Swish

Halftime

Eight Months Later

"That new regular keeps asking for you."

I rolled my eyes as Sierra, my coworker and only friend I'd made in our fine establishment pointed a manicured finger directly towards an aging bald man sat caddy cornered towards the small, intimate stage that touted the newest of newbies on the music scene in New York City, the hole in the wall bar and grill claiming to be the propellant of many a famous singer back in the day...meaning the nineties, but still I held out hope in snagging a job here shortly after moving up north and my luck had landed me the position of a server...that wasn't allowed to perform.

The servers just had to sit back and wait, watching and pining for our turn in the spotlight, when our manger (who played favorites), finally allowed us to audition to be the new headlining spot in front of a crowd of fifty patrons on Saturday night, our busiest night. 

I sighed and twisted my black apron around across my waist and tugged down the black shorts that had crawled itself halfway up my ass and began meandering over to the table, eyes blank and smile polite as the man regarded me with a keen interest. 

Yellowing eyes and a gruff white beard, the man surged sideways in his seat and I caught sight of a pad and pen beside his lone empty glass of what had most definitely been scotch if the amber stain of the liquid coating the bottom was any indication of what would coat his breath once I came upon speaking distance with him. 

For a moment, his eyes darted across my face and, as the satisfaction crinkled the lines around his mouth and eyes, I panicked.  He looked too much like my father, greying eyebrows and scraggly nose hairs peeking out of thickened nostrils, skin a grey pallor with sharp, beady eyes, but then the panic passed and he was just a man and I was just a waitress that he probably wanted to make a move on.  It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it wouldn't be the last, though I wished otherwise. 

"Hello sir, how can I help you?"

"You're Virginia Bruins, right?  Mike Bruins daughter?  If you have time, I have some questions about your father and-"

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm on the clock, and I really don't feel like speaking with a reporter or a journalist or whoever the hell you are about my father.  If you're only here to ask me about him and you're no longer a paying customer, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I-"

"V, what's going on here?  I'm so sorry for her behavior, Mr. Santos, she clearly has no idea who you are.  Can I get you a refill on your scotch?  Perhaps a free appetizer, and we can comp your drinks as well for any trouble our newest server here might have caused."

My manager, Bree, was on the table in a heartbeat, a thick drop of sweat rolling down the side of her forehead a clear sign that I'd probably just pissed off one of the only 'important' customers that the bar actually had. 

I rolled my eyes as Bree straightened her uniform so that her cleavage was on display even more so than it already had been, and within two seconds flat, the man levied her a stare that was devoid of all interest or emotion. 

"Oh, quite the contrary.  Miss Bruins was just informing me that she had no interest in the story I was writing about her change of direction in her life from her father's dreams of business school to this...dream of music that she has.  I was going to publish it in a rather large publication, I believe you've heard of them.  The New York Times?"

The air completely dispelled from my lungs. 

"You want to do a piece on V?  Well, she is our best server, after all, and we were just about to showcase her singing and playing this Saturday night, as well, if you wanted to come and watch?"