A voice, an older male voice, off to the right by the Video Poker machine. She cannot see who it is. The stools were pushed aside as it got more crowded around the bar, and now everybody on that side is standing.
But she does not have time right now. Three Red Ales and two Screwdrivers. And change for the cigarette machine. Her hands fly, in the cramped little space within the bar. It's too small, but at least everything is within reach. She hears the voice again.
Now, behind and above the cluster of laughing heads, she sees a hand. It is a male hand, large, with short fingers and a golden wedding band. It is trying to get her attention with a polite wave.
Still no time. She delivers the beers and the Screwdrivers to a young man at the left corner of the bar. Somebody asked for a round of shooters. B52s, as usual, but he wants her to join in. She finds Absolut Vodka and puts a very small amount in a shot glass. She fills the glass the rest of the way from a can of cranberry juice, to make herself a Sea Breeze. She places it on the tray with the B52s, then carries the tray out from behind the bar, to a nearby table.
The buyer is excited. "Guys! Guys! Round of shooters. Come on. Here. Take, take..."
She helps the customer get the attention of his table-mates. They pass around the shots. Everyone drinks.
"What was that?" asks a man with a Georgetown Hoyas baseball cap. What's a Hoya, she thinks.
"My shot? It's a Sea Breeze." She waits while the buyer fumbles with his wallet.
"You don't like B52s?" asks Hoyas cap.
"Too many people buy me shots. Too many different kinds of shots. I'd get sick. So I only drink Sea Breezes. And beer."
The buyer hands her some money, with a generous tip. She repeats the price, not sure if he made a mistake. But it's okay, he meant to tip big. A good tipper. Remember that.
The guy with the Hoyas cap has turned away. Good. No time for chit-chat. She hurries back behind the bar.
Rule number one about having a job as a bartender. You have to drink. This is not a job for teetotallers. Drinking is a social activity, or it should be, when it's done right. The bartender is a part of the crowd, a member of the party, and an important one. If the conversation drags, the bartender has to try to get it going again. Are you boring, are you introverted, are you thoughtful and subdued? Then don't become a bartender.
That voice again. She looks and sees the man, at the right corner now, leaning awkwardly between two people, the hand with the wedding band gripping the edge of the bar for balance.
It's her boss. Harry. Oh no. She has ignored the voice, made the man wait, and it's her boss. But he's still talking.
"...a round of shooters. Six Lemon Drops and a Sea Breeze. Oh, and bring one for yourself."
"The table in the corner," he says gesturing towards the coat check area.
"Diana?" Someone else. A friend, who wants to joke around. He smiles at her, his eyes half closed. They like to tease her, her regulars. They laugh at the way she runs, they laugh at her inability to understand anything technical, and they laugh at her hands. Long, artistic hands. Pointy-fingered hands. Hands that are just too feminine, they say. She is fun to tease because she takes it well.
"No time, Mike. The boss wants a round of shooters."
She rushes to make the Lemon Drops and puts them on a tray. She grabs two more shot glasses. A tiny bit of Absolut Vodka in one, a more generous amount in the other. She tops up both glasses with cranberry juice. The two shots are markedly different in color. She will have to do some sleight of hand, so that nobody else notices.
Rule number two about having a job as a bartender. Don't drink too much. A drunk bartender is too slow, when it's busy like tonight. Hangovers don't help. And bartenders get fired if they can't control their drinking.
Diana makes herself weak shots, so she can follow both rule number one and rule number two. She can't drink shots with no alcohol, because if a customer found out, they would think she was ripping them off. It's a fine line.
She carries the tray towards the coat check. There's the table, with her boss and a group of the more well-heeled customers.
She watches Harry as she weaves between the patrons. He's ruling the table, being the host. Being the life of the party. He's good at this, she sees. He has them all laughing, giddy almost.
Diana is new at this bar. In only her second week, she is still feeling her way. She has not yet figured out what Harry is like, what kind of boss he is. Is he a slavedriver? Is he a womanizer? Is he just an all-around, drunken loser? There are all kinds of bosses, in places like this.
She gets to the table and puts down the tray. Keeping the darker, weaker Sea Breeze closest to her hands, she watches as the people at the table reach for their shots. Who has the other Sea Breeze? She has to make sure she gets the right one.
All of the Lemon Drops are gone. Uh oh. Only Harry does not have a drink. She twists the tray a bit, so that the lighter-colored shot is easier for Harry to pick up, and then looks nervously around the table as she reaches for her drink.
She feels a hand against her own and looks down. She sees a strong hand with short fingers covering a slim, too-feminine hand with artistic fingers. Harry's hand is pressed warmly against her own, which clutches at the tiny glass. She looks at his wedding band. Is he a womanizer? She looks him in the eye.
He is raising his gaze from their hands, and their eyes meet. His face looks shocked, then something seems to occur to him, and he smiles.
"You were going for the darker shot? So was I," he says.
She laughs, and he laughs with her. They know something about each other now. Like a gentleman, he moves his hand to the light-colored Sea Breeze, and says, "Drink up."
They down their shots with the others. Diana takes the tray of empty glasses back to the bar, and smiles.