The Easy Way Out

2

There are dozens of sports bars across the country named Booty's, some with logos of leggy ladies in cowgirl boots, some depicting swashbuckling girls in skimpy pirate attire, and some shamelessly picturing bodacious backsides in bikini bottoms. In Pittsburgh, Booty's went in a different direction, spelled with a baseball and a basketball as stand-ins for the O's. A baseball and a hockey puck would have been better choices since nobody in the 'Burgh gives a shit about basketball but that never stopped the locals from packing the place.

The predominantly male customer base came night-after-night to devour chicken wings, drink beer, and ogle girls. Dressed in their short shorts and tight umpire-striped polo shirts, the young waitresses served drinks and bar food, suffering the indignities of rude and vulgar remarks while wearing fake smiles as they collected their tips.  

At the bar, customers watched the raven-haired bartender as she kept the drinks coming and the regulars happy. Rachel had the kind of natural fresh-faced allure more at home in a Ralph Lauren ad than at a Pittsburgh sports bar but she wore her looks with easy comfort, without arrogance.

A guy dressed in a cashmere topcoat, incompatible with the usual working-class aggregation of leather, denim, and varsity jackets, sipped his drink then tapped a folded twenty-dollar bill on the bar. "Hey, Rachel. Maybe you should work for FedEx. I saw you checking out my package."

Without missing a beat, she snapped, "That's a cute top. Do they make those for men?"

Laughter erupted as the preening jackass went down in flames, slinking down from his barstool, tail between his legs.

At the corner of the bar, two stone-faced men in ill-fitting suit jackets, Pat and Karas, ate their sandwiches while watching the proceedings. Though they never talked shop, there was no mistaking them as volunteers for the Boys & Girls Clubs of America. Pat, the larger man, wore thin gold chains around his thick neck. With a carpet of hair protruding from his shirt collar, Karas resembled a bear stuffed into a drab suit. There was more of him overlapping the barstool than there was occupying his seat.

"How we doing over here?" Rachel asked with a friendly grin.

"Better every time you ask," said Pat, a dab of mayonnaise riding his mustache.

"Another Maker's Mark?" She cleared glasses and debris from the bar.

"Sure. I could do one more." His voice sounded like it was rumbling out of a drainpipe.

Damon, a 20-something lumpy doughboy escorted a handsome young man to the bar, pushing his way through customers three-deep. He waved to attract Rachel's attention. "Hey, Rach. Rach!"

She met his eyes as she finished pouring another round of drinks with the proficiency of someone who came from a long line of bartenders. "Kinda busy here."

"Right. Right, Dos tequilas, por favor, senorita. When you get a minute."

Rachel set up two shot glasses and poured. She smiled at Damon's shy friend.

"My boy, Blake, here made his first sale today," said Damon.

She asked, "What do you sell?"

Lost in her eyes, Blake neglected to respond. Damon gave him a hard nudge.

"Cars. I... I sell cars," Blake stammered. "Pre-owned cars."

Damon clapped his friend's shoulder, "Would you buy a used car from this man?"

"Sure." She set the shots on the bar. "Menus for you gentlemen?"

"Yeah. I could eat." Damon rested his chin in his hand. "And could we get some beers?"

She produced two bar menus. "You want a draft? A bottle?"

"Anything cold with alcohol in it."

Damon watched her refill snack bowls and set them on the bar. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"You got that look. Like you didn't notice. Any of these dudes right here would give their left nut to get that look."

"You're hallucinating."

"There are none so blind as those who will not see."

########

During subsequent visits to Booty's Sports Bar, while Blake worked up the courage to ask Rachel out, his infatuation intensified. While pretending to check his phone, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, his focus occasionally swinging past her on the way to the front door, acting like he was looking for Damon. He caught a glimpse of her smile and while scrolling on his phone Blake wondered if it was it intended for him.

Seated on a nearby barstool, a bland middle-aged man who could easily be mistaken for a high school math teacher proclaimed, "Australia!"

Across the bar, while rinsing beer mugs in the sink, Rachel said, "Sorry, Allan."

"Well, it's gotta be an island, right?" He leveled his gaze at her through the lenses of his bifocals.

She raised her eyebrows.

"How did we get to geography, anyway?" he groaned, wiping the beer foam from his lip. "I was kicking butt on movie and TV trivia."

She shrugged, briefly meeting Blake's eyes. He sipped from the drink he'd been nursing for at least an hour.

"It's definitely Africa," said Allan's friend, Dave."No country has a longer coastline."

"Africa isn't a country." Rachel chuckled. "It's a continent."

"Maybe Russia," said Allan. "Russia?"

"Nope." She dried the mugs with a hand towel. "Try Canada."

"Canada?" Allan's eyebrows dipped. "Canada has the longest coastline? Can't be."

"Look it up," she said with a self-satisfied smile.

Allan grabbed his smartphone, his thumbs busily typing.

Watching her slicing a lime, then squeezing a wedge into a frosty copper mug, Blake's mind raced, fumbling for something to say. The best he could manage was, "That's a Moscow Mule, right?"

She added the ice cubes. "So you asking me out for coffee or what?"

Allan lowered his phone. His trivia friend, Dave, and a few customers seated nearby shot a disbelieving look at Blake.

"I mean yeah, I was just gonna..." he stammered.

She poured vodka then the ginger beer. "Wednesday afternoon works for me."

"Me too." He grinned, watching her carry the drink to the server at the wait station.

Reaching to clear two empty mugs from the bar, her striped shirt rode up the small of her back exposing a modest swath of skin above her denims. They were nothing more than average jeans, but there was nothing average about the way that the gently worn fabric hugged her hips. There wasn't a bad angle on this girl. She probably had gorgeous toes.