I started working at the Far Bar, in Baton Rouge, when I was 20.
“I know theres laws against minors working in a bar, but you’re close enough to legal, good buddy. Lets just keep it all under the table and everyone wins.”
That was Arty, the owner. I
(more)t was 8:40am and he was already on his second drink. We shook hands and he congratulated me on getting the barback/kitchen job. Then he offered me a joint.
Kathy, the lunch bartender, became my guru in a way. A reluctant guru of on both parts, but still. She was always giving advice I never needed, and I was always telling her anecdotes that were, in hindsight, very childish.
One day, she yelled at me for forgetting to stock the side bar with miller-light, the next day she brought me spaghetti and boiled eggs. It was always like that with her.
George, my kitchen sidekick, looked and talked like a wookie. His southern accent was so thick, that it took a number of times for me to realize that “Reijn” meant “Ryan” when he said my name.
I tried to make jokes with George but he never ever got my humor. His emotionless eyes would dart at my face, then back to the burger on the grill. His shoulders would shrug, and then came the grunting wookie sound.
Tammy owned the biggest pair of breasts I have ever seen. She had quite a good idea of the power her bosom held over most of the men and some of the women who came into that bar.
When we first met, she said "I'm the sweetest bartender here, honey, but don't decide nothing about me until you get to know me, okay?"
We played pool together often. She beat me every time.
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