Two doctors sit at a bar and start talking shop.
"Why proctology, for God's sake?" one asks.
"I know," the other answers, raising a hand with his thumb and forefinger an inch or two apart. "I was this close to being a gynecologist."
That same gag works for bartenders, too. If you're going to work among wildlife at the watering hole, why not become a zoologist? Certainly, after years of observing the creatures who prowl the night in my profession, I'd like to think I've learned a little something about the nature of the social animal. I know this much: Few wander in just for simple sustenance. Most are sniffing around for possibilities.
Consider my once-upon-a-time encounter with a half-dead kitty I'll call "Eve," who curled up onto one of my barstools on a New Year's Day, intent on licking her self-inflicted wounds.
"May I have two double Bloody Marys when you have a moment?"
She ordered ever so sweetly, still gorgeous in smeared makeup and the prior night's party dress.
"Take a look at a menu, Sunshine?" I tried to get her to have a little something.
"Don't think I could eat," she admitted.
"So, that's two Bloody Marys?"
"Yep. Boyfriend's in the bathroom."
I dropped the drinks. Eve downed them both by the time Boyfriend finished his business.
"Sorry, Sweetie," she apologized. "Two more, please."
"We're dead-ass hung-over, dude," Boyfriend barely had the breath to fill me in. "Haven't slept."
"Been there, bro." I offered obligatory sympathies.
I made them six drinks in maybe twenty minutes. Eve finished four and rallied. Boyfriend faded.
"I'm out," were the last words I heard from him before he disappeared.
"So, how was your night?" Eve asked me on my next spin around, suddenly all by her lonesome.
"I work late every New Year, Buttercup," I explained. "The party's always over by the time I punch out."
"Poor Sweetie," she sighed flirtatiously, feeling sorry for me.
I made a few more rounds of the bar before she called me back over.
"Got a book of matches, Babe?" Now she was sounding downright affectionate.
"I've got a light," I offered, reaching for my lighter.
"See if you can come up with a book of matches," she persisted.
I found some, figuring she wanted them to take with her. Then she smiled and asked me for the tab. I'd dropped it and was already working the other end of the bar when I heard her call for me again.
"Hey, Sweetie, Happy New Year!"
I turned my head and there she was: A bare-breasted vision alight with two of the paper matches she'd pulled apart wishbone-style and wedged onto her nipples, just standing there smiling and waving goodbye. And although it was a topless dancer's trick I'd been treated to once before, it didn't dim my appreciation for her performance in the slightest.
She'd turned herself into my special New Year's "Eve" celebration. And she burns brightly in my memory still. -- Anonymous
Anonymous has seen it all in 25 years of waiting tables and tending bar at some of the Valley's most beloved restaurants.