W is for Wasted
Page 88“Me, too.”
“Where the hell’s this coming from? He’s a douche bag.”
“Apparently, he’s not. Or maybe you can be a douche bag and talented at the same time.”
I stayed for the entire set. I’d expected the band to be amateurish; loud, and discordant, running off covers of popular songs done better by the recording artist. Instead, they played what I had to guess were original numbers with blues and jazz undertones. At some point, Big Rat peeled off, and 11:00 came and went and I realized this was way too late for me. The waitress passed and I caught her attention, making the universal gesture for the check.
She nodded and proceeded to the bar. The band took a break and the temporary vacuum was suddenly filled with loud talk and boisterous laughter. Instead of feeling magical, it was only a bar again; badly lighted and smelling rank. The waitress returned and handed me a bifold of leather with a cash register slip hanging out like a tongue. I moved to the nearest table where the light was better. I opened the folder and looked at the list of charges that ran all the way down the page. The total was $346.75.
“Wait, wait. This isn’t mine. I had two glasses of wine.”
“Anna said you were running a tab.”
“Me?”
“We came in together, but I wouldn’t call it my ‘party.’”
“Is now. Everybody else is gone.”
I looked at the check again. “This has to be a mistake.”
“Nope. Don’t think so.” She peered over my shoulder, using her pen to refer to each item in turn. “Two beers. Those were Hank’s. He’s a cute guy, isn’t he? Ellen had three margaritas and two shots of tequila.”
“I counted two margaritas.”
“Are you going to argue with me over every little thing? She ordered the third one while you were in the other room, watching Anna play pool. Now see here? Anna ordered two martinis and this is where she switched to Champagne.”
“For two hundred and ninety bucks? How many glasses did she drink?”
“I can’t believe they did this to me.”
“Guess you don’t know them very well. I could have told you straight off if you’d asked me nice.”
I fumbled in my shoulder bag and came up with my wallet and took out my American Express card.
“We don’t take AmEx. Visa or MasterCard.”
I pulled out a second card, this one Visa.
She studied it briefly. “You have a photo ID?”
I experienced the miracle of self-control as I opened my wallet and held it up so my driver’s license was clearly visible.
“You are too kind,” I said, but she was already heading for the bar, where I saw her pass the check and my credit card to the closest bartender. Moments later, she returned with a copy of the cash register receipt and the charge slip, complete with carbons, bearing the numbers she’d swiped. She held out the pen.
For a moment, I struggled, trying to determine the amount of a tip. It wasn’t like she’d served us food.
“The pay here is really crummy,” she reported conversationally. “We pool our tips and split with the bartenders, which doesn’t leave much. Most of us can barely make ends meet. And I’ve got two kids.”
I ran the tip up another five percent, making it an even ten. It wasn’t until I was going out the door that I chanced to look back. In the far room, the redhead Anna had been playing pool with was leaning up against the wall and Ethan was using his index finger to trace a line along the low square of her dress. By some uncanny intuition, he glanced in my direction and saw that I was watching him. I made my exit before he had a chance to react.
• • •
At 2:35 A.M., I sat straight up in bed. I pushed the covers back and padded across the room to the desk chair where I’d flung my shoulder bag. As is true in so many motel rooms, the glaring lights from the parking lot threw all the surfaces into high relief. I picked up my bag and dug into one of the outside pockets, feeling for my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through as though preparing for a magic trick. Pick a card, any card. I flicked on the desk lamp, pulled out the chair, and settled uneasily into the leather upholstered seat, which was chilly from the air-conditioning. While I’m frugal in my use of California water, I keep a motel room at arctic temperatures. The Holiday Inn had graciously accorded me an extra blanket that I’d pulled down from the closet shelf in its clear plastic bag.