Closing Time

The bar was buzzing with people flitting around the band’s merch table and bellying up to order rounds of shots, inhibitions long gone. A group of friends at a corner table made grand plans for the next day that would never happen. Their hangovers would keep them in bed til afternoon, and they’d be back tomorrow night to repeat the cycle. If I’ve seen it once, you know the rest.

It was Friday night, so we were open until two. The band had played well past midnight, nearly til one, and we hadn’t stopped moving all night, pouring drinks and shots, changing out kegs, and restocking the bottled beer. The bar mats were sticky with spilled drinks, and glasses waited by the bar sink to be washed. When the little hand was on the one and the big hand made it to the six, Jason and I bellowed, “Last call for alcohol!” In another half hour, we could throw everyone out, send them across the river to The Highlander. In the meantime, we filled a flurry of final drink orders.

Jason handed me a shot after he poured his. Tequila for him, bourbon for me, and we downed them and started settling tabs and cleaning up. I washed glasses while he restocked. Then I had to clean up the women’s restroom, where someone had barfed and missed the bowl. Great. I’d get over it when I counted my money.

When I came back from putting the mop away, the band had settled into the first table behind the bar. They had privileges, and I brought them another round. No one was heading for the door, everyone taking one last shot at not going home alone.

At 1:45, Jason gave the customary, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” A few groups trickled out the front door, but this was clearly a night when we’d have to run everybody out. I cut the music and turned the lights up. Last chance to rethink that person who looked hot from across the room in the dim lighting. I poured a couple of beers for Jason and me to sip while we did our closing work, if we ever got to it.

When two A.M. rolled around, it was my turn to give the penultimate prompt to leave. I didn’t feel like yelling, so I went over to the stage and turned on the mic to say, “If you don’t work here, and you’re not sleeping with someone who does, get out!”

Roughly half the people still present took the hint and left, but there were way too many hangers-on. Jason came over to the mic with me, and we started going around the room, pointing at people we wanted to leave, taking turns. He went first, pointing at some random dude, and spoke into the mic. "Hey, Lila! You fucking this guy?"

I took the mic and answered, “As if!” Then I pointed at a chick who was totally not his type and said, “When’s the last time she sucked your dick? Remember, ladies and gents, last week doesn't count. If you're not currently on anyone's dance card, it's time for you to get the fuck out.” Everyone who knew the rules joined in on the last four words.

It always worked, the wannabes wanted to avoid humiliation even more than they wanted to be included. Finally, it was down to the band, us, and our friends. Jason put the music back on, I locked the doors, and we did our closing work while Perry started cutting lines on the bar. I snipped a straw and did mine first, feeling the drain in the back of my throat and catching my second wind, passing the straw to Jason.

He made the biggest remaining line disappear, then looked at me and said, “Paper or plastic?”

“Paper.” I ran the report and counted the drawer since I’d already cleaned up the puke in the women’s restroom, so I didn’t want to wipe everything down and finish restocking. We split the tips, and it had been a good night, nearly five hundred each before tipping out the bar backs. I put their share in an envelope and put it under the drawer, put Jason’s stack of bills under the Crown bottle, and tucked mine into my purse. When Jason came back from the walk-in with the bottled beer, he asked me how we did. “Crown,” I replied.

“Yeah? Sweet. I was afraid it was a Jack or Jim night.”

“I was hoping it was a Macallan night. We were close. Would’ve made it except for tipout.”

Jason poured us each another shot, Milagro for him, Basil Hayden for me. He downed his, but I sipped mine. Tossing a shot down your throat isn't for premium liquor—it should be savored.

Perry took the straw back from Jason and called the band up to the bar, and everyone except the bass player lined up for their line. I pulled the bar bowl out of the drawer and put it next to Perry's offerings, hoping someone would fill it without me having to dip into my own bag. The party favors for drinks tradeoff was unspoken but rarely violated; however, there were occasional freeloaders present with nothing but a habit.

No one stepped up, so Perry held the bowl, a medium-sized blown glass Sherlock, over his head and said, "Lila's gonna start getting bitchy if someone doesn't fill this." The bass player came up to the bar and took the bowl. He sat down at the bar next to Perry and pulled a grinder out of his pocket.

After we emptied the bowl he filled, I moved everybody back to the tables. Last thing we needed to do was draw attention from the five-oh by having people seated at the bar after closing. Like clockwork, one of Augusta’s finest cruised down Broad Street almost before everyone was out of sight, light shining out the passenger window into the storefronts. Jason and his flavor of the week disappeared into the office to enjoy each other in private, and Perry produced a deck of cards.

"Who's ready to lose some money?"

“Not me. I’d rather throw some darts.” I knew better than to play with Perry’s deck. I hadn’t figured out his marks, and he cleaned me out last time we played with his deck.

The bass player, drummer, and my friend Julie joined me at the dartboard, and we started a game of 501, double in-double out. Julie and I used to throw in a league, and we were well-matched, even at cricket.

Jason and Holly finally came out of the office. Holly’s dress was on inside out, and Jason’s shirt was buttoned wrong. I laughed out loud at them while I took off my shoes and socks. I throw better barefoot. I also shoot pool better and dance better when my feet aren’t in prison. The occasional encounter with broken glass is worth it, and I keep my tetanus shot updated. Everyone is used to it, but I wouldn’t care if they weren’t.

Perry was no dummy. He took the table next to the band’s table, right by the pool table and cut four lines, snorting one and putting the other three front and center of the empty seats. He’d make way more than cost on that table.

The guitarist fake-coughed “whore” at Holly when she and Jason walked past him, and Perry jumped right in.

“Holly’s not a whore. Whores know how to get dressed after they get fucked. Hell, even sluts know how to do that, right Lila?”

Holly and I both said, “Fuck you, Perry!” I added, “At least we’re getting laid. How long’s it been? Maybe you’d be less bitchy if someone filled your bowl once in a while.”

I doubled in on twenties, so a round of applause followed the laughter. I turned and curtsied in my jeans and t-shirt before I threw my next dart, triple twenties. I was high tun champ when I threw in league.

Holly sat down across from Perry and snorted the line in front of her on the varnish-scarred oak table. Someone dropped some quarters in the slots on the pool table, and shortly the sound of the balls dropping inside the table filled the space between tracks on the CD, Widespread Panic’s self-titled album. “Walkin’” ended, the balls dropped, and the opening chords of “Pigeons” filled the room.

“Hey Jason, grab us some cups.”

Jason pulled six cups off the stack by the register and tossed them over the bar to Tom, who dropped one in each pocket to prevent the balls from dropping into the table.

“Hey, Lila. You shootin’ between throws? I think it’s still your table.” Tom held a cue out to me.

“Nah, I’m through multitasking for the night. Don’t lose my table. I wouldn’t mind playing a few when Julie and I finish kicking—what are y’all’s names?” I turned to face the drummer and the bass player.

“Jim”

“Barry”

“—‘s asses. We’ll play doubles and take everybody.” Then I turned back to Jim and Barry. “Really? Barry the bass player? I’m calling you ‘B.B.’; Jim, you’re ‘King’.”

It was easier to nickname band members than to keep new names straight every Friday and Saturday; nicknames have association with the moment they’re given, and everyone loves a non-offensive nickname. It makes it easier if they book future gigs with us, and it establishes permission to reject the labels we’re so used to that we don’t see them as labels anymore. We all like trying on new identities, keep them if they fit.

Julie subtracted my darts’ value from 501. Once you got under 100, keeping your score odd became important, then thinking about where your strengths on the board were. You could beat your opponents and lose to the arithmetic. Julie and I could hustle almost anyone at 501.

Jason took the seat next to Holly, Matt in the Hat joined Tom on the table, and one of the band’s half a dozen roadies and girlfriends or groupies, a dark eyed girl in jeans and an old Siouxie and the Banshees t-shirt, took the other chair and didn’t hesitate to take the straw. Snow White.

Quite a few Disney princesses came through the bar with the bands. Perry kept track in his little notebook. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, and Cruella were currently in the lead. We saw our share of villains, too. The best nights were when Perry read some of his notes to us. Minutes from previous meetings, he called them. He wouldn’t indulge us tonight, way too many people for a treat like that. Perry was on the clock.

I heard a ball drop into a cup on Tom’s break and smiled when King doubled in on 15 with his third dart. The game got boring if it was a runaway. Hat chalked his cue and his hand, sliding his hand up and down the shaft evenly distributing fine, white chalk beneath the blue tip while Tom ran the table on high balls.

One of the guys with the band knocked over their pitcher, and Jason pulled the bar towel off his belt and threw it to him, telling him to catch it before it hit the floor, then refill it himself. Self-serve after hours. Draft beer only. Living outside the law has rules.

The night crept toward dawn the way they always do, faster when you’re enjoying yourself, slower in proportion to your lack of enjoyment, and before long, Perry was tucking his takings into his pocket, and the real last call was upon us; the night was almost gone. Snow White licked the interior of the empty bag of powder, Tom pulled the cups out of the pool table and dropped them in the trash, which would go out the back door to the dumpster with us. Jason and I washed the pitchers and glasses and swept the floor. Dawn was coming, and it was time to unlock the door, put on our sunglasses, and go to breakfast, before sunlight filled our dark haven and the rest of the world started their day.