I smiled awkwardly, a little off balance.
“I’m here for the drinks boys,” I stated firmly, tucking the silver tray beneath my arm. “I’m here to make sure everyone gets drinks, everyone is served, and no one goes thirsty.”
Friend Three just tossed a heavy arm around my shoulders this time, practically crushing me. Oh god, this had started off wrong already.
“That’s good,” he breathed, pure alcohol blowing hotly onto my face. “That’s good because like my buddies mentioned, Michael here is getting married next week and needs a reminder of what he’s gonna miss.”
I groaned internally. I hated bachelor parties that were like a scene from Girls Gone Wild. I hated dudes who egg on the poor groom to be, urging him to go nuts, to “sow his wild oats” and “enjoy his freedom” before he was “locked down forever.” It made marriage sound like the worst thing on earth, just one step above drinking poison and being stabbed in the gut.
But I get it. Sometimes the party’s more about the friends than the groom himself. It’s the dudes putting out five thousand big ones, the guys who want to make sure that a weekend in Vegas is like a scene from that movie The Hangover. They wanna make sure things get so crazy that hallucinations start, and if one of the hallucinations is Mike Tyson playing the drums? All the better.
So I took a deep breath and smiled determinedly.
“Let me get you some shots,” I beamed. “Be right back!”
And with that I fled to the bar.
“Morty,” I panted, wobbly in my heels. “I can’t, this group is so drunk already and it’s only nine!”
The big man’s paunch turned to me first, face following afterwards.
“Fine go home then,” he grunted shortly. “You’re off payroll.”
But that made me start. I was fired that quick? Wait, what about worker’s rights? What? This was all happening so fast.
So I backtracked as fast as I could.
“No, what I meant is that I need some help,” I begged. “Can I just wear flat shoes, or maybe take off these fake eyelashes?” I asked, plucking at my right eye. “I can barely see,” I mewled pitifully, the long black extensions like heavy spiders on my eyes. “It’s hard to blink.”
Morty didn’t even turn, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard my words.
“Scram Kitty,” he said disinterestedly. “We got a line-up of girls who want this position.”
And with that, I jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
“Okay, okay,” I panted, voice with a pleading edge that sounded so bad. “Okay, I’ll stay, I’ll stay. It’s just that,” I bit my lip, looking at his impassive face. “It’s nothing,” I added hurriedly. “I’ll stay.”
And with that, I picked up my tray again, now heavy with about twenty shots. Stumbling in my heels, I made my way over to Booth Two.
“Bottoms up!” I chirped cheerfully, hoping I could be heard over the din. “Bottoms up!”
But now, the guys were even drunker. What had happened in the five minutes that I was away? These guys had to have flasks in their jacket pockets, they must have snuck in liquor so that they didn’t have to pay a cent extra.
But what could I do? As the shots were passed around, I smiled guilelessly, cooing and flirting, trying not to let on how much I hated being here, how much I hate loud music and flashing strobe lights. In general, I’m not a Vegas person, it’s just that State happens to be close to the strip, and this is where most kids got jobs. A lot of college kids worked as cashiers or Starbucks baristas, but I happened to be one of the lucky ones who landed a job with big tips.
So I smiled fakely again, bopping slightly to the music, pretending to have a good time.
“Have a wonderful wedding!” I shrieked with forced cheer, doing a little shimmy. “You’ll be a great husband!”
But it was the wrong thing to say because neither the groom-to-be nor his friends wanted to hear it.
“You’re the worst club girl ever,” snarled one, eyes bloodshot. “The worst.”
“Yeah,” chimed his friend. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you shut up about the fucking wedding for a sec? Can’t you see that dude’s trying to forget his future?”
And of course, the mean comments started.
“She’s fat, guys,” one voice said flatly. “We got a fat one, the club gyped us. We paid five thousand, and I heard you gotta fork over ten to get a skinny waitress.”