The Real Deal

As I reach for the gin, I fix my gaze on her. “Tell me everything about the steamed-nacho debacle.”

People tell me things. They always have. It’s not just because I’m a bartender. It’s that I have brown eyes, too. I’ve studied this phenomenon. People with brown eyes are more likely to be considered trustworthy.

Ironic, isn’t it?

This trust has nothing to do with whether I’ll spill a secret or not. Spoiler alert—I’m a vault. The trust issue has to do with the fact that having brown eyes also means you’re more likely to have lips that turn up more frequently at the corners. Translation—the eyes come in a safe face, so you can trust me with your nacho secrets. Evidently, a smile is the number one social lubricant.

Lori drums her chipped peach fingernails along the edge of the bar. “I went to my favorite taco shop and I ordered the mini nachos, like I always do. Only, they brought me the full-size plate instead,” she says as she eyes the drink longingly. She’s on the fast track to becoming a regular here. “But do you know what the waitress did when I pointed it out?”

My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. I grip the gin bottle tighter, because my fingers itch to check my messages. “What did she do?” I ask as I finish pouring the gin. I grab a napkin and set it in front of her, then place the glass on it. I can check the message later.

“They took the plate back, scraped off half the nachos, stuffed the plate in the microwave, and zapped it. To rewarm it,” Lori says, taking her time with each awful word.

My nose crinkles. I swallow harshly. “And you not only had steamed and soggy nachos. You had hot sour cream as well.” I shake my head, disgusted with how her food was treated.

“The guacamole was broiling. It had steam curling off it.”

That actually sounds quite foul, especially because the image of a steaming pile of guacamole has now been planted in my brain. I shudder. She smiles so damn wide that her eyes crinkle behind her glasses. It’s sweet, really. It makes me wonder if she has anyone to talk to besides the guy who fixes her drinks and takes her orders for apps. She usually doesn’t even finish her drink when she comes here. I’ve often wondered if she wants me to join her on the other side, grab a stool, and chow down.

Sometimes I’m tempted. She seems like she needs someone, and she’s nice enough. But I know what happens when you start opening up to someone. They let you down. Some of them stab you in the back. “Let me get you the best nachos you’ve ever had.”

I head to the kitchen and turn in the order, and then I check my watch. I have a five-minute break, so I push open the heavy, rusted door that drops me into the alley behind the Two A.M. Club. It’s six in the evening. One of the busboys leans against the wall, one foot parked behind him on the bricks, a cigarette dangling limply from his lips.

He gives me the barest of nods.

I do the same, then walk a few feet away. I unlock my screen with ten digits. Four digits are never enough. Once I click on my notification, my shoulders sag. Turns out the buzzing in my back pocket was the sorry sucker kind. You know how you’ll get excited for an email, and then it’s just a store with a sale, a news site with a new subscription offer, or a deal on Viagra. I don’t need any little blue pills, thank you very much.

The buzz is for a notification that my credit card bill is due in three days. No shit, Visa. Tell me something I don’t know.

I’d been hoping it was an email from GigsForHire, a notification that I’d been contacted by a potential customer.

I log into the site anyway. It’s become an addiction. Most of the time it disappoints, because scoring a gig from here comes with the same odds as a slot machine payoff. You don’t get three cherries terribly often, but when you do, man, they add up to a delicious treat.

Looks like someone viewed my ad, but there are no replies. On his way to the airport, Xavier called and told me he had a sure thing. What’s odd, though, is he said I’d be a replacement for him. I love the dude, but we’re hardly interchangeable, and I’d never peg my buddy as the bad boy. But that’s what his friend needs, he told me when he asked if I could fill in for him at a family reunion.

“I can’t let her down, but I can’t let this job go. Any chance you could fill in for me for five days?”

“Five days,” I’d said, surprised. Most gigs don’t last that long. “I have the weekend off, and if the pay is right, I can swap shifts for the rest.”

“Perfect. She’s a darling, and you’re the only one I know who can cover in a pinch.”

“But she knows there’s a fee?”

“Did you think I was going out of the goodness of my heart? April took a vow to tell me for the rest of my life if my jeans ever make me look fat. I’ll be sure to let her know you require old-fashioned greenbacks.”

“Tell me what she wants.”

“If I know April, she’ll go bananas for the ex-con ad. It’s hilarious. Let me show her that one, ’kay?”

With a name like April, you’d figure she’d want the guy next door. But hell, maybe she’s the good girl who likes the black sheep.

I’ve slipped into that skin for Thanksgiving dinners, wedding dates, even bat mitzvahs. I’ve slipped into other roles, too. I’ve been a salesman, a pimp, a swindled fool, a beleaguered boyfriend. It’s all in the eyes, and in the heart that you put into the role.

But the slot machine idles quietly as my break ends. No payouts come. Maybe April has cold feet. Perhaps she decided to try it solo rather than shell out for a rent-a-date.

I head inside as the busboy sucks the last ember of his cigarette. The nachos are ready. I grab the plate, spoon some extra guacamole on, and serve it to Lori.

She groans happily and dives in, her hand like a pelican swooping to pluck a fish from the sea.

“They’re perfect,” she declares, and I smile at her. It reaches my eyes. The eyes she trusts.

The thing is, I actually give a shit that she likes her nachos. People might be easy to read, and even easier to play, but I always cared too much.

Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. That’s mine.

That’s why when my phone buzzes again a little later, I find a way to answer it immediately. I like what I see in my in-box.





Chapter Three

April



From: Sweet Buttercream Frosting

To: Satisfaction Guaranteed

Re: Need a buffer?



Banged in a bathroom is how we met for sure. But do we tell that to everyone?

April

*

Every day, human behavior amazes me a little more.

I’ve just learned that a human hamster wheel is a thing, and it’s for sale, used.

How is this possible? Who needs a human hamster wheel? I need it like I need an emu.

Scratch that. Emus are adorable. I want one someday. The vet around the corner from my building has a baby emu, and it’s delightful to see the ostrich-like bird clucking around the office every time I walk by. He’s always trying to flirt with the cats in the waiting room, to no avail.

As I twirl in the black leather barber chair, I peer more closely at the photo that accompanies the “Hamster Wheel for Sale” ad on GigsForHire. A man—dressed in strangely normal fashion, with a red Hawaiian shirt, jeans, sneakers, and glasses—climbs along the wheel, spinning it round and round.

Why? Why on earth is he doing this? I can’t process this solo anymore.

“You have to put down your brush and come see this!” I shout across the empty salon to my friend Claire. She’s in the back, sanitizing hairbrushes. If the looks she styles on anyone and everyone from moms to models to well-groomed men don’t make her the best in Brooklyn, then her commitment to cleanliness certainly does. I swivel the chair at her booth, where I’m parked, waiting for her to finish for the evening.

What I’m really waiting for, though, is a reply.