Closing Arguments

|12|

The sweat that seeped from the roof was only one signal that Gallaghers was hot and heavy this evening. Another few spots from my defacto Where's Wally edition included a gaggle of questionably shirtless men, glowstick-bound wrists, what looked to be the stragglers of a pub crawl all but literally crawling on the fringes of the dance floor and more pleasantly an overflowing tip jar. And after my week, that was all I could hope for.

The stress of precedents and inhuman levels of reading had begun to crease me as it did my pages. Last week's party had been a mistake on many fronts but particularly on my reading timetable. I'd carried myself from bar to book to bed and back all week long and without the RedBull coursing through my body at this ungodly hour, I'd be taking the fast train to bed any minute. Or rather, floor in the case of where I found myself and the thought of that filthy mystery carpet kept me upright also.

Little time to think about how my arms ached and my shoulder's rigidity as I worked the busy shot counter.  After 768 tequilas poured, my resolve began to falter. With Summer working the rear-facing bar mixing cocktails and fancier drinks my training hadn't yet acquainted, free-spilling (a more apt description of my pouring technique) was becoming less contained at best.  A total mess at worst. And spotting that blonde sandy shag in my vision as I covered end to end of the bar only made that hand a little less steady.

If he hadn't been flanked with Prescott and Leary, I might not have spotted him with such a warning. His swaying air a sign of my freehand pouring in action, though I knew I hadn't served him all night. I figured he'd been passed a shot or seven by well meaning friends. I kept busily working knowing my position of server no.1 left me little disguise, toppling bottles on their head in hope it would distract me from my head felt exactly that, upside down.

Prescott spotted me first, tapping Leary on the shoulder with the back of his palm as he locked eyes with me.  A glare that helped me elucidate exactly what he was saying to his tipsy mate as they stood with their even tipsier friend.  And as if someone clicked their fingers or perhaps mentioned me by name, Hunter looked up solemnly and stole my line of sight from the two chatty first years in front of me. He looked even more buzzed as he got closer, pushing the crowd slightly to weave closer to the front. He likely thought it was unassuming but his encumbered nature thanks to a few too many bourbon and cokes stifled any stealth.

I focused on the task at hand, five vodka raspberries for the barely legal bunch of brunettes. But as I attempted to have them pay, their new counter mate had distracted to the point of complete belligerence.

"That's $42.20 for the five, on card?" I yelled but the room was dizzyingly loud thanks to the bump of bass and squeal of dancing students, it landed loud but enough to strip their eyes back from Hunter to me.

"Uh sorry, here." Brunette number one thrusts a card my way, returning her unflinching attention to Hunter, who by this time is bopping lightly, stood in front of Prescott and Leary again. I take the card as she looks on besotted.

"Since when do you work here, Harp? Harper, sorry. I-I'm."

"Drunk?"

"I prefer tipsy but sure yeah. You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't finish your sentence." I cock my head to the side and take a deep breath. "What can I get for the three of you?"

"Three bourbon and cokes, three tequila shots and just one more thing." Hunter swayed, holding his finger up in solidarity as he spoke the final words.

I spun around with three short glasses and three accompanying shot glasses and begun prepping the drinks he'd decided on, it was nearing 2am and I wanted to serve everyone here so they could vomit outside and vanish. Quickly too, preferably.