I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned to see a mid-90s commuter car that looked like it had just finished doubling in the “Bring Your Own Big Wheels” race down Potrero Hill. It was covered in a film of pollen, awkwardly dented, and painted bright yellow. Well, it had been bright yellow; now it would be poetic to call it mustard. The door fought me as I tried to open it. It couldn’t look less like something a sexy woman in fishnets would step out of. I briefly daydreamed how much better I would look stepping out of a golf cart than this car.
The jumpy Indian girl and Meredith got in the backseat. Looking impatient, the driver gestured for me to get in the front seat, which was the last place I wanted to be. I slid in, and realized that the entire car smelled deliciously like a bakery.
Our driver was the same man from the inventory counter, the one with specks of powder in his hair. Mr. Congeniality. He waited wordlessly until we settled our trays in our laps and got buckled up.
“Listen up. My name is Thom. I am your driver. I know there’s only one new girl here, but you others need to hear this too. You will follow every instruction I give you to the letter.”
“If you intentionally ignore my instructions or piss me off, this job will end immediately. Yes, Selene knows I talk to you this way, and she agrees with me. I don’t take any shit from anyone. This is my car. Here are the rules." He ticked them off his fingers, one by one.
“One: You can eat cold food or wrapped food, but no wrappers on the floor. Two: Don’t spill any fluids, for ANY reason. This means puking too. Three: Don’t be late, ever. Four: Check you have all your shit. I will not bring it back to you once I drop you off. Five: Respect me, and we’ll get along just fine.”
“Any questions?” he asked rhetorically.
“Where exactly are we going, and how do I know when to meet you?” I asked, ignoring the rhetoric.
Pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket, he handed me a list of what looked like band names.
“When I dump you at your drop point, I will hand you a list of bars for that neighborhood. You do as many of those as you can, ideally all of them, in the time I give you. Sometimes that’s 35 minutes; sometimes it’s 60 minutes. At the end of one run, I pick you up and take you to the next one. You manage your own time; don’t call me unless you get lost or something happens. I will call you if I’m going to be late. I’m sometimes late getting back to you from getting the other girls, but you should always be on time.”
He glared at me, but I could see he was mostly just tired. The smell of Thom's car had my mouth watering for a raspberry danish pretty much the instant his speech started, and I realized that the white dust in his hair must be flour.
The other girls in the backseat rolled their eyes at Thom when I turned to check in with them.
“Hi, my name is Pale. I’m the fresh blood,” I said to the Indian girl.
“Hi, I’m Rehka. Don’t worry about Thom. He’s always trying to scare the new little lambs,” she laughed. “It’s the hours. They kill him over at his second job, since he works so early in the morning making pizza dough.” She gave Thom a sly look.
“I’m not a dough rat, Rehka,” he snapped. “I work in a bakery, and make things you wouldn’t believe existed, they are so heavenly,” he said firmly, and started to join traffic.
The girls in the back started clamoring, begging and pleading for pastries from heaven and the joys and wonders contained in them. Thom silently maneuvered through traffic, ignoring them. This was clearly a regular request, consistently denied. After several long and loud moments, the girls giggled and sighed, giving up the chase of Thom's goods. I could hardly blame them in either regard; he was very cute. I snuck a glance out of the corner of my eye, taking in his soft blue eyes, long hands, and sunken posture. I turned to the girls in the backseat and they both winked at me, letting me know they approved of me scoping him out.
“So! Let’s make sure you know all the prices, and I’ll give you some tips on what to say tonight that will help,” Meredith chimed in, leaning forward and smiling, her dark eyes on me.
The rest of the ride was a chatter of selling techniques, costume tips, and pointers on exploiting sex appeal to my advantage. I also learned some of the back-story on my fellow passengers. Meredith had been at the job for about three months, but already acted like a pro. This was likely because she’s one of those people that everyone loves. She grew up on the East Coast with several brothers, but after starting college, she realized her passion was singing, so she dropped out, packed her things and came out West. Rehka was a college student who just started a few weeks ago, and was nearly kicked out in her first week due to her constant calls to her boyfriend.
“He needs me! I have to talk to him several times a day or he gets fragile!”
Meredith and Thom both rolled their eyes at the same time. I noticed that Rehka was very jumpy about any little noise she heard.
We bumped and soared through the streets of San Francisco, Thom maneuvering like a New York taxi driver. At least he was taking his wrath out on the road instead of me, I noted gratefully. The streets were flashing different flavors of the city. The edgy, hip leather and whip of South of Market faded as we passed the austerity and tension of FiDi to take Rehka over to Pier 23. I was curious how she was supposed to spend a full hour working a single bar, but didn’t press the point with Thom.
Our next stop was for Meredith, who would be working bars in the flamboyant, sex-steam-rising Castro District. Although it was not obvious she was a singer, she was obviously talented. The boys of Castro Street worship at the altar of talent, happy for any chance to brush knuckles with I Knew Her Then, so I figured this was a good run for her.
Meredith had one last thing to say to me.
“It's your first night, Pale, and you want to share that with everyone you meet. Don’t discount the pity sales! You will make a lot of tips that way. As a matter of fact, it will likely be your 'first night’ for several months.” She winked at me and sauntered away.
Thom drove on, finally pulling up in front of an Irish bar just outside an entrance to Golden Gate Park. Thankfully, the Little Shamrock looked fairly unintimidating. He pulled into a yellow loading zone, and put the car in park.
“This is the first stop on the West run. You’ve got 20 minutes, then I’ll meet you right back here to take you to the rest of the run.” He stared forward, not meeting my eyes.
I sat there for a minute. When I realized he was not going to give me a much needed you-can-do-this, I opened the car door and stepped out into the night as if I’d done this before, posing like a cherry on top for the passers-by on the street.
I stepped up to the bar and sidled in. I stood there in the entrance, taking a moment to get my bearings. To my left was a small, intimate, warm-wooded bar, and to my right there was a smattering of round tables squeezed up close to a fireplace. I made eye contact with the first several groups who caught my eye, then decided to move in on the men parked at the bar, as they looked like they must be regulars.
Though their backs were turned to me, to a man they all rotated slightly so they could hear over their shoulder what I was about to say.
“Good evening! How are you tonight?” I began a bit too brightly, looking down.
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“I’m still here, lass, and that’s saying something.”
The middle-aged man was grey in his face, hair, and clothing; he appeared to blend into the environment without effort. But when he glanced up from his tumbler, his eyes were a shockingly bright blue. Despite the drink in his hand, he was obviously sober.
I was distracted with wanting to talk to him, to find out his story and what brought him here, but I realized with a flash that I looked like an exotic flower who wandered into barren grassland.
A little more gently, I said, “It’s my first night, and you are my first customer. I’m not sure how to talk to people I don’t know. Do you mind if I just chat with you for a moment?”
He gave me a long slow look, never moving from my eyes, though I could tell he was taking in the rest of me. I looked away at first during his assessment, then realized that if I couldn’t make this sale, then there was no point in being out here for the next 6 hours. The moment grew longer and at long last he broke into a grin that was both new and mischievous, like a joke’s punch line delivered for the first time.
“A fresh mermaid, is it? And me, yer sailor helplessly wooed by the sound o’ your sultry song!” he laughed, booming it out for the whole bar.
A quiet breath that the room was holding was released, and I heard sounds brighten before me, clinking glasses, moderately loud music, and doors and chairs, scraping their pub-time melody once again. He was the King, and they were the court. I was amazed; I hadn’t realized that one regular in a bar could determine the way the rest of the room would react, but there it was, a golden path laid out before me. My Sailor King had made it clear: I could be trusted, I could work the room.
I spent some time bantering with my champion, and we warmed to each other. He laid it on thick with compliments and propositions, while I volleyed back sassy refusals. He bought me a shot, and even though I knew I should stay sharp, I couldn’t help myself ― I tossed it down with sexy flair. He laughed throughout the whole exchange, as if laughing, slurring, and flirting all at once was the easiest thing in the world. I’ve been around enough Irishmen to know that, for them, it is.
He leaned in and handed me a $5 tip after buying some smokes, and said, “I wish you the luck of the Irish tonight, lassie. I’m happy to help a Tart like you, especially with your blushing cheeks. Keep a hand on your drawers, if you know what I mean." He winked and turned sideways into the room, passing me the money as if everyone couldn’t see, though of course they were enjoying every move.
I moved on to my right, closer to the fireplace, to a large table of college-aged kids unwinding for the weekend. Starting conversation with them was easy, and soon we were all laughing. I took a few orders from them, then worked a circuit around the bar, leaving the rest of the regulars at the bar for last. I knew I was taking too long, but I couldn’t help it; my anxiety had vanished. I was euphoric that I’d conquered the invisible shield that divided my audience from me. What I first thought of as the societal equivalent of a ravenous wolf pack had been revealed as a bunch of frisky, nervous puppies out for a frolic in the concrete jungle.
Though the requests for product were fairly solid from the tables, the guys closest to the booze were content to just tip me and not take anything. This was solid gold for me, pure profit. Even better, my grey gentleman winked at me again on my way out. Every once in a great while I fantasize about taking an older lover. I think it’s Jean-Luc Picard’s fault. Perhaps that old rogue at the bar was picking up on those dormant thoughts.
I shook my head and hurried out to the yellow abomination, where Thom was waiting behind the wheel.
“Did you get it out of your system? Being late?” Thom asked.
When I looked up from jostling my way into the car, I could see he was actually giving me a smile. He was even looking me in the eye. I smiled back, to soften my retort.
“I’m two minutes late; throw me in candy jail.”
“Good, now we can continue on your run. I assume you aren’t pissing drunk? Didn’t lose anything? Broke down and cried, did you?" He was back to business mode, grilling me to make sure I’d make it through the next few hours.
I regaled Thom with the delicious moments of my first time out, despite his disinterest, and soaked in my happy confidence as a bolster for wherever we were going next. Though my anxiety had retreated, it was waiting to come out if there was a new opportunity. Anxiety was like that, always willing to give you a shove from the top stair if you slipped on ice and grabbed for the rail.
Thom pulled up in the air/water section of a gas station, across from a corner bar with a bright green sign over the door that read “Sam’s.” He pulled out a package of Post-Its and quickly jotted down the names of eight places, all bars. I started to feel panicky at getting them all done, but took a breath and reminded myself that Thom barely knew me; he wouldn’t sabotage me this early in the game-I couldn’t possibly have annoyed him so much so soon. He ripped off the Post-It and ran through the bars on the list.
“You need to work through all of these in the next 40 minutes. I’ll meet you a couple of blocks down the street, outside of Evergreen.” He pointed vaguely to the right outside the car.
“All of these? Are you serious?”
“You manage your own time. I don’t care if you spend all your time in one bar; just be outside Evergreen in exactly 40 minutes.”
Did he realize he’d just given me a clue on how to do this? I wondered as I slipped out of the car. I didn't think so. I smiled at Thom’s slip-up; I thought I was required to go into every bar he gave me, but as it turned out, I could go into one, two, none of them, or all of them. Whatever was the best sale for me! Of course, I had no idea which bar would be the best sales, but knowing that I got to make that decision gave me some control, which was comforting at the moment.
I felt weirdly exposed, standing in a gas station lot. I glanced at the list and tried to memorize the names, so that I didn’t have to constantly refer to it while I was out working the run. The atmosphere out there wasn't the safest, and I didn’t want to make it look like I didn’t know where I was going. I felt like a bright pink button with “PUSH ME” written on my chest in shiny white letters.
I sized up the first bar on the list as I headed across the lot to the corner. Even though I was under the washed-out gas station and streetlight glare, I took my time crossing the street, putting a little saunter into it. I was rewarded with several honks and catcalls, which drew the attention of the packed bar-goers pressed up to the windows.
Though I did it to bolster my flagging confidence, my performance alerted the bar that I was coming. It turned out that this was a good thing, because inside it was absolutely packed, hot, and deafeningly loud. I had to throw my voice about three times louder than usual.
I started working through the bar, which stretched out like a galley kitchen to my left. People made room for me the best they could, but the room was as full as a Japanese subway at rush hour.
The patrons weren't as encouraging as those at the Little Shamrock. Once I got to the back, however, I was rewarded by a large group of clean-cut guys who scooped up several packs of cigarettes, gum, and candy, and tipped me well on top of that. They were very nice but all business, no flirting. It felt strange that they didn’t want much of the candy-girl personality, but I took the hint and plunged back into the human sardine can.
I decided there was no way to do better than I just did in the back, so I weaved my way back through the crowd toward the front door. On my way out a guy stopped me to purchase some smokes. I reached the door at last, and saw that the whole trip had taken me ten minutes. I headed for the next bar on my list, happy to be back out in the cool night air.
I made it through four bars in the next 20 minutes. At each stop the bouncers were polite and attentive, opening doors, winking, holding back thick curtains, and pushing extra-drunk people out of my way. My experience with customers turned out to be a strange blending of the first two stops, along with some boredom, rudeness, and compliments thrown in.
I quickly learned that the same technique didn’t apply to every bar. Some customers liked sarcasm, while some liked to be flattered. Some wanted you to sit down and join them, share stories — basically, be their personal entertainment. Some really just wanted to buy you a drink. Recalling Selene's warning not to drink too much, I refused every one.
When I realized that I had ten minutes to visit the final three bars, I rushed through the next two so that I would have some extra time at the last place, Evergreen.
I realized my mistake as soon as I entered Evergreen. While the last bar — which I made a single, quick lap through — had been huge, Evergreen was tiny and didn't look promising.
The walls were matte black, and there were a few weakly lit candelabras along the wall. Instead of creating a romantic atmosphere, it felt more like those lights should be put out of their misery. The bar, tables, and stools were all chosen so carefully as to not offend anyone, that they had no personality, making them unbearably boring. I could tell that they were trying for understated elegance, but it just felt empty. With my pink satin costume and the blinky lights on my tray, I looked like a walking Christmas tree in this setting. I'd be finished with this place in mere minutes.
Sure enough, the girls in this bar all looked down their noses at me. I shrugged it off; I guess I must have seemed like trashy competition compared to their pressed linen pants, designer shoes, and cackling hyena-pack laugh. I decided to head to the bathroom to check my makeup and take a break from having the tray around my neck.
The bathroom had a large mirrored wall, and a table for me to set the tray on. I adjusted my makeup, and washed my hands, which had gotten strangely dirty. I assumed it was the money, but maybe it was the environments I'd been working in.
I glanced down at my watch again, pulled myself together, and headed out to find Thom.
“Not bad so far. Don’t let those trophy wife bitches get you down,” I chuckled to myself as I stepped back into the currents of the night.