The Bar Wench

A Story by Laurel Rose

A scoop of ice falls into a glass, I watch as the liquor pours, and I wish it could enter my nerves. I'm shot with annoyances from every direction, but I hold my composure.I hear my name in the distance, but I drown out the sound, with the voices talking over one another. I try to avoid eye contact, until I'm ready for another order. Unfortunately, they stand on the bar stools and wave their hands, as if they are children in grade school knowing the answer. When I get to them, they just stare through me, like a door that's opened and nobody's home. Or I have the one's that flirt when I ask , "What can I get you?" They stare deep and lost in space, give a sloppy smile and say, "You." I give a fake laugh, but it gets harder the more it happens. I want to slam my fist on the the bar and laugh ridiculously loud, as I fall and roll on the floor. Then maybe, they'd get the point. It's not original, and it's certainly not the funniest thing I've ever heard.

Just then, I hear the front door open and slam. Whoop, there she is, Miss Train Wreck herself just walked in the door. She looks absolutely absurd, her make-up is awe-full! Raggedy Ann and Andy got nothing on this girl. It's so bad I can't laugh, I feel bad for her. She's strutting and holding her shoulders back, like she's got it! Let me break it down in slang for y'all, it's wack! Her dark eye shadow and goody, goody, gum drop blush looks like her five year old niece created her palette. I stare a little longer than I should, then immediately I look away. I try to pretend I didn't see the Wet'n'Wild catastrophe, but she called my name. I immediately looked up and smiled, as I thought, Poor thing! What in the hell were you thinking. Why, why, why. I walked up to her and her scrubby boyfriend, who looks like he hasn't showered in two weeks. I felt the tension roll in my neck- they were high maintenance drinkers that never tipped. I faked my kindness, as I asked how they were and what I could get them. She always answered the same," something fruity, you know what I like." The funny thing is...most the time, she didn't like my drinks. She'd end up getting a starburst shot and a Mike's Hard Lemonade. Her mangy Mutt along side her, wanted a two Jager Bombs, and they had to be in different glasses. Uh! So annoying! Then, they would sit on the other side of the bar and expect me to be their cocktail waitress. It's all good if you tip, but they never did. Still, I couldn't be cruel to her, she always had a way of complimenting me. I felt it was genuine, not like the creeps trying to get laid. So I feel a little guilty getting annoyed by her, but Lord help me, she gets on my last nerve. She annoys the living s**t out of me.

Her name was Penny Rich, two names that cancel each other out. It's like LA Looks and MAC got together and named a child. She wasn't a bad looking girl for being a Fetal Alcohol Syndrome baby. Her eyes were a little far apart, but she was fair skinned, had white blond hair, average height and slim. She had an angelic look, a natural beauty about her. She didn't know it... inside or out.

I know this because one time she got a little too tipsy and told me her life story. That's how I knew she was born with FAS. She was taken away from her biological parents when she was a baby-then adopted by another couple. Probably the best thing for her, but still, she had longing inside, an empty space that no one or nothing could fill. She wanted to ask her mother why. Why couldn't she stop drinking. Why didn't she love her the way she loved every sip bourbon that burned down her throat. Why couldn't she have that same passion for Penny, but it was too late. Both of her parents died before she was old enough to confront them, they had developed a bad heroin problem. Once that addiction began they were not long for the world.

Poor Penny, I really feel guilty for not liking her. Maybe, I'm being too hard on her, I should soften the stubbornness I feel. So I go back to their table and ask if I can get them anything else. This time a genuine kindness comes out of me. Penny says, "I"ll take another shot!" I nod. Her boyfriend says, "I'll take two more." I said, "You got it." I go Fetch their drinks, as a good bar maid does, and this time I wasn't annoyed in the least bit. As I set their shot glasses on white beverage napkins placed on their table, Penny perches up and says, "Hey, thanks Bar Wench!" As the words uttered out of her mouth, they must have grabbed on to my spinal cord and twisted every nerve possible. Suddenly, all the guilt I felt for not liking her had disappeared and reappeared with my severe case of annoyance. I smile a fake smile, turn to walk back to the bar. I just close eyes, shake my head, and laugh as I think- Dear God, this Bar Wench tried.