The Bar Hop

EVERY BAR was the same.

"Excuse me, are you looking for bartenders?"

"Not right now."

"Hi, do you have any positions available?"

"Nope. Sorry."

I always offered my resume anyway. And then, finally, after a "Hello, are you accepting applications?" I was greeted with: "Actually, yes we are."

I had wandered with hung head through the darkest hour of dusk, tripping over cobblestones, kicking up puddles, slipping and sliding onto the corner of 13th St. and Washington, hoping to land an opportunity at the meat market's metro-redneck local. I was at Hogs & Heifers Saloon.

I looked up at the bronzed bartender, her hair a conflagration of red wiry curls bursting out of her faux-weathered cowboy hat. She stood, hands on hips, in front of a dusty, cluttered bar backdrop adorned with hundreds of brassieres, bumper Stickers reading "Support your bartender helping ugly people get laid" and moose heads wearing hard hats.

"Say that again?" I stuttered.

"Are you here to apply for the job or what?" she demanded.

"Yes. Yes. I am. That's why I'm here. Yes."

She slapped an application down on the bar, ordered me to fill it out as she adjusted the strings of her black leather bikini top. The poorly Xeroxed sheet demanded to know how often I visited their faux back-woods biker dive, whether I completed high school and how I spent my free time.

The jukebox kicked out "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," and a leather knee-high boot came down on the bar with a "thunk," knocking the pen out of my hands.

I jolted. "What the fuck?"

"Sorry!" a Britney Spears doppelganger giggled as she moved her ass in small circles. I ordered a tequila—no salt, no lime—and a Budweiser—no glass. Before I could wipe the Jose off my chin, the foxfire barmaid approached me again. She pulled the application out from under my chilled hands, slapped the bar and said, "Get up here now!"

I glanced over my shoulder, pretending to look for whomever it was she must be talking to. "That's you, girl. You want a job? Get on this bar and dance. Now!"

The bar was suddenly full with women stripping off their overcoats and jumping over cans of Coors Light and bottles of MGD.

Nothing about my search for work had been civilized. I'd been time and time again rejected, asked for my measurements, scrutinized by alpha-male owners as to whether or not I "looked the part," fallen face-first into brown snow, bruised my knees, paid for lunch with pennies—what difference would it make if I got up there? Selling sex is requisite to bartending; this was just my most straightforward "interview" to date. No falsehood, no pretension of proper sexual politics, no bullshit. I had nothing left to lose.

With the Charlie Daniels Band blaring from the speakers, I slapped my hands on the wooden surface and swung my legs Dukes of Hazzard style up and onto the battered bar.

The ladies jockeyed for position, trying their best to out-dance each other; each sported a tight, white tank and tighter jeans. They were three-point-turning, gyrating, pulsing their salon-tanned bellies, hooting, hollering—all tits and lip gloss. My competition was stiff, and so was I. I fell behind the rhythm. The crowd had gathered around their favorite "heifers," cheering them on. I needed an audience. I needed a job. I felt like everyone was looking at me funny. But they weren't. In fact, no one was looking at me.

I danced harder. I started to sweat. My turtleneck was itchy. My boots were heavy. I didn't care. I kicked up my heels; I two-stepped my way into my competitor's area. I pulled off my turtleneck, revealing a navy blue wife-beater. While most girls come to Hogs & Heifers with the bra and leave without, I'd actually left the house that morning without. I danced harder.

I guess you didn't know it/ But I'm a fiddle player, too/And if you'd care to take a dare/I'll make a bet with you.

I was hot. I hadn't been this happy in three weeks. I was rockin' it. It felt good to get down. I was having an out-of-mind-in-my-body experience. I loosened up and shook off all my unemployed angst. Shook off the weight of trying so hard not to be that kinda girl. It was liberating—I had more control in those shuffle-kick-shuffle moments than any of the starch-collared, fringe-vest, would-be white-trash gentlemen who were staring and shaking in their steel-toe loafers.

"Is anyone gonna buy this girl a shot?" the bartender screamed, scaring me. I missed a beat. There was a megaphone between my legs. "Come on, gentlemen! Whaddarya? Pussies? She's working hard up here. Who's buying her a shot?!"

"Yeah!" I screamed out, "I'm fucking thirsty." I squatted beside my Budweiser to take a big swig and wipe my brow.

"What do you think you're doing? Stand up. Keep at it," the bartender scolded. "You're not done."

I stood back up and demanded a shot from the audience. A Purple Hooter, a Woo-Woo and a Jack Daniel's arrived promptly beside my feet. I bent down and threw them back.

The manager patted the barstool next to her and barked, "Git down! Sit. I'll be right there."

Dizzy and triumphant, I awkwardly lowered myself down onto a seat, out of breath, buzzed and craving a cigarette. I felt a large hand on my back. I turned around to find a short, squat man wearing glasses that teetered on the tip of his bulbous nose.

"I bet it was hot dancing in that sweater," he said.

"Yeah, you try it."

"Let me buy you a beer," he offered. "I own a bunch of buildings near the Seaport, so I got money to burn, wife won't let me spend it on her."

I declined politely.

The manager came back with a Hogs & Heifers kids shirt and a pair of scissors, pushing aside Mr. Seaport. "I can't stand what you're wearing," she said. "Try this." She cut the shirt in half and sent me to the restroom for a quick-change.

I came out tugging at the bottom of what now looked like a hanky, trying to cover up my breasts.

"That's better," she said. "Do you have tighter pants?"

"Probably."

"You seem like a smart girl. I'm sure you can come up with something more appropriate to wear."

I tipped my hat to her, "Yes, ma'am."

I got the job, but I didn't take it. I'd gotten all I needed out of those few minutes of stomping and kicking the shit out of that bar.