, but I like your confidence."

"It's faith, Debra."

I smile and nod, and go to serve some other folks along the bar. With the top of the third inning over, the Yankees retake the field, with rookie Chase Wright on the mound; and a couple of minutes later, I see my new friend holding her glass out, already empty. I return to refill it.

"Debra, would you please do me a favor, and consider no longer serving alcohol on the Lord's day?"

"Well, it's how I earn my living, and I don't have an awful lot of say in what nights they schedule me to work. I have some seniority, but I prefer to save those requests for special occasions, or holidays with my family. Speaking of which, I'm Jewish, so no offense, but for me, Sunday is just Sunday."

Crack. Manny Ramirez takes Wright deep for a two-out solo homer, and it's 3-1, Yankees.

"I appreciate the respect of your frankness."

I shrug. "I try not to bring up religion with my customers, but if they bring it up first, I see no reason not to be honest."

She smiles. "This is one of the reasons that you will someday know what it feels like to truly share your life with another person."

In light of the sentiment, I let the split infinitive slide. "That's very sweet of you, and once again, I appreciate your confidence."

"Faith, Debra."

"So let's assume for a minute that you're right, and I'm destined to share my life with someone in a state of bliss. How will I know when I've met the right one?"

She rubs the ring on her left hand. "For me, it was an act of faith as much as anything else in my life has been. My husband was sure, and he asked me to let him be sure enough for both of us. I've never looked back, and he's absolutely been my rock."

Crack. J. D. Drew knocks one out of the park, too. 3-2, Yankees.

"What if I'm not willing to take that kind of leap of faith?"

"Well, you may not have to. You may be the one to ask for the leap of faith, not the one to make it. But you should also look for signs, as I do in other parts of my life."

"Signs? Like, fireworks in the sky during a first kiss? A billboard saying 'Marry Bob'?"

She laughs. "Signs are never that obvious, of course. If they were, life wouldn't be very interesting at all. But that doesn't mean the signs aren't there." She downs the rest of her second Coke, and stands up from her stool.

"Would you like another?"

"No, that's all right; I'm actually hoping to visit a few more bars today."

"Do you really believe you're going to get anybody to stop drinking because it's Sunday?"

"If they are able to see the signs," she says. "I have faith."

Crack. Mike Lowell hits a home run. 3-3.

"Well, enjoy the weather. It was a pleasure talking to you, and I hope you come back to see us again."

"Thank you, Debra." She departs into the deepening twilight.

"What was that all about?" asks Simone.

I shake my head. "Oh, nothing. Nice lady, but a little weird."

"Hey, did you see the Red Sox tied it up on three consecutive home runs? That's insane."

Diego, passing by with a case of bottles for the cooler, says, "That's not so insane - really, it happens more than you might think. Now, four home runs in a row, that would be insane - a quarter million games played in the history of major league baseball, and that has happened only four times. Dodgers did it last year, but before that, it hadn't happened since the sixties."

My phone vibrates, and since it's Gary, and things aren't terribly busy, I take it. "Hi, what's up?"

"Hi, Debra, how's your shift going?"

"Not bad, nothing too unusual. Are you okay? You just dropped me off a couple of hours ago."

"Yeah, I just wondered if I could swing by when you're done and take you out to dinner. I've -- I just wanted to say I fancy you and I didn't want to wait another few days to say it."

I smile. "That's really sweet, Gary. Of course you can pick me up when I'm done. I'll see you in a few hours."

I hang up, and make a note to look up exactly what level of emotion "fancy" implies to South African New Zealanders.

Crack. Jason Varitek this time - four batters, four homers. 4-3, Red Sox.

"Insane," says Simone, shaking her head.

"Have you ever done any modeling?"

I smile. It's not the first time I've heard it. At the risk of sounding conceited, it's not even the first time I've heard it this month. It's flattering, too, but it's supposed to be flattering. It's a come-on.

He's older than the guys who usually hit on me, maybe even in his fifties. There's nothing wrong with that, exactly - when I'm working behind the bar I have my bullshit detector turned on so high that I rarely have trouble resisting anybody, even the hottest young strapping dudes. So the fact that the 1,001st guy to hit on me is twice my age doesn't faze me or disgust me, it just is - like the fact that he's got a goatee, or the fact that he's been drinking Maker's Mark straight up.

"No, I never have. Well, that's not true - when I was a little kid, one of our neighbors was a commercial photographer, and I posed for a book cover with a few other kids from the neighborhood. But that's not exactly taking the runway during Fashion Week."

"Fair enough. You should think about it, though, you're very pretty."

"Thanks, that's sweet. Are you ready for another one of those?"

"Yeah, hit me again." He's got a credit card tab running, so I have no idea what kind of tipper he is yet.

Hitting him again just about kills the Maker's, and the next one will. "Diego," I shout to the barback as he comes around the back of the bar with a cannister of gas, "need Maker's!"

"Pronto!" he shouts back.

"So will you think about it?" Maker's dude asks.

"What, you're asking me for real? I'm not skinny enough to be a model."

"All due respect, you're very sexy."

"Are you an agent or something?"

"No, I'm a photographer." He reaches into his jacket, and hands me a business card. It says his name is John, and that he's Director of Photography for some company or other. Obviously I won't mention the name.

"So what do you do, print ads for Madison Avenue agencies or something?"

"No, I mostly do erotic nudes for men's magazines." Okay, then. He's so matter-of-fact about it I'm not sure I really heard what I think he said. Plus, I'm just a tiny bit disappointed that it's not just a come-on.

"You said that like you were saying you do people's taxes."

He shrugs. "It's how I make my living, and I'm not ashamed of it. It pays pretty well, by the way."

"I don't doubt it. But I'm not interested, thanks." I hand back the card, and he leaves it on the bar.

"You've never let a boyfriend take pictures of you naked?"

"That's none of your business."

"You're not ashamed of your body, are you?"

"Not even slightly. Listen, I'm glad you enjoy what you do for a living, but you're really barking up the wrong tree. I'm flattered, but I'm not your girl."

"Hey, it's up to you. But I'll bet your boyfriend didn't pay you five hundred dollars to pose naked for him."

I laugh, and shake my head. "No, but every now and then, on a really good night, I make that in tips. And I don't even have to take off my pants."

Simone, passing behind me to get to the other end of the bar, says, "You're taking off your pants? I love hearing little bits of conversations." She grabs the Buttershots and the Bailey's.

"Buttery nipple?" I ask her.

"No, thanks, this blouse is dry-clean only," she deadpans, and heads back the other way while I laugh.

John's laughing, too. "What about her, what's her story? There's always demand for blondes."

I tilt my head and squint. "Do you just go to a different bar every night and try to recruit the barmaids?"

"Not just bars. I have my eyes out everywhere I go. And this is a hell of a great city to find beautiful women."

"I don't doubt it." I move along and serve other customers.

Later on, when he closes out his tab, he tips me well - $10 on $45 worth of Maker's - and leaves his card behind. Simone sees me throw it away, and asks me if he was hitting on me, so I explain what his deal was.

"Five hundred dollars? Seriously?"

"That's what he said. Why, would you do it?"

"Well - I kind of have already. I just didn't get paid for it."

"You posed for a boyfriend?"

"Uh, no. I took my top off for Girls Gone Wild when I was on spring break a few years ago. Somewhere out there, some frat boys are still watching a tape of me getting naked."

"And you didn't get paid for that?"

She shrugs. "I got a t-shirt."

"Well, I guess I learn something new about my colleagues every day," I say, and I smile, moving off to take some more drink orders. When I turn to the taps to draw a few beers, I see Simone sticking John's card in her back pocket.

It's Thursday afternoon. I walk out of the back room trying to process everything that's been said, and I stick my notebook back in my bag. Later in the afternoon I'll send an e-mail to my lawyer describing everything I talked about with Lanie and Victor and asking whether she thinks what they've proposed is fair, but I already have a pretty good sense that I'm happy with the outcome - with everything but what started this standoff in the first place.

Leonard, the guy with the hands, has nothing to do with the Bar or its ownership. Lanie and Victor told me that part of their tentative agreement with Todd is that they aren't free to discuss with me what Todd's connection to Leonard is or might be, but in any event Leonard is persona non grata at the Bar as I asked. And frankly I don't think I've ever much cared what Todd's motivation was - I don't know of anything that would justify him hanging me out to dry the way he did.

Todd's and Pat's management responsibilities will more or less be swapped. Todd will manage Sundays through Tuesdays, and Pat Wednesdays through Saturdays - and for the time being, I will work only on Pat's nights, which isn't much of a change for me, it just means I won't do any subbing early in the week. Todd has already written me an apology, which I read while still sitting in the meeting with Lanie and Victor. Whether it was heartfelt or sincere I have no idea, but it was pretty close to what I'd been looking for.

As for the other consequences to Todd - and there are other consequences - I have been asked not to talk about them with anybody, even other staff at the Bar, because there are privacy issues. And so I won't, other than to say two things: I'm satisfied - and there are some things he has to do before we're ever again scheduled to work a shift together.

I came in for our meeting at about three in the afternoon, and when I leave the back room, Maya is showing the new barmaid how to open the Bar, while Pat does some paperwork. Pat hops off her stool and meets me at the end of the bar with a smile and an extended hand. "Hey, stranger - it's nice to see you around here again."

I shake her hand. "I'm not sure how nice it is just yet, but it's a start."

"Well, it'll be fun working with you more often again. Come on, let me introduce you to Simone. Simone!"

Simone turns around from where she and Maya have been cutting lemons and limes, and smiles brightly. Blonde, skinny, looks a little bit like Uma Thurman, or maybe Farrah Fawcett in her younger, twig-like days. What Carrie Fisher once called "your basic nightmare." And I remember that I don't know anything about her and should be giving her the benefit of the doubt, just like I hope everyone else will give me the same. I smile and extend my hand.

"I'm Debra. Welcome to the Bar, I hope we'll get a chance to work together."

"Thanks! I'm Simone. Hey," she says, pointing at my Wildcats sweatshirt, "did you go to New Hampshire?"

"Yeah, I did."

"I grew up in Portsmouth, just down the road."

"Really? We used to go out to Portsmouth in the spring when the weather started getting nice again... there was this great Mexican restaurant with a deck right on the water. What the hell was it called... Paco's?"

"Paco's... Oh, Poco's Bow Street Cantina?"

"Yes! Poco's, not Paco's. Oh, my God, they made great margaritas. It's been a few years, and I still miss that drink... it's the closest I've ever felt to being high without, you know... actually being high." She nods and laughs.

"Hey, Little Miss Victim," says Maya, not even looking up from her limes.

"Maya, cut the shit," Pat snaps. I quickly say my goodbyes and head out.

When I get home, after I e-mail my lawyer, I start looking at the jobs section on Craigslist.