The Dive

        I’m not a lowlife; I do what I need to survive.  I’m twenty six.  I’m the bar help and wait-staff at a local dive and I don’t strip.  I don’t drink.  I have two cats, Blinky and Spitfire; no roommate and no boyfriend.  I’m not lonely.  I watch television and I paint pictures no one would want to buy.  I’m lanky but I’m not tall.  I have blue eyes and short dark hair.  It’s not curly, it’s straight.  My boobs aren’t big, but I still get gawked at because I’m the only girl here. 
         
         No one is a stranger.  The bar is always filled with smoke, and sad men come here to eat the stale bar nuts and tell me their creepy, sad stories.  My life doesn’t suck; my life isn’t ideal.  I’m not the girl some doctor or lawyer takes home to their cigars and cognac and plush leather couches, six hundred thread count sheets and big screen TVs, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like my life.  It doesn’t mean I need antidepressants, and it doesn’t mean that nothing ever happens.
         
         I’ve been at the bar for three years and since four o’clock today.  Down some stairs, there’s a huge wooden door.  It’s weathered but it hasn’t cracked--- thick wood.  I’m weathered but I haven’t cracked--- thick skin. I guess I’m not so weathered.  It’s only a few steps down to the door; just enough to block most of the light from getting in when it’s opened.  There’s a trick.  It’s not just a twist and push.  It’s more of a twist and a thud, or a shove.  Throw your weight into it; it won’t be difficult to open for long.  It’s stuck--- everyday.  I throw my weight into it.  I get used to things.
         
         Down the steps the door plays its trick.  Through a hallway; its painted green but you wouldn’t know because it’s so dark.  There are a few lights up in the ceiling of the hall.  Flickering, they're so high up, they don’t get replaced when they die.  No one complains.  I don’t think anyone notices.
         
         Besides the cinder block walls everything is wooden.  It could all burn, and you’d think it was hell, but the AC works and there are plenty of ashtrays; I’m not so worried.  I wipe down the bar and tables.  It’s all covered in dust; ashes of cigarette lives burnt to their butts.
         
         Danny comes in.  He says Vince and Dino will be in a little later and need the bar cleared out for business.  There’s some cheap winos in, sipping what’s left of their lives away.  I give them each a couple of bucks and send ‘em out into the street.  Some other bar will have to be their home tonight. 
         
         Lou’s my boss.  He owns the place.  He’s his only other employee.  Sometimes I lend a hand and pour drafts; I sweep, I’d wash windows if there were any.  I do what I can, which isn’t much.  I don’t get paid much, even though Lou’s old money. 
         
         He pulls out an old checkered table cloth and puts it over the big table in the corner. He grabs a Chianti bottle with a candle in it and tells me to stick it in the center of the table.  It looks nice.  Just enough light to see the person across the table, but not so much to see the cobwebs that sprawl across the walls.
         
         Its eight thirty and Danny comes in again and says Vince wants gin on the rocks and Dino wants a gin and Campari.  I ask him if he wants a beer but he says he’d rather have a pop and runs out to the seven-eleven down the street. They’ve got that new diet-cherry-vanilla-something; I’m sure its fine, but the Splenda doesn’t have the zing of the old aspartame.  It’s not long before I hear the familiar thud on the door and he’s back again with Vince and Dino. 
         
         Vince is pretty young, pretty tall, a pretty boy with pretty girlfriends.  He’s probably got two or three of those girls with the big hoop earrings and short mini skirts, real smiles but fake breasts and too much makeup.  I don’t wear makeup and I’ve never been with Vince.  I’d assume those girls think they’re real winners when they get with him.  He’s a winner, but they don’t know what they’re getting into; too much drama.  They don’t really know him. 
         
         Dino’s straight out of a movie.  He isn’t old but he’s worn and wrinkled.  He’s been conducting business a long time; a classy guy.  Dino’s got all the right stuff in his expensive suit.  You’d expect him to wear a fancy hat with his fancy outfits, but he doesn’t. He wears the streak of silver proudly in his dark hair.  He’s been married twice before, but his new wife seems like a keeper.  A real Betty Crocker, homemaker type.  She keeps out of the business except for the extravagant dinners she plans for his associates, not that she eats with them.
         
         It’s not long before their associates are in.  I don’t know them too well.  Only what I’ve heard from Danny.  Frankie Pezzone’s got a market down by the bay.  Fish and crabs and seafood, but he doesn’t dirty himself much with that part of his business.  I’ve heard he’s into something deep; not that weed or anything juvenile, but something, some cash crop or big ticket item.  Maybe its counterfeit hundreds or Rolexes, counterfeit scallops or hormone injected shrimp; I’m not sure, but he owes a lot to Dino, and owes even more to the business.
         
         He comes in with a briefcase and a guy that’s introduced to me as Toney the Man. He doesn’t look like a man’s man; he needs a solid steak with potatoes.  I seat the men at their table.  Lou’s got the drinks ready so I take ‘em down to the associates.  I’m careful not to trip as I step down from behind the bar.  I wouldn’t be devastated if I spilled gin on them, but a gin soaked gentleman never tips as well as a dry man does. 
         I’ve got my sweet-as-pie, ‘I don’t work in a shit-hole dive’ voice on when I ask the other men for their drink orders.  Pinot noire.  I don’t know anything about wine, but when I tell Lou, he sends me out with his best (and one of a few in stock) bottles of red stuff.
         
         Frankie stops me before I can pour him a glass.  “Do you know how to pour a glass of expensive wine?”  I always assumed it was poured the same as a cheap glass of wine.  “Let me show you.”  He slides his hand down my arm and around my wrist.  I don’t really need help, but if I let him touch me, I’ll get paid more--- or at least I should.  We pour the glass together, and as I turn around he slaps my ass.  “I’ll be seeing you later.”  Maybe.  He isn’t too bad looking.  Money always makes an attractive man sexy.
         
         Frankie lifts the briefcase onto his legs, and pops the locks.  I thought I’d see a case of glowing green, but it looks more like a purse, filled with paperwork and old receipts.  Dino glances across the table, “you got something for me,” and Frankie slides an envelope across the table.  “Excuse us gentlemen.  Dino and I have some business to attend to.”  Toney leaves, but Vince stays and pulls two cigars from his breast pocket.  “Won’t you offer a cigar our gracious guest?”  They aren’t the Short Stories I’ve got in my corner store humidor or the Black ‘n’ Mild’s you see the punk kids smoking.  You can smell the difference.  They’re the real deal; the good stuff.
         
         The atmosphere is thick.  The smoke swirls around the flame.  The fire flicks and jumps as the smoke twists.  A ballet between two siblings, it’s hardly noticed by the men who sit discussing business politics. 
         
         Dino opens the envelope.  The contents of which are obviously not what was expected.  “I think you may have made a mistake.”  Vince stands behind Dino, and opens his jacket with his hands in his pockets.  It’s probably his piece that drives the girls wild. 
         
         “It’s no mistake.”
         
         Dino turns to Vince who leans in to listen.  Vince goes down the hall to the payphone and in a minute returns and nods his head.  I can’t tell if there is a deal or not.  I can’t tell what’s in the envelope.  I shouldn’t be watching them anyway, but what else should I be doing?
         
         Vince puts his piece on the table and Frankie passes a wad of cash to Dino.  The men stand and after a moment grab hands and embrace.  I suppose a deal was made.  They all seem alright and leave together. 
         
         I blow out the candle and clear the table before Lou asks me to.  There’s a hundred bucks for me; a week’s pay. 
         
         Lou’s gone and it’s up to me to finish cleaning and lock up for the night.  I’m behind the bar.  I’ve got the tablecloth folded and I’m fishing around, making room to put it back where Lou grabbed it from.
         
         I didn’t even hear a thud against the door.  I come up from behind the bar as I hear a girl screaming at me. Something about her boyfriend--- I don’t know.  She says I stole her boyfriend.

        I didn’t steal her boyfriend.  I probably just screwed him.  I’m more of the loner type anyway.  She’s at the end of the hallway, in the entrance to the bar, so I keep putting things away, cleaning up, but she keeps screaming at me.
         
         It’s isn’t my fault.  I didn’t even know the guy--- not all that well at least.  I don’t notice when she comes up to the bar, but I do notice when she grabs me by the hair, spits in my face and calls me a whore.  She must be a cigarette smoker.  She reeks, but it doesn’t matter for long because I have a bad attitude and blow her brains out. 
         
         I should probably finish cleaning up, but I take out our most expensive bottle of vodka and pour a shot for myself.  I pour the rest on the bar, real fancy, the way Frankie would teach me how to do it and light the stream.  On the way out I flip off the lights, but most of the bar is blazing, and turning out the lights doesn’t make much of a difference.
         
         On street, I start my walk home.  I’m probably fired.  I’m not so worried, I get used to things.