Adelle was working, which meant very little actual work got done, the music was turned up a little too loud, and there were free drinks to be had – if you were part of her crew. They were around her nearly all the time; and even when they weren’t, they were at her beck and call. The inner circle was made up entirely of men who weren’t too proud to prune and strut like they were featured on Omaha’s Wild Kingdom in order to get free shots. They listened to whatever music Adelle wanted to listen to, ate whatever Adelle wanted to eat, and as a reward, they were given booze and an open invite to Adelle’s frequent summer cool pool parties – where the liquor flowed like water, the coke and weed was sold at discount, and bathing suits were (I understand) optional. Sometimes Adelle would even invite some of the prettier, more impressionable girls who worked at the bar to her pool parties, too. To be Adelle’s friend was to never know want: there was always enough booze, prescription pills, and illegal party favors to go around. Adelle loved her coke as much as she loved her froo-froo drinks and the bass heavy club music that she played 95% of the time. A kinder person might look at her over-bleached hair, sagging tits, spray on tan and carefully applied make-up that didn’t really disguise her age or her lifestyle, and feel sorry for her. In a late afternoon booze fuzzy light, a sympathetic soul might even say she looked tragic. One of those bad character studies drawn by angst-ridden suburban art students.
I wasn’t in Adelle’s crew; so I bought my own drinks and ignored the music as best I could.
It was hard not to watch her, though, while she went about playing a trailer park Scarlett O’Hara hopped up on coke and shots of Bacardi. She manipulated her crew, the girls who worked for her, and even her partner (and ex-boyfriend) Jake with a master’s precision. You can tell a lot about people without having to talk to them. Most people, for example, tend to stop at the age they were the happiest. Fashion trends, music, slang. For example, a lot of people who grew up in the 80’s still hold onto the modified yuppie look. Yuppies and golfers are the reason why polo shirts still exist, and why you still see the occasional turned up collar. Adelle was clearly at her happiest in the late 70’s and early 80’s, and even though time marched on, her wardrobe was an odd mixture of club trendy and old school strut – and though there is a point where a woman should have the good grace to cover up, Adelle was clearly unconcerned. I guess in that beer fuzzy light that might pass for some kind of whored out feminism.
From the roof tiles down to the hardwood floors, the MTP Sports Bar and Grill was a simple, straightforward place. 60 TVs that showed, at any one time, at least three different sporting events, including both horse and dog races. Derby Day, Superbowl Sunday, and the NCAA Championship were high volume days. The bar was centrally located but far enough from campus to avoid most of the college age crowd -- except on Friday and Saturday nights, when most of the regulars had the good sense to stay away. The regulars were a melting pot of pipe fitters and bookies, gamblers and groundskeepers, lawyers and house painters, business owners and retirees blowing their children’s inheritance at the mutuel window and on strong gin and tonics or whiskey sours.
That didn’t stop Adelle from subjecting us to her whims of narcotic inspired pretense. For example, she loved to change the menu. Most of the food was decent sturdy bar food: chicken wings, pizza, poppers, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks. Decent chili. A lot of it was reasonably priced, which, given the piss poor economic climate, was a nice touch. But Adelle was always trying to attract a different class of clientele. She went through cooks faster than she went through a bottle of rum, and was always adding appetizers and entrees that she saw in other restaurants. A shrimp ceviche that barely looked like shrimp and probably could’ve passed for a moderately passable cocktail. There was the chicken breast stuffed with tomato and pesto, served with “wild” rice and mushy steamed vegetables – that went for $10. Then she tried a spinach dip with pita chips that I refused to try simply because I wasn’t sure exactly what else was in it.
“Hey,” she said to me. At first, I thought she was talking to somebody else. I looked up to see she was standing in front of me with a platter piled with corn chips and holding a bowl of what looked like a dip. “You want to try this?”
“What is it?”
“Poblano cheese dip,” she smiled. “It’s a new menu item and I’m trying to get some customer feedback.”
“Sure,” I said, though it was probably the beer talking. I hadn’t eaten much since breakfast. And I figured a little free food was never a bad thing. Besides, I thought, if I play my cards right there might be some free drinks and beer distributor swag in my future. It wasn’t like I had anything else to look forward to. No job. No prospects. An otherwise carefree life. I’d been in Arizona for nearly a year. No steady work. No steady friends. Neither of which particularly bothered me, since both jobs and people get to me eventually. Or I get to them. Things turn out the same either way in the end. Most jobs want more dedication than I’m willing to give for seven dollars an hour, and most people start thinking you’re their best friend if you have more than three beers with them. Then they start telling you their life story and all their little secrets. Like I care. In the end, it’s all one big headache; and the only headaches I want to put up with are hangovers.
But it probably was the beer talking, and so, even though I’d watched the Incredible Sagging Adelle enough to know she was high maintenance and low threshold, I picked up a pita chip, dipped it in the bowl, and shoved the sludge in my mouth.
“So?” she was smiling. Her teeth were crooked, but bleached a blinding white. One of her eye teeth was pointed at the end and askew.
I swallowed what was in my mouth and washed the taste out with what was left of my beer. The beer didn’t help. I looked down and inspected what it was I had just taken a bite of. The contents of the bowl was slightly chunky and light brownish – not really a color I associate with cheese. It looked more like day old vomit. Maybe baby shit. Suzy, the bartender, brought me another beer and I drank half of it down hoping it would take the taste out of my mouth. It didn’t.
“So what do you think?” she repeated. Her eye tooth looked like it was pointing at me.
“Uh,” I tried to smile. “I’m probably not the person to ask.” I was thinking that maybe I could feign an ignorance of cuisine and save myself. No such luck.
“Oh,” she chided, “Come on. It’s not too HOT, is it?”
I wish. “No,” I answered, wishing I hadn’t quit smoking so that I could excuse myself for a cig and get out of the conversation – not to mention putting another taste in my mouth. “It’s, eh… uh…” Sigh. “I didn’t much care for it.”
She stopped smiling. “Really?” The tone was not so much a questioning one as much as it was one of disbelief. Clearly mine wasn’t the answer she was looking for.
“Yeah. Well. I mean… it’s ok. Cheese sauce isn’t really my thing, first of all. And.. it’s, uh… kind of bland.”
Adelle picked up the platter and turned her face down the bar. Two of the guys from her crew – one of whom (I think) filled the role of occasional boyfriend – were down at the end ogling the new waitress with headlight tits and straight, boyish hips. She smiled at them, offering the platter of cheese and cold pita chips. They tried it, smiled, and told her it was “fuckin’ awesome.” This clearly pleased Adelle, because she bounced across the bar to the well and poured them a couple of shots – deliberately flaunting them front of me as she passed, not even bothering to look at me. Then she set the shots down in front of them, went back and poured herself a shot (which she also flaunted in front of me), and returned to the end of the bar to join her crew.
I drained my beer and motioned for Suzy to bring me another. Suzy was a decent enough bartender. She remembered what people drank and would remember your name if you talked to her a little bit. She played up the flirtation a little – after all, Adelle insisted – but only a little because she was clearly pregnant. From the look of her, maybe as far along as six months. She’d been skinny to begin with, so she didn’t balloon out too much. I did wonder how long Adelle would let her work – though couldn’t just fire the girl for being knocked up. And, ignoring the whole protruding stomach, Suzy’s pregnancy cleavage wasn’t bad to look at, and she probably got extra tips, anyway. Diapers are expensive, after all. When she brought my fresh beer I smiled and thanked her.
“Hey,” I said. “I guess I should’ve said I liked the dip, huh?” I motioned towards Adelle, who was giggling and rubbing up on the boyfriend toy.
Suzy didn’t answer. But she did shrug and smile – as if to welcome me to a club. My lot in the bar had been chosen. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that Adelle didn’t find some excuse to kick me out. She did, however, turn the juke up so loud that it was impossible to hear anything but an unrelenting bass beat.
But then – I always paid my tab. Somebody has to cover the free shots.
