The Cocktail Waitress Read Online Free

kind of cold at one o’clock in the morning. But, if you’ll accept a suggestion from me, with what you’ve got to go inside this blouse, I’d leave the bra off.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Well, I do. It kind of helps with the tips.”
    “With me, tips are the main thing.”
    “And with everyone, Joan. Don’t be ashamed.”
    And then, explaining: “In case you’ve been wondering, why I would want competition, when I’ve had it all to myself, well, it kind of works backward, there in a cocktail bar. Because, swamped with work, I’ve been slow, and in a bar, it’s one thing you don’t dare to be. They’d wait for food, but drinks to them are important. And when I slow down from being swamped, they get real sore about it. And when they get sore they don’t tip. What I’m trying to say, beyond a certain point, a whole lot of people don’t help, not with the tips they don’t. Vice versa, you could say.” And then, when I’d put on the pantyhose, trunks, and peasant blouse, which drew tight over two points in front: “You’ll do. I’ll say you’re qualified.”
    “You’re not bad yourself.”
    “O.K. for an old lady—pass in a crowd.”
    She was a lot better than that, and as to what she was actually like: I never did guess her age, but whatever it was, it was enough to give her gray hair all the way through—beautiful gray hair, silver almost, that she wore cut at her shoulders, and curled. She was medium in size, with features slightly coarse, I have to say, and yet damned good-looking. Her eyes were a light blue, and wise but not hard. And her legs were different from mine—where mind are round and soft, hers were full of muscle, but with keen lines and a graceful way of stepping.
    She led on out again, to the dining room, to the foyer, and to the bar, where a blocky-looking man in a white coat was polishing glasses with a cloth and arranging them in neat rows. “Joan, Jake, Jake, Joan—she’s our new girl, Jake. Go easy, she’s never worked a bar before.” With that, she headed off for the kitchen.
    “Haya, Joan.”
    “Jake, hello.”
    It turned out that on alternate weeks, I was due in at four o’clock instead of five, to fix set-ups for Jake, as well as get the place ready, putting out Fritos in bowls, and setting the chairs down, where they’d been put up so the place could be swept. The sweeping was going on now, by a boy with a push mop, so I got at the set-ups first.
    “First set-up is for the old-fashioned. You know what an old-fashioned is?”
    “You mean the orange slices and cherries?”
    “… Yeah, them.” He gave me a long look, then went on: “And for Martinis?”
    “I turn the olives out in a bowl and stick toothpicks in them.”
    “For Gibsons—”
    “Onions, no toothpicks.”
    “O.K. Now, on Manhattans—”
    “Cherries.”
    “No toothpicks if they have stems on them. But sometimes the wrong kind is delivered, and them without stems take picks. On Margaritas—”
    “Salt? In a dish? And a lemon, gashed on one end, to spin the glasses in?”
    “Speaking of lemon—”
    “Twists? How many?”
    “Many as three lemons make. Cut them thick, put them in a bowl, and on top put plenty ice cubes, so they don’t go soft on me. I hate soft twists.” He looked at me like I was a dancing horse or some other marvel. “You sure you never …?”
    I explained: “My mother used to give parties, and my father fixed the drinks. I was Papa’s little helper.”
    “Christ, you have a father—I should have known. Well, it takes all kinds, don’t it?”
    It was the sort of remark I could have taken poorly, but he was smiling as he said it, so I smiled back at him. “What else?”
    “The Fritos—they’re for free, and you keep the bowls filled at all times. They put the customers in mind of having a drink.”
    “You mean they’re salty.”
    “I don’t and you don’t. I mean they’re compliments of Bianca, and you know what’s good for you that’s what