Sex and chocolate. My chocolate. My chocolate-covered yummy goodness that I couldn't sell as often as I liked because as a single mother working in a bar, it was hard to market yourself. The majority of people I was surrounded by cared more about who was buying the next round than what kind of desserts to have at their next party.
"The building I rented has the potential to be turned into two separate spaces. One of them with a kitchen," Liz continued. "A very large kitchen where you can perform your magic and when women book their parties they can order dessert trays at the same time."
I took my eyes off of the road long enough to look over and Liz, expecting to see a sarcastic smile on her face and waiting for her to say “Just kidding! Wouldn’t that be great though?” When none of that happened and she just sat there in her seat staring at me expectantly, I blinked back tears that I hadn’t even realized were forming in my eyes.
“What are you talking about?” I whispered shakily in the dark car.
“Okay so I did something big. Something that’s probably going to piss you off because you’re going to think it’s charity or pity, but really, all I did was get the ball rolling. The rest is up to you,” she explained. “I’ve looked everywhere for a building for my business and everyplace I see is too big or too small and way overpriced. My realtor called me a few weeks ago and told me the owners of Andrea’s Bakery right on Main Street came into some money and wanted to sell their space as quickly as possible, retire and move to Florida. It was like a sign, Claire. The price was right, the location is perfect and it’s exactly what we always dreamed about, minus the whole Justin Timberlake penis time share. With one sheet of drywall, we’ve got enough room for two connecting businesses: my sex toys and your desserts.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from crying. I never cried.
“But I really wanted to share JT’s penis with you,” I told her with a sad look, trying to take the seriousness out of this situation before I started to ugly cry. No one likes an ugly crier. It’s uncomfortable for all parties involved.
After a few minutes of neither one of us saying a word in the dark car, Liz couldn’t take it anymore.
“Will you say something already?”
I let out a huge breath and tried to calm my racing heart.
"Liz I don't…I can't believe you…the money…" She put her hand on my arm as we pulled into the parking lot of Fosters.
"Don't turn into a pansy-ass on me just yet. Take some time and think about it. You know the trust fund my grandfather left me has been eating its way through my pocket so we're not even going to discuss money right now. Talk it over with your dad, come and check out the kitchen at the store and then we'll talk. In the meantime, you're going to get your hot little ass in that bar and serve me up some cocktails. I've got some new products to test out on Jim after your dad picks Gavin up later," she said with a wink before getting out of the car.
I sat there for a few minutes after she got out wondering what the hell just happened. My best friend was always a force of nature, but this just defied logic. Did she really just tell me she bought me a business? With every step of my life I felt like I’d made wrong turns. Nothing was going the way I planned. I wanted this more than anything, but part of me was afraid to really get my hopes up. Who knows though? Maybe good things were finally going to start happening in my life.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and realized I spent entirely too long sitting in my car and now I was late for my shift. I ran through the parking lot and threw open the side door, tying my little black apron around my waist as I went. Mr. and Mrs. Foster have seen one too many episodes of True Blood and recently decided we should adopt the same uniform as Merlotte's. Tiny black shorts and tiny white t-shirts with the word "Fosters" stamped across our tits in green. It could be worse. At least I don’t have to make sure I’m wearing enough “flare” or sing some demented version of happy birthday with the rest of the staff. “Happy birthday to you, with beer goggles on you don’t look like you should moo, happy birthday dear random stranger who’s dressed like a hooker, happy birthday to you!”
I ran behind Liz already seated on a stool at the bar sipping her usual drink of vanilla vodka and Diet Coke and waved to T.J., the bartender I was taking over for tonight. Thankfully the men didn't have to wear the same uniform. I didn't think I could handle seeing a couple of these guys in tiny shorts with their hairy balls popping out of the leg holes.
On a slow night, I would have just hopped my ass up onto the bar and swung my legs around to get behind it, but the place was packed tonight. I had to do it the right way and go under the hinged, lift-top part of the bar at the opposite end. I jogged past some poor drunk schmuck that held his head in his hands, moaning, and made a mental note to call him a cab if he was here by himself.
Once I was behind the bar and got the skinny from T.J. on the customers here tonight and what they were drinking, he left to go home and I got to work getting refills for the regulars. One of the waitresses brought in an order for ten shots of the cheapest whiskey we had. I rolled my eyes and went to the end of the bar where we kept all of the whiskey. What is wrong with these people? Cheap whiskey equals a bad hangover and having the craps all the next day. I started lining up the shot glasses on my tray when I heard the drunken moaner speak.
"We never found her, did we big guy?"
Oh Jesus. I hate the really tanked ones. I hope this guy isn't a crier. He sounds pitiful. And if he pukes on my bar I’m going to rub his nose in it like a dog that shit on the carpet.
"Are you speaking to anyone in particular or do your shot glasses usually respond?" I asked without looking up as I added a few more shot glasses to the tray and reached under the bar for the bottle of Wild Turkey, trying not to make gagging noises as I unscrewed the top and the disgusting smell wafted up to my nose.
I saw Return of the Living Drunk whip his head up out of the corner of my eye while I filled the glasses.
"You know, the first sign of insanity is when inanimate objects talk to you. Or maybe it's the first sign of alcohol poisoning," I mused to myself.
"Who the hell is ordering that rot gut? They're going to have the shits all day tomorrow."
I laughed that even drunk, he was able to come to the same conclusion as me. Picking up the tray of shots and a bowl of lemon slices, I turned around to tell him so - and stopped dead in my tracks at the sight before me.
What. The. Fuck?
I felt the tray full of glass and booze tipping out of my raised hand but there was nothing I could do to stop its descent to the floor. I stood there like a statue, staring straight ahead as the glasses shattered around my feet and liquid splashed up onto my legs.
5. Snickers Finger Arm Teeth
It happened in slow motion. Well, for me it happened in slow motion. Probably because the amount of alcohol I've consumed tonight has digested half of my brain cells, and I feel like I'm in the Matrix.
I wonder if I could lean back on my bar stool and do that cool move from the movie where I dodge bullets in slow motion while suspended in mid-air? I need a cool black leather jacket and my hair slicked back. I wonder if they used wires or if that Keanu guy could really bend like that? I bet he does that yoga shit. He looks like the kind of guy that does Downward Facing Dog.
Heh, heh, downward dog. That's funny. I should get a dog.
Wait, what was I doing? Oh, yeah. The bartender turned around and stared at me and before I could even get a good non-drunken haze look at her. I watched the entire tray of shots tip right out of her hand. They crashed to the floor before I had a chance to react, the sound of glass breaking rising above the drone of music and loud voices.