Page 7 of The End of Summer

“Cook?”

“In the fridge. You know what I mean,” Arrow says. “Anyway, the dark pink ones are raspberry. They’re made with Smirnoff, so instead of being 50% ABV like the red ones, they’re only 35. It’s like a continuum.”

“Right,” I say. Again, I’m equally baffled and impressed by her lexicon.

“Then, we’ve got the strawberry pink shots. They’re made with Cruzan coconut rum. Super light, only 21% ABV but they taste good. Once the party hits its peak, we serve up these ones to maintain the vibe.”

“The raspberry and strawberry look kind of similar.”

“Oh, fuck,” she says, standing up straight to look me over. “You’re not color blind, right? That’s a no-go.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not color blind. I was just noticing that those two are –”

Arrow picks up the Maglite. “In the dark, it’s even harder to tell. So there’s a few options. One, you use this mack-daddy flashlight here. Two, you open a container and smell them. Three, you taste one. But only one,” she warns. “These go like hot cakes, and we can’t be wasting our supply. Also, you and I haven’t partied together, so I have no clue what your tolerance is. We don’t drink on the job unless necessary – like, I might take the welcome shot with a party just to get them warmed up. Anyway, if we get the sense that the group is getting too rowdy – which, to be clear, is when someone starts looking a little green or can’t stand up straight anymore – we switch to the lemon drop shots. By that point, they won’t care what color they’re drinking, and they’ll gladly take whatever we give them.”

“What are those made with?”

“Nothing. Just lemon juice, gelatin and water, with a lime garnish to make it look fancy. We’ll also bring out pretzel bites at that point. We cook those in the toaster oven. The bread absorbs the alcohol, the salt makes them thirsty, which leads to more lemon drops, and the acid in the citrus slows the effects of drinking and rehydrates the body.”

I’m stunned into silence. “Hm,” I mumble.

“Your job is to be the server, as well as the party barometer. You have to decide what color shot to bring out based on how the party’s going.”

“Okay,” I say.

“You’re also responsible for the key box and making all the shots.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“Oh. The key box. You’ll be the party police. The babysitter. Jenna said you’re good with kids, so this’ll be a good job for you. You know how, at a Chapelle show, you gotta give up your phone at the door?”

“Um, I think I’ve heard that, yeah.”

“Same thing here. When each person comes in, they give you their car keys, like a valet. Just the car. We don’t want or need anyone’s house keys or extra mailbox key or whatever else they’ve got. Keys go in the lock box, which works the same as the lockers. You keep the box and when the party’s over, you decide if a patron needs an Uber or can drive. We hold keys overnight, and then the next day, we have tow-yard hours in the late afternoon just before the next party. People can come get their cars during that time.”

“Wow,” I say. “This is a lot more detailed than I expected it would be.”

“Listen, Summer. We’re here to throw the best party of these people’s lives. That shit takes diligent planning. And there are two things that really fuck up a good time. Do you know what they are?”

“Um –”

“Vomit and death.”

“Right,” I agree.

“So, I won’t have those in my house. Every party will be you, me, and three of my girls. We never host more than 30 at a time just based on pole space, but they can bring in whatever they want – catering, additional entertainment, whatever. These are ladies with money to spend: they’re getting married, they’ve come up for the weekend or the week, they’re sunburned and horny as hell, and it’s on us to show them the time of their lives.”

“Okay. Yup.”

“You get paid a flat rate of $350 per party. Each party costs them $3,000, which includes alcohol and 3 hours at the studio. They pay half that up front and the balance on the night of the event. We add an automatic gratuity to the bill of 25%. It’s listed right there in front of them but usually they still pull me to the side and ask me how much to tip. So I tell them that $100 per girl is customary, and not to forget their shot girl. Usually that gives us an extra $500 added to the bill. Whatever we make in tips, we split evenly. This is a sisterhood, so it doesn’t matter if you’re dancing or teaching or managing the party temperature, we all need to work together to pull off a perfect night. On a typical day, each of us will make an additional $250 in tips.”

Quick math tells me that’s $600 for one shift. If I work five days a week, that’s three grand.

Holy shit.My mouth turns up into a smile.

“Good?” Arrow asks.

I nod.

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