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dragonlady7Ugh. I wrote this at work yesterday. At work wherein I made $4 in 8.4 hours. Ugh.
I wrote it up in the format I use for the airportbartender site, but it doesn't fit in with the others and contains too much personal information about me. But the story doesn't really work without the information.
Mr. Diet Coke & an Ice Water sat at the bar. "Wow," he said. "Your hair is beautiful. Is that your real color?"
"Yes," I said. I've never colored my hair.
"Wow," he said. "And you're blonde, too."
"Uh," I said. "Yes." I didn't see anything 'too' about it, but I nodded politely. "I usually wear it up," I said, a little self-conscious, "but we don't serve food in here, so I let it down sometimes."
"That's really nice," he said. He asked me about the other bars, and I told him how many there were and where they were, in case he wanted to go out and get something to eat. He was polite, but kept looking at my hair. When I tucked it behind my shoulder he looked at my breasts instead, but he didn't comment about those.
We discussed careers, and I explained my previous jobs, and mentioned my degree. "Oh," he said, "why don't you teach?"
I explained that my mother was a teacher, and how hard I thought her job was, and how I knew I wouldn't enjoy that sort of career so I wouldn't pursue it. My hair had slipped and so I pushed it back over my shoulder as I spoke, and he watched.
I asked him what he did and he explained that he was an engineering consultant and helped reorganize businesses. He asked why I had gone into bartending. I explained that I was writing a novel, and found it easier to work on when I worked in this kind of place than when I was in a cubicle inside another cubicle all day long. He nodded.
"Why don't you teach?" he asked.
I smiled, and repeated pretty much verbatim my earlier explanation, only a little more so since it hadn't made an impression the last time.
"Wow," he said, "you sound pretty negative about it."
"Well," I said, "I've seen a lot of the worst of it because my mother's a teacher and I see what she puts up with."
"It gets easier," he said. "Once you've taught a while."
"My mother's taught 20 years and she still works hard," I said politely. "And the kids don't get any better-behaved as the years go by."
"Oh," he said, "that's true."
He was watching my chest, which wasn't moving, but I didn't really know how to remove it from his line of view. I pondered going somewhere else, but there were no other customers so I had no reason, no really plausible excuse. And the break room, just off the side of the bar, was filled with other employees, so I couldn't go in there without cramming myself in, and I'd still be in his line of sight. So I nodded and smiled, and kept talking.
"Not too busy in here," he said.
"No," I said. "It was busy yesterday, though. A bunch of flights were delayed and everyone wanted drinks and I had to run around like crazy. It was unusual. But it was nice, because I made some money."
"True," he said thoughtfully. "I bet that was nice."
"Yeah," I said. "You know how it is."
He finally had to go. "Pull your hair in front again," he said. I couldn't think of an excuse not to, so I complied, and smiled. "I bet you do it like that for all your pictures."
"I still look awful in pictures," I explained, a little self-deprecating. It's true: I do. He wasn't listening to me anyway.
He was staring at my hair. "What's your name?" he asked.
My nametag was displayed on the counter, as is the manner it's done in the club, so there was no point not answering. I told him. He shook my hand, not taking his eyes off my chest, and told me his name.
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Enjoy [your destination]."
"I'll try," he said. He only took his eyes off my chest when he turned around to leave.
He didn't leave a tip.
TELL ME AGAIN THAT BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN. Go ahead, tell me.
Ugh.
I wrote it up in the format I use for the airportbartender site, but it doesn't fit in with the others and contains too much personal information about me. But the story doesn't really work without the information.
Mr. Diet Coke & an Ice Water sat at the bar. "Wow," he said. "Your hair is beautiful. Is that your real color?"
"Yes," I said. I've never colored my hair.
"Wow," he said. "And you're blonde, too."
"Uh," I said. "Yes." I didn't see anything 'too' about it, but I nodded politely. "I usually wear it up," I said, a little self-conscious, "but we don't serve food in here, so I let it down sometimes."
"That's really nice," he said. He asked me about the other bars, and I told him how many there were and where they were, in case he wanted to go out and get something to eat. He was polite, but kept looking at my hair. When I tucked it behind my shoulder he looked at my breasts instead, but he didn't comment about those.
We discussed careers, and I explained my previous jobs, and mentioned my degree. "Oh," he said, "why don't you teach?"
I explained that my mother was a teacher, and how hard I thought her job was, and how I knew I wouldn't enjoy that sort of career so I wouldn't pursue it. My hair had slipped and so I pushed it back over my shoulder as I spoke, and he watched.
I asked him what he did and he explained that he was an engineering consultant and helped reorganize businesses. He asked why I had gone into bartending. I explained that I was writing a novel, and found it easier to work on when I worked in this kind of place than when I was in a cubicle inside another cubicle all day long. He nodded.
"Why don't you teach?" he asked.
I smiled, and repeated pretty much verbatim my earlier explanation, only a little more so since it hadn't made an impression the last time.
"Wow," he said, "you sound pretty negative about it."
"Well," I said, "I've seen a lot of the worst of it because my mother's a teacher and I see what she puts up with."
"It gets easier," he said. "Once you've taught a while."
"My mother's taught 20 years and she still works hard," I said politely. "And the kids don't get any better-behaved as the years go by."
"Oh," he said, "that's true."
He was watching my chest, which wasn't moving, but I didn't really know how to remove it from his line of view. I pondered going somewhere else, but there were no other customers so I had no reason, no really plausible excuse. And the break room, just off the side of the bar, was filled with other employees, so I couldn't go in there without cramming myself in, and I'd still be in his line of sight. So I nodded and smiled, and kept talking.
"Not too busy in here," he said.
"No," I said. "It was busy yesterday, though. A bunch of flights were delayed and everyone wanted drinks and I had to run around like crazy. It was unusual. But it was nice, because I made some money."
"True," he said thoughtfully. "I bet that was nice."
"Yeah," I said. "You know how it is."
He finally had to go. "Pull your hair in front again," he said. I couldn't think of an excuse not to, so I complied, and smiled. "I bet you do it like that for all your pictures."
"I still look awful in pictures," I explained, a little self-deprecating. It's true: I do. He wasn't listening to me anyway.
He was staring at my hair. "What's your name?" he asked.
My nametag was displayed on the counter, as is the manner it's done in the club, so there was no point not answering. I told him. He shook my hand, not taking his eyes off my chest, and told me his name.
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Enjoy [your destination]."
"I'll try," he said. He only took his eyes off my chest when he turned around to leave.
He didn't leave a tip.
TELL ME AGAIN THAT BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN. Go ahead, tell me.
Ugh.
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no subject
Date: 2005-02-14 03:58 pm (UTC)And here I was *sure* all the way to the end that he would leave the $4 tip. (Which I figured would be pretty good for one drink.)
Evil, evil man.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-14 04:44 pm (UTC)Hi kat!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-14 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-14 07:58 pm (UTC)Meh, engineers are usually socially inept. I mentioned it to the bartender across the way in the sports bar when I went out to get dinner and she said "Ew yeah I hate creepy-guy customers. And in the Club there's like nowhere to go to avoid them. Yeah ew." (She's amusingly teenybopperish.)
ditto
Date: 2005-02-15 03:57 am (UTC)- Z