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Sammie

“Bye, guys. Thanks for coming.” I lift the damp rag I’m wiping down the far end of the bar with and use it to wave goodbye to two of our regular customers as they stand and push in their stools. “See you next week.”

Ben and Jason are brothers, both in their midtwenties, like me. They’re decent dudes, and Boots—the bar and restaurant where I’m usually waitressing, but tonight am filling in for an out-sick bartender—is their faithful Thursday evening stop.

I walk down as they’re zipping up their jackets and catch Ben slipping their usual big cash tip under his beer mug.

I know the customers and their habits from bartending in the past.

Once Ben is sure I’ve seen the tip, he says, “You know it, Sammie. We’ll be here. Same time, same place.”

Catching his gaze, I mouth, “Thank you.”

He smiles and nods.

As they turn to leave, Jason calls over his shoulder, “Have a good rest of your night, girl.”

A laugh escapes me. It’s not a cheerful chuckle; it’s more of a scoffing snort. I’m glad Ben and Jason are closing in on the exit and can’t hear me, as it’s in no way directed at them.

It’s justthisnight.

There’s nothing about it that could ever qualify in any way as “nice.” Not with it being the anniversary of the absolute worst night of my life.

But I don’t want to think about that.

The whole point in picking up this late bartending shift, even after I already waitressed both lunch and dinner, was to keep my mind on anything but that awful evening.

So far, it’s been working.

Well, for the most part.

I’ve been fortunate that Boots has been busy all day and into the night. It’s kept me preoccupied.

But things are slowing down now. Not a surprise, since it’s past eleven, and we’re only open until midnight on Thursdays.

Two more customers pay their tabs and get up and leave. I’m down to just Old John at the far end of the bar. He’s a harmless sort, even if he does look a tad scary.

Old John is a hulk of a man with a long gray ponytail and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard. He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that he’s Georgia-born and raised, and that he always knew once he retired that he’d settle down here in Atlanta.

Hey, I get it. I’m from this town too. And though I have a lot of reasons to move, I doubt I ever will.

But back to Old John, which is what he prefers to be called. He was once a long-haul truck driver but has since retired. He likes the food at Boots and is always telling me we grill up the best steaks he’s ever had.

“I’ve been all over this damn country too,” he’ll always add in his smooth Southern drawl. “So I know what I’m talking about, young lady.”

Shaking my head and laughing softly, I generally tell him, “I’m sure you do, Old John. I’m sure you do.”

Our foodispretty good, so he’s probably right.

Before I head back down to the end of the bar to see if he needs anything, I take a look around the restaurant.

It’s empty now. Dinner hours are long over, and the few folks who were still here eating are gone.

I smile because, despite the occasional obnoxious patron, I really do like working here. Boots is a great place. Our boss, Annie, is the best, as is the whole staff.

And the tips are amazing.

Of course, our “uniforms”—a short red-and-black plaid skirt layered over boy shorts, a white blouse that we all leave unbuttoned down a bit, and high-heeled black leather boots—play a big part in those hefty gratuities.

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