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.

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.

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 events of the last couple of weeks, I can't help feeling a little bit like I'm waiting for another shoe to drop, but there's comfort in the familiar. The clink of bottle against glass, the splash of tap overflow onto rubber floor mats, the drink orders shouted out amid white noise, the pickup lines and the return volleys, the sweat on the small of my back, the dodge and bump with Jocelyn and Kira and Vince - it all feels like home.

It's a good Saturday night, probably because the weather has improved; highs have been in the low teens here in New York for the last week, but now we're back into the far more reasonable territory of thirties and forties, with some forecasts of fifties and even sixties for early next week. The crowd is deep and demanding, and Jocelyn and Kira and I are hard at work. But right now all I want to do is get through my shift, get home, and get some sleep, so that tomorrow I can enjoy myself having brunch and playing poker with my friends and roommates, and maybe get some more work done on my novel.

The novel is starting to take on a life of its own, which I've never really experienced before, but it's a wonderful feeling. One of the movies I watched while I was on walkabout from my job the last couple of weeks was "Stranger Than Fiction," which was surprisingly deep and charming for a Will Ferrell movie. Emma Thompson plays a novelist with writer's block - and when she finally realizes what has to happen next to her protagonist, she comments to her assistant (Queen Latifah) that "like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method."

This is a fairly apt description of what's now happening to the narrator of my novel, who's based on my mother. As long as I tried to restrict her actions and even her thoughts to what I knew about my actual mother when she left in 1994, I got nowhere. I felt like I was writing a trip to the laundromat. A couple of weeks ago I finally managed to let go of her as a fictional character - and since then she hasn't disappointed me once. I don't know how long our journey together is going to be, but I'm determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasts. And if someone someday thinks it's worth selling in book form, well, so much the better.

Samantha and Will walk into the Bar as it's getting close to midnight. After what Maya said the other day, I'm not sure I want to deal with her friend, but Samantha's also a customer. She also happens to be - dating? using? verbing? - Will, a good guy and a regular, so I fight off my instinct not to give her the benefit of the doubt. I serve Will an Anchor Steam right away, then ask Samantha what she's in the mood for tonight.

"I'm in the mood for a number one seed, baby! Plus a cosmo, please."

"What, Ohio State's in the basketball tournament, too?"

"Oh, honey, we're not just in the dance, we were Big Ten champions - regular season and tournament, as of a few hours ago! We haven't lost a game since early January! If they don't give us a one seed, they're smoking crack!!"

"And Michigan?" I ask Will, but Samantha's the one who answers first, with cackling laughter.

He shrugs, and sips from his beer. "Not so much this year, I'm afraid. But then I was never that big a basketball fan."

As I finish mixing Samantha's drink, she pokes Will in the side. "You're gonna be for the rest of the month, mister!" He nods and grins at me, and I get the sense he's not making out too badly on his end of this deal.

I hand off the cosmo. "So when's the opening game? Have you picked out a place to watch yet?" Hint, hint.

Samantha downs a good third of her drink, then sets it down. "Keep your fingers crossed, Debra" - I can't help smiling that she finally seems to have gotten my name right - "after they announce the brackets tomorrow, my father's going to try to get us all some game tickets and plane tickets for as long as the Buckeyes stay alive. God knows who he's gonna have to blow, but I have faith in him."

"Will, you're really going along for this ride?"

He shrugs. "I've got some vacation time saved up. Besides, it might be fun to meet Sam's folks."

She pokes him in the side again. "You will not mention where you went to college when you meet them, do you hear??"

"If they ask, Sam, I'm not gonna lie. And if they're not complete idiots, they might even guess that I played football."

Sam's shoulders slump. "I really don't know what the hell I'm doing with you sometimes."

Will turns to me and winks, then faces Sam again. "You're falling in love with me."

She stomps once, then twice, then a third time. "No, no, no!! It's not fair!! I was supposed to find some nice boy from Ohio State and settle down to raise a bunch of little Buckeyes with him!" She chugs the rest of her drink - to the extent you can really chug from a wide martini glass, anyway - then sets down the glass hard enough that I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.

Then she hits him. Right in the stomach, with barely a backswing as warning. She storms off out the front door of the Bar, leaving him grimacing and clutching his midsection with one hand - miraculously, still holding his beer with the other.

I manage not to laugh. "Will, are you okay?"

He nods, then grunts out a sentence. "This is going to be a very. long. month."

Apparently Samantha's not the only one who won a bet on a big college football game in November and collected by making the loser humiliate himself in public. Barmaid Blog reader Michael sent me a link to this photo:

Now there's a guy having a bad day. I hope that, like Will, he got to go home with someone hot that night, too...

Tuesday evening I walk into the Bar for my 8-to-close shift, and standing next to Bill, who's working the door, is Will. He's dressed in a Michigan football jersey and a skirt, and holding blue and yellow pompoms. I stop in my tracks, and he glances over at the bar, where Samantha is sipping a cocktail and watching him. She coolly nods, and Will heaves a sigh.

"Good evening. My name is Will. May I tell you about Michigan's devastating loss to the clearly superior football team from The Ohio State University?"

I laugh. Samantha smiles and takes another sip, then turns around to talk to Maya, who's behind the bar with Amy.

"Will, what have you done??"

He shrugs. "A bet's a bet."

I look at his legs. "Not that I'm complaining much, mind you. Seriously, your calves are ridiculous, you know that?" He smiles. "Hey, she doesn't have you doing this for an entire twenty-four hours, does she?"

"Oh, no," he says, and leans a little closer. "In fact, she was pretty clear about insisting the rest of my debt would have to be paid in private."

"Aaahhh," I grin. "Well, good luck with that."

I make my way behind the bar, where Amy is starting to cash out. I smile and say, "Hey, Samantha, who won the big game?"

She sticks out her tongue. "I never lost faith, funny girl, I knew my Buckeyes would come through."

"Did you ask Will what he would have made you do if Michigan had won?"

"I don't deal in fantasies and pipe-dreams, Debra. But I'm sure it would have been all about sex, sex, sex."

"Wait, isn't that part of what you're demanding, too?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, but it's not all about sex, that's just dessert - the public humiliation is the main course."

Maya says, "I still don't get how sleeping with you is a punishment for him."

"Maya, my dear, it's not about him losing. It's about me winning. And believe me, what I have in mind for later is very much about me winning, and not about him at all." She and Maya high-five. I manage to refrain from asking what happened to betrayals and "sleeping with the enemy" and such things, and just go about the work of tending bar.

A little after ten o'clock, I'm pulling a pint of Guinness when someone walks up to the bar and asks, "Hey, are you Debra?" For a moment, I freeze, and my heart races. Has someone figured out where the Bar is and who I am? Did someone I know tell someone they shouldn't have? I look at the someone, and it's a tall woman wearing a Coors jacket, standing next to a short woman wearing a Coors jacket.

"Yes. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Bonnie, this is Susan. We're from Coors." Thank goodness she clarified that. "I spoke to the manager, Todd something - he said he'd let you know we were coming?"

"Oh, of course! You're the promotion people. Welcome to the Bar!"

"Thanks! We just wanted to check in, make sure you knew who we were before we start."

"Let me know if you need anything."

They wave and start scoping out the room, and my heart gradually stops pounding. As I serve drinks, I watch the two women approach customers, explain their music trivia game, and then put headphones on people who want to play. Winners get Coors t-shirts and keyrings, losers just get Coors t-shirts - in my opinion, losers should be served a pint of Coors. I really don't enjoy Coors, not after all the great beers I've tasted - it's awfully watery. When I finally saw "Smokey and the Bandit" for the first time, I was appalled and aghast that anybody would go to that much trouble for a truckload of Coors - or that it was considered a regional "specialty" beer at the time the movie was made.

But we sell a lot of it at the Bar, and I know there are benefits to keeping the distributor happy. Plus, Bonnie and Susan are very attractive women, which means the guys they're talking to will spend more time in the Bar tonight, and more money on beer, meaning more tips for me.

At one point, Bonnie comes back over to the bar. "Debra, what's with the guy in the skirt?" I tell her briefly about the bet, and she shakes her head, laughing. "You know, I knew a girl who got fired from Coors for sleeping with a guy from Sam Adams." I grin, and file that away for later. I guess these sorts of "betrayals" happen everywhere.

At eleven sharp, Samantha drains the last of her Long Island Iced Tea, and waves Will over. "Carry my bag, slave," she says, obviously relishing her power, and he obliges. "We're done here." They head for the door, and I find myself envying them even the bizarre tryst they're about to have. It's been a couple of weeks since I had sex. I know, a couple of months ago I was complaining about a drought of several months, but I'm supposedly seeing someone. I'm going to have to do something about that soon.

--

Speaking of which, remember I mentioned how much I enjoyed the solo piano music Warren had playing at his apartment during our first date? Warren e-mailed me a link this morning that I wanted to share. 93.9 FM WNYC, one of New York's public radio stations, is airing some of Seth Kaufman's new music tonight at 11pm, on their show "New Sounds," along with music from other solo piano artists. For those of you not in the area, I gather you can use the links on the left-hand side of that page to listen online.

After reading about Samantha and Will's bet the other day, Barmaid Blog reader Kate wrote:

Your anecdote about Michigan-OSU rivalry and the, uh, ramifications of sleeping with the enemy really hit home for me. If you'll allow me, I'd like to share a little story of my own. Forgive the length.

The setting is Buffalo, New York, and the time is mid-April 2003. My two friends and I ditched our Thursday and Friday classes to go cheer on our friends on the Cornell hockey team as they battled UNH in the Frozen Four. Let me tell you, we HATED the UNH fans. Now, I am sure you female Wildcats are perfectly lovely, but I have a serious problem with the male UNHers. They heckled us as soon as we stepped in the arena, past their bars, etc. -- we were "stuck up Ivy bitches" -- and that's the very least of it. We are, for the record, anything but. But I digress.

We both know how that semi-final went down. The number four team in the country managed to knock off the number one team due to a bullshit waved-off goal and breaks that just didn't fall the Big Red's way.

Fast forward to that night. We hang out with the Cornell boys. They're heartbroken. We don't talk about the game much. We drink many beers and do many shots. I amaze a couple of the Canadians by telling them, in French, that I can understand what they're saying and not to try anything funny. We all end up traipsing back to the Adam's Mark, where the boys and us girls are staying.

A few hours later, I'm a little bit more sober and "Emily" is crying. She can't find her cell phone. Inconsolable, she goes outside "for a ciggy" and I fall back asleep.

Dawn breaks. I wake up to Emily swooping grandly back into our room. She grasps the bathroom's doorframe and swings around a la Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain."

"What," I say, "is your problem?"

"Lanny Gare!" She sings.

Our third friend "Keira" looks up from her textbook. Apparently she's an early riser and decided to study while I was still sleeping. (This did not, however, have any discernible impact on her abysmal grades.) "What?!" she practically screeches.

"I fucked Lanny Gare!" Emily bounces down onto the bed and proceeds to tell us that she ran into UNH's former all-star player while she was outside smoking and crying. Since he was injured and wouldn't be playing the rest of the weekend, he went out that Thursday night. On his way back in, he saw that Emily was upset and offered to comfort her. Apparently he comforted her for quite some time, after which he pointedly took a shower, cueing her to leave.

Yeah, she slept with the enemy. Keira and I were mighty pissed. I mean, I'm a hearty proponent of embracing your sexuality, being a badass, getting it good early and often, etc. but this was like a war crime or something. Lanny Gare? Not just some random sketchball from UNH, but THE guy we worried about before he was neutered by a bum (shoulder? elbow?). Despicable.

Of course, Keira, being the rather toxic person she is, didn't stop at being outraged privately. She volunteered to go find Emily's phone and in the process of knocking on the players' doors to retrieve the cell, managed to tell all of them just who Emily had entertained earlier that morning. They were justifiably stunned, crushed, mad, outraged and hurt. Emily had betrayed them by compromising her loyalties.

It was a really big deal for a while. Emily got dirty looks from the guys (and her sorority sisters who found out about the debacle) in the dining hall. Even the freshmen on the team were short with her at after hours. I gave her "how could you?" a couple of times but eventually dropped it -- she's just so gosh darn sweet and cute that I can't help but forgive.

Forget, though? Never. Never.

Thanks, Kate! I knew Lanny Gare at UNH, though not very well. And I remember watching the quarterfinals against Boston University on TV from here in New York City, and watching Lanny go down hard less than a minute into the game. He'd carried our team all year, and what were we going to do without him?

We were going to barely beat Cornell, then get absolutely spanked by Minnesota in the title game, as it turned out.

It has occurred to me, by the way, that if the same sort of thing had happened in reverse - a UNH fan sleeping with a Cornell player after the game - you could even look at it as an olive branch, a peace overture of sorts, a bit like saying "You're still okay." But the way it did happen, you and the guys on the Cornell team saw it as an abandonment in their worst time of need. And I guess if I imagine what I would have felt like if one of my friends from UNH had gone and slept with a Minnesota player after we'd lost the title game, I can understand how you felt.

Of course, since I know you're not the only Cornell hockey fan reading this, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that we've been to the national title game twice in the last eight years, and Cornell hasn't.

The answer to your several comments and your many, many e-mails is, "I have absolutely no idea what Samantha is going to make Will do now that she's won their bet!" Samantha was theoretically in Columbus at the game with her family, and I can only imagine how excited she must have been. I haven't been at the Bar since my shift Saturday night, so I haven't spoken to Maya yet to find out if she's spoken to Samantha. Will also didn't put in an appearance on Saturday - I didn't start my shift until well after the game was over, but Jocelyn told me he wasn't there during the afternoon to watch the game. I promise, I'll report as soon as I know something.

Sunday my roommates Cassie and Jill and I have our usual bagels and pajamas brunch, and we've planned another poker game for the afternoon and evening. Our friend Scott is coming over with his colleague Arielle, but all the other regulars have declined, so I was asked to find someone else to join us. On a whim, on Saturday afternoon I called Adam, the guy I met outside the Apple Store a couple of months ago who shares my taste in ice cream and ice cream shop employees. We'd only spoken a few times since then. As luck would have it, he plays poker, so I invited him, and he was available.

He's not bad, either. We start out after brunch with a Texas Hold'em tournament for the six of us, and Adam takes second place after a protracted head-to-head battle with Scott. Then in dealer's choice, I proceed to lose three $20 buy-ins over the course of the next few hours - not all of it goes to Adam, but he doesn't do too badly for himself. By that time he has also managed to make everybody laugh a few times, too - he's a pretty funny guy. I also get the sense that he's flirting with me at times, but I've had a few drinks, so I could be imagining the whole thing. He's still really not my type, anyway. I decline to buy in a fourth time, and instead just sit and watch the rest of the game.

Afterwards, we clean up, and while Jill, Arielle, and I chat with Adam over one final beer, Cassie once again takes Scott into her room and closes the door. Jill and Arielle and I try not to pay too much attention to it, even when the noises start to get a little too loud to ignore. But Adam can't help being amused. "That wasn't part of the prize for winning the hold'em tourney, was it? 'cause if I'd known..."

We all laugh, then Arielle says, "Well, it's about time I get myself over to the hospital for my shift."

Adam says, "Oh, I'll walk you out. I should get home anyway, I have to work in the morning." He collects his things, then he pauses as he hugs me goodbye. "God, you smell good," he whispers in my ear. Then they're gone.

"I hope he's not interested in Arielle," Jill remarks as we sit on the couch flipping channels through the post-midnight television wasteland.

"Why?"

"She's gay."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't." In fact, evidence would suggest I'm usually the last to know. "But I don't think it's Arielle he's after. He smelled my hair when we hugged!"

Jill rolls her eyes at me. "Debra, not every guy falls for you, you know. Even if you want them all to."

"I didn't mean it that way, I just thought he... nevermind."

We settle on a "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" marathon, and Jill turns up the volume to drown out whatever it is Cassie and Scott are doing. And I sit there wondering if, after all this time fending off constant advances while I tend bar, I've come to see it as a given that men who aren't gay or already involved will be attracted to me. Am I really that vain?

(It's not exactly Indian Summer, but it's been in the low 60s the last several days here in New York City, and today, finally, it's also sunny. I was determined to get in one last outdoor blogging session for 2006, so here I am in Bryant Park, typing away in sunglasses and a sweatshirt.)

It's a slow Thursday night at the Bar because of on-and-off torrential rainstorms. I'm on with Maya, and her friend Samantha the physical therapist is at the bar chatting with us. She can barely keep still, because she's due to fly out to Ohio in the morning, where her The Ohio State University Buckeyes are hosting Michigan in football, both with 11-0 records so far. She says it's the first time those two teams have ever met as the #1 and #2 teams in the country, which I gather is a big deal. She reminds me a little bit of the way people at UNH used to talk about playoff games against Maine, but this isn't the playoffs, it's just that serious a rivalry. Her whole family is going.

"It's just unreal - we've got eight tickets, and somebody actually offered my dad a thousand dollars a ticket! I swear, I was almost tempted to tell him to take the damn money and we'd watch at home on television with a big pile of lobsters and champagne or something."

"Oh, yeah," grins Maya, "there's nothing like Ohio champagne and fresh, Columbus lobster."

"Oh, shut up, you know what I mean."

Then, in a flurry of umbrella, in walks Will. He's a regular around here, and played ball in college himself. But as far as I know, Samantha and Will haven't been in the Bar at the same time since she picked him up and took him home - and since she later complained about him being a jerk. He waves at us, and as I'm getting him his Anchor Steam beer, he says, "Hey, Samantha."

She doesn't even look at him. "Prick."

He shakes his head. "We're really not going to get past this, are we?"

"Maya, how could you let me sleep with this guy??" Samantha pleads.

Maya throws her hands up. "For Christ's sake, Sam, you've never told me what he did wrong!"

Samantha screams so loud, everybody in the Bar can hear it, even over the Clash that's playing: "HE PLAYED FOOTBALL AT MICHIGAN!!"

There's a pause, and then I can't help it - I burst out laughing, and so do a bunch of other people around us. Maya turns to Will, grinning. "Is this true?" she says, in mock accusation.

He shrugs. "Guilty as charged."

Maya say, "Seriously, Sam, that was it? He played football at Michigan years before you met, so he's a jerk?"

"Don't you get it? I was a trainer! Some of those guys are good friends of mine! How can I possibly go back there and face them? I slept with the enemy!!" I snort and start laughing again, and Samantha throws a coaster at me.

"Listen, Sam," says Will, "we had a good time together. I like you, even if you did choose the wrong college." Samantha gasps and reaches for another coaster, but Vince quickly whisks them away from her. "Can we make a deal?"

Samantha cocks her head to one side and looks at him suspiciously. "What kind of deal?"

"If Michigan wins on Saturday, you'll let it go, and stop acting like I have the plague."

"Ha!" she reacts. "Like Michigan could possibly win this game."

"Okay, so, what have you got to lose?"

She stands up, grabs Will by the shirt, and gets in his face. "When Ohio State wins on Saturday, you will do anything I decide to demand of you, for an entire twenty-four hours!"

Will's grin widens. "Well, then, it's only fair that when Michigan wins on Saturday, you will do anything I decide to demand of you for an entire twenty-four hours."

Maya says, "Uh - Sam?"

"Deal!!" she yells, with a maniacal look on her face, and a round of applause and cheers goes up.

Now I might even bother watching this thing myself.

Friday night I'm on the 6-to-close, and Amy and Maya are on with me. I should be nervous, wondering if Warren is going to come by, but I'm not. Instead, I'm distracted by the conversation I had with Dara a couple of nights ago, and I'm thinking about how she's on her date with Dennis right now. I'm a little surprised that neither of us has called the other to apologize, but then again I'm one of us, so I could've picked up the phone just as easily as she.

Maya's friend Samantha is at the Bar again tonight, drinking heavily and complaining about Will, the regular she picked up and went home with last time she was here. But all she's willing to say so far is that he's a jerk; she won't get more specific than that.

"Did he not call you afterward?" Maya asks, and Samantha shakes her head. "Give you a disease?" Shake. "Kick you out in the middle of the night? Give you a hickey? Force you to have a threesome? Smack you around? Come in your hair?" Samantha laughs, and Maya shrugs. "Well, I can't help you if you won't tell me... you know you're going to see him again if you keep hanging out here, right?"

"I'll manage," Samantha replies, and waves her glass around just enough to splash Long Island Iced Tea all over me. "Oh, shit, Debbie, I'm sorry."

"That's Debra," I grumble, and head to the back room.

I grab two clean bar rags, and the spare t-shirt that I always have in my bag when I'm working, and I go down the hall to the ladies' room. Inside, there are two blonde women laughing loudly and doing lines of coke off a small mirror on the counter. When they see me, the taller coke blonde says, "Hey, do you want some?"

"No, thanks," I smile, and I decide that for these next few minutes I'm not going to care what goes on in the Bar's ladies' room, I'm just going to be a girl who's had a drink spilled on her and needs to change her shirt. So I take off the wet one and stand there in my bra, cleaning myself up a little with some water on one of the bar rags, and the shorter coke blonde squeals.

"I wanna get naked, too!" she sings tunelessly, and starts dancing around and unbuttoning her blouse. Taller Coke Blonde laughs but manages to restrain her, and I quickly dry myself off and throw on the clean t-shirt, then leave. I stop off in the back room to drop off my bag, then head back to the bar...

...where Samantha is standing and talking to Warren with her hand on his arm.

I don't own him, I remind myself, and we're not even dating. I met him once, over a month ago, and in the interim we've both expressed a little interest. I breeze behind the bar as calmly as I can, doing my best not to show any reaction. Amy catches my eye and gives me a "What could I do?" shrug.

Warren sees me, and smiles. "Debra!" he says, and removes Samantha's hand from his arm, which makes me smile. He's in a really nice suit. He looks good.

"Hey, stranger," I say. "Come to collect that Weihenstephaner?"

"That too," he says. He reaches his hand under the bar, and it returns holding a single long-stemmed white rose, which he holds out to me. I'm honestly a little stunned, but I keep it together enough to smile, take the flower from him, and thank him.

Samantha quietly says, "Whatever," then heads back to her stool.

Warren says, "I'm sorry I never answered your e-mail. First I was in Hawaii for a couple of weeks, and then I thought it had been so long that I should just stop by, so I did, but I kept missing you."

"I'm here now."

"Don't you want to put that in water or something?"

I hold the rose to my nose and inhale deeply. "Maybe. How was Hawaii?"

"It was relaxing, and very beautiful. Have you ever been there?" I shake my head. "Plenty of time, you're young." For the first time, I think to wonder how old Warren is, because I don't think he's my age, but he doesn't look all that much older, either.

"Hey, is that meant to be some kind of hint, or insult?" he says, pointing at my shirt. I look down, and laugh. Membership Has Its Privileges, says the shirt, with a satire picture of an American Express Card below the slogan, bearing the name of my college sorority instead of Amex.

"No, it's totally random," I say. "I'd offer to take it off, but I don't have anything else to wear."

"Well, maybe later," he says, and one of my knees shakes a little.

"Warren!" calls a voice from within the crowd between the door and the bar, and he turns. What seems like a full minute later, Former B-List Actor emerges from the crowd, his hand extended.

"Former!" exclaims Warren [yeah, I know, but I'm trying to protect his privacy, okay?], and bypassing the hand, embraces the much shorter man. "Hey, I want you to meet someone," he says to me. "This is Former B-List Actor."

"You know, we've met," says FBA. "It's Debra, right?" We shake hands.

"Yes, and it's nice to see you again. What can I get for you? Wait, a Jack Daniels Manhattan, right?"

FBA nods and points, "She's good."

"And a Weihenstephaner for the gentleman, coming right up." I go take care of their drinks while they start to catch up.

I set down their drinks, and in a mildly clumsy fashion, FBA reaches over and knocks the lemon slice into Warren's beer, to which Warren responds by grabbing the cherry out of FBA's Manhattan and popping it in his mouth. "How do you two know each other?" Warren covers his eyes and shakes his head, and I smile, curious.

FBA volunteers, "Back when I still lived in New York, I used to take my family for brunch at Serendipity 3 all the time. The lines are terrible, but you can actually call ahead for reservations if you have six or more in your group, so we would invite another couple or another family to go with us, and we'd just breeze right on in. Starch Boy over here, he's standing on line one Sunday, and he sees me about to walk in without waiting on line, and he gets pissed."

Warren breaks in. "So I actually went up to him and called him out for using his -- " he smiles at FBA, here, " -- extremely limited celebrity to jump ahead of us normal folks. He stood there and explained to me about the reservations thing, and I felt like a total idiot, but he was completely nice."

FBA finishes, "Long story short, he apologized, and I told him, 'Look, next time you and your kids want to come down here for brunch, give me a call.' So he did, and every month or two for a couple of years, we're all down there stuffing ourselves silly and slurping down frozen hot chocolates. Then I moved out to L.A., and I guess we fell out of touch a little. Hey," he says, turning to Warren, "how are your kids?"

Yes, Warren, how are your kids, I think to myself as I turn to him with the most innocent of smiles to hear his answer.

"Oh, they're great, thanks," he says. "They're with their mom full-time now, I mostly do the weekend thing now and again." He looks at me apologetically; I'm sure he didn't expect this to come up so soon, or in quite this fashion. "How about yours?" he says to FBA.

"Great, great," says the minor celebrity. "Starting to look at colleges, which is damn frightening."

"Listen," I interrupt, "it's a busy night, so I'm going to have to leave you two to catch up, but be sure to let me know if you need anything, okay?"

FBA asks, "Debra, how much were the drinks?"

"These were on me, hon." I hear him thank me as I set off down the bar to serve the thirsty masses.

Much, much later, while FBA is in the men's room, Warren flags me down. "Listen, Debra, I didn't mean to come in here and spend the whole time talking to someone else. I didn't know I'd run into him here."

"That's okay," I shrug, "I'm working anyway, so it's not like I could've spent the whole time talking to you, either."

He smiles, and takes my hand in his. "Yeah, so, when's the next night you're not working?"

"The next night I'm not working, or the next night I'm free?"

He seems mildly taken aback. "Okay, the next night you're free."

I think about it. "A week from Sunday."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Okay, so, a week from Sunday, let me make dinner for you."

"What, at your place?"

"Well, the last time I tried to make dinner for my date at Chanterelle, they threw me out, so yeah, at my place."

I smile. "Can I bring dessert?"

He squeezes my hand, then raises it to his lips and kisses it lightly. "You can bring anything you want." Then he looks down. "Just leave that shirt at home."

Saturday late afternoon Dad drives me back into the city after services, and we grab dinner at Pig Heaven, not exactly your traditional Rosh Hashana meal. It's probably the right time on a Saturday evening when we're finishing up, but I resist suggesting we trek the several blocks to Cold Stone Creamery for dessert, figuring it's not worth the trouble of explaining why. We have dessert at the restaurant instead. Then Dad drops me off at the Bar for my shift, and heads back home.

I breeze behind the bar just in time for Maya to cash out and join a friend of hers who's been drinking at the bar, and I check in with Amy. She says, "Hey, Debra, that guy was in here again last night looking for you."

I can't help smiling. "Did you find out who he was this time? Did you tell him I'd be on tonight? What was he drinking?"

"Slow down, girl! He left you a note." She reaches into her pocket and hands me a folded piece of paper with writing on both sides. When unfurled, it turns out to be MasterCard notepaper with "From the Desk of Warren _______" at the top. It was him after all.

Debra,

I thought perhaps you were running for some secret back exit in fear for your job anytime you saw me coming, but your colleague tells me my timing thus far has simply been unfortunate. She also told me it was bar policy not to disclose shift schedules to patrons, which I understand.

I flip the note over.

But I have been in need of a Weihenstephaner since my return from Hawaii, so I will simply continue to try my luck. Until then,

Warren

Okay, so I still haven't gotten to see him again (and it's been nearly a month), but at least now I know he got my e-mail and he's interested - if not in me, then at least in a free Weihenstephaner, and maybe some good commercial transaction debate. Either way, it's enough to keep making me smile most of the night.

When I go to check on their drinks, Maya introduces me to her friend Samantha, who went to high school with her. Samantha says she's an athletic trainer at a physical therapy place in midtown, and lives in Astoria. I've barely gotten two sentences out before I've learned half the history of Ohio State University (excuse me, The Ohio State University) and its varsity sports programs; apparently Samantha's a fifth-generation "Buckeye," and she goes back to Ohio to visit her family and go to home football games a few times each fall. She's pretty well in her cups, and when she gets up to go to the ladies' room, I notice something interesting.

"Maya, I think your friend has the longest torso I've ever seen."

She laughs. "I know. We called her 'Stretch' in high school."

"She's not even that tall."

"Yeah, her legs are kind of... well, stubby. I mean, only compared to the rest of her."

I go back to serving drinks, as it's a fairly busy Saturday night, and soon enough the Bar is full. Sometime after 10 o'clock, Will walks in - for new readers, Will is a regular who played football in college, and still has the physique (and some pretty damn good looks to boot). He makes his way to the bar and greets some friends. He's right in front of me, but since I'm pouring a few glasses of wine, Amy hands him his usual Anchor Steam beer before he has a chance to order it.

After I deliver the wine to the folks down at the other end of the bar, I start to make my way back, and I notice Samantha heading in the same direction, a little unsteadily. She gently pushes her way through a few of Will's friends.

"Corner?"

Will turns to look at her, and smiles. "Hey, gorgeous. What did you call me?"

"I asked if you played corner for your defense."

"No, strong safety. How did you know I played?"

"I know my players." She sways a little, and steadies herself on Will, who helps her out. I go back to taking orders and serving drinks while they continue to chat.

Maya goes off to the back room, and comes back with her bag a minute later to say goodbye to Amy and me. "Maya, you don't want to stick around and make sure Samantha's okay?"

"Don't worry about her, she'll be fine."

"She seems pretty drunk."

"Debra, believe me, she knows exactly what she's doing. I'll check in with her tomorrow like I always do." I shrug, and Maya takes off.

For a while, Will and Samantha are just trading football stories and lightly pawing each other while he buys the drinks. But by midnight, they're making out right there at the bar, and Will's friends are trying to ignore them and talk amongst themselves. Soon enough, Samantha makes another trip to the ladies' room, and Will flags Amy down to clear his tab. When Samantha returns, she and Will leave together.

She makes it look so damn easy.

*Thanks to sayceman for the slogan!

Friday night, I'm on the 8-to-close with Amy and Jessica. My friends Dara and Jill have come by the Bar to hang out. It's been gorgeous out all day, the beginning of a spectacularly beautiful weekend without absurdly oppressive heat, something we haven't had in far too long. Unfortunately the Yankees have lost their second in a row tonight, so people are looking for something else to feel good about.

I think Jill, who's also one of my roommates, has come down to the Bar on the pretense that she wants to keep Dara company because she knows I'm going to be very busy on a Friday night. But I suspect she mostly just wants to meet Vince, the new barback I've told her about - he used to roadie for some punk bands, and she's a pretty serious punk rock fan.

Dara, on the other hand, has become something of a regular here simply by virtue of having spent so much time here during the heat waves. But her air conditioning is working just fine now - plus it's turning into a cool night, so she doesn't need it anyway. For the past few days she has been by turns either quiet or mischievous, like she knows something the rest of us don't.

Jill doesn't have to wait very long for an opening to chat with Vince. He comes out from the back room wearing a Bad Religion t-shirt, and she doesn't even introduce herself before pointing at his shirt and asking, "Gurewitz or non-Gurewitz?"

I have no idea what she means (in fact I had to look it up later for this post), but apparently Vince does, because he answers, "Graffin without Gurewitz is like Lennon without McCartney."

Jill extends her hand and introduces herself, and Dara and I roll our eyes at each other.

On Dara's other side is Kelly, a woman who's been a semi-regular for as long as I've worked here. I say she's a "semi-regular" because even though she's got the longevity to be a regular, she isn't really here that often. But when she is, it's for a reason. It's because her husband is out of town.

I only know this because she told me one night when she'd had a little more to drink than usual. Prior to that, I didn't even know she was married; she certainly doesn't wear a wedding ring when she's in the Bar. But that makes sense, since as far as I can tell she only comes here for one reason, and she always gets what she wants. She's in her mid-forties, but she must take incredibly good care of herself, because she looks fantastic. And she gets noticed. I don't think I've ever seen her leave the Bar alone. And it's always with someone much younger.

My other roommate Cassie just told me that the word "cougar" is being used these days to describe an older woman who goes after younger men for sex. Anybody have any idea where that comes from?

Tonight Kelly has made the first move, zeroing in on a good-looking younger guy I've never seen before. He's here with a few friends, but they left him alone to Kelly's devices almost as soon as she moved in. He's bought her a couple of drinks, and she's run her hand through his hair once or twice. I'm starting to get the feeling that dogs all over Manhattan will pick up their scent pretty soon, when out of nowhere someone else smoothly sidles up to Kelly and says, "Dance with me." She looks up in surprise and smiles.

Will's a regular. He reminds me of Jason Giambi - not because they look alike, or because he plays baseball (and I don't have a crush on him), but because he's gorgeous and he's huge. He played football in college, and he hasn't lost the physique yet. He's a sweetheart and a gentleman to the women who work here, but if I didn't know him, I definitely wouldn't want to be alone in a dark alley with him.

The guy who's been drinking with Kelly extends his hand to Will, and says, "Hi, I'm Ben," in a tone clearly mean to convey, "You're trespassing here." I don't know the relevant section of the Guy Code by heart, but I wouldn't be surprised if Will has overstepped those bounds a little.

Will takes the offered hand, replies, "I'm Will, it's nice to meet you. I'm just going to dance with the lady for one song, and I'll have her right back." He holds a hand out for Kelly, who takes it and gets up. There doesn't seem to be much for Ben to do about it.

Now, this to me is kind of a key point: Nobody dances at the Bar. I'm not saying nobody ever dances here - the jukebox certainly has some upbeat music on it, and when people have been drinking you never know what will happen. But there's no dance floor, and on a Friday night it's simply too crowded. But as I glance from Ben's face to Will and Kelly and back, I get the feeling that's kind of the point - that maybe Will has found a way to take Kelly away from Ben that's both credible and an obvious dig at the same time. And damn if Will doesn't find a spot anyway - where they slow-dance to the Cars' "Drive."

Meanwhile, speaking of scents, Jill has left Dara alone at the bar, and is helping Vince collect glasses. No offense to Jill, but I can't even remember the last time she loaded our dishwasher at home. :-) She's managed to find out which bands he used to roadie for (7 Seconds and Cheap Sex), and now I think she's expounding on the virtues of the Ramones.

Once the song ends, Will is true to his word, and delivers Kelly back to Ben - but then he flags me down and orders a round of drinks. For all three of them. I can't react any other way but to serve him and take his money, but I have the urge to laugh at what's going on.

I can't report any of what they all talk about for the next hour and a half, because it gets horrendously busy, and after Amy leaves at midnight, Jessica and I are in the weeds. So is Vince, for that matter, so Jill patiently sits back down with Dara. But as things at the Bar finally start to calm down a little, I gather that the opposite is happening with Ben, Will, and Kelly. In fact I get the sense that all pretense has been dropped, and Ben and Will are actively debating who should get to go home with Kelly. And she's just eating it up.

"Well, Debra?"

I blink a few times, and it takes me a moment to realize that Kelly has just asked me what to do. The truth is that I have no idea. I don't pick guys up in bars to take them home the same night I meet them, and I've definitely never had two men I barely know fight over me in public. I'm tempted to throw a little judgmental "Why don't you ask your husband?" at her, but she trusted me with that as a secret, and even if she's dragged me into it this particular evening, it's still really none of my business.

I try a trick I learned in college: restating the problem sometimes helps you reach a solution. "You want to go home with one of them but you can't decide which one?"

She nods her head and laughs. Will and even Ben are pretty amused by this point, too. And my trick has failed me. "Kelly, I have no idea."

Vince taps me on the shoulder and says, "Let me give this one a try." He leans over the bar and gestures for Kelly to lean in close. Will and Ben both start to move forward, but he holds up a hand and says, "Gentlemen, please." He cups Kelly's ear and talks into it for a minute. Kelly gasps and looks at Vince in disbelief, then gestures for him to lean in, and talks into his ear. He shrugs, leans back in, and says one more thing, then walks away.

Kelly laughs, and downs the rest of her drink. Then she turns back to Will and Ben, and says, "Boys, here's the deal. I'm taking you both home with me tonight. What do you think about that?" Dara and Jill both laugh out loud. I break a glass of Hefeweizen on the tap I've just been filling it from, and Vince turns back around without missing a beat.

Ben says, "That's fine with me. Will?"

Will shakes his head. "I work alone, Kelly, and Ben is definitely not my type. You take me home alone, or you don't take me home at all."

Kelly holds out her hand, and says, "Will, thanks for the dance and the drinks." Will pauses, then shakes it - and walks down to the other end of the bar, patting Ben on the shoulder as he goes. Nice gesture, I think to myself. Ben and Kelly get up from their barstools, and after Ben leaves a nice extra tip, they head for the door.

Jill practically dives over the bar, grabbing Vince by the shirt. "What did you say to her?!"

"I said, 'Are you sure you don't want to take me home instead?'"

"You did not!"

"Okay, I didn't. I told her she should offer to take them both home. If one of them was okay with that and the other wasn't, then she'd have her choice made for her."

Dara says, "What?! Wait, what if they'd both been okay with it?"

"Yeah, that's what she asked me, too. So I said, 'Would that really be so bad?'" Vince smiles, and after Jill lets him go, he heads for the back room.

I shake my head. "That's one way to solve the problem, I guess."

Jill says, "The guy's like fucking Solomon." I try very hard not to roll my eyes again.

Meanwhile, Will has wandered his way back to this end of the bar, and has locked eyes with Dara. "Boy, that was really something, wasn't it?" he says to her, leaning in.

She smiles, looks at him for a good long while, and then says, "Would you excuse me for a minute?" She gets up, grabs the cell phone from her purse, and quickly walks out the front door of the Bar.

Jill and I look at each other, and at the same time, say, "Scott."