Fishnet Magic

Chapter 3: Servicing the Emeny

The Marlowe's Piano Bar and Grill was suffering through a very long, slow, boring night. Candlelight from the ivory hurricane glasses flickered off the white tablecloths for no one. The pianist pounded out "Sweet Caroline" for empty black lounge seats and a bartender who was immersed in the South Africa versus Mexico football match. The line cooks played Reggaetón in the kitchen at full blast since there was nobody in the dining room to care if it broke their ambiance or not.

Lupita wasted her fishnet debut night on this?

She leaned against the wall and banged her head against it as she continued to doodle phallic-esque circles in the reservation book.

"Any rezzies in the next hour?" Geoff, her balding, middle-aged, pudgy manager asked. He scoped out the empty terrain as he fixed his tie, never looking at Lupita as he spoke.

"We've got a party of five coming in at eight, but diddly-squat before and after," she droned, continuing her idle penis art.

"Excellent." He patted the hostess stand. "Keep up the good work."

Lupita saluted him with two fingers without looking up. "Will do, Boss."

"Nobody likes a smartass, Lupita." Geoff abandoned her at the stand—most likely for the rest of the night.

The shift dragged. It dragged on and on, forever and ever until Lupita wondered if she and Amo had crashed on their way back from Guilty Pleasures and she had somehow landed in hell. No one came in. The servers were so bored, they began napping in the back booths of the private party room, begging Lupita to come and get them only if she sat their section.

She didn't. Because no butts came through the doors to give seats to.

She picked up the restaurant phone and dialed Amo.

"This was the worst night to take these things for a test-run," she said when he farted as greeting into the phone.

"I thought it might be," he said. "It's the first day of Shrimp Fest at Red Lobster."

"Where are you now?"

"Number nineteen in line for a table."

Lupita rolled her eyes. "You can't even come in here for one drink?"

"Three words. Endless. Shrimp. Scampi."

"Daryl is playing tonight. He asked about you."

"Bitch, now why are you going to lie to me like that? I know Daryl hasn't said shit about me because the world would have fucking collapsed on itself already. That ship has sailed."

Lupita was about to begin a long tirade as to why she'd never give up on the eventual marriage of Amo and sexy, single, American ER nurse by day and jazz pianist by night Daryl Lao, but the party of five at eight had suddenly strolled through the door. She panicked. "Thank you Mister Baggins. I have you down for tomorrow at seven thirty for a party of four. . . Yes, I'll make sure your server knows it's your mother's birthday. Thank you. Bye-bye now." She hung up the phone to Amo belting the lyrics to "S and M" in her ear.

She looked up to address the incoming party and nearly died when she came face to face with Markus Barlee, hottie from her Nineteenth Century Brit Lit class, stud of the English department, and playboy of all creative writing workshops.

Her arch nemesis.

He smiled when they finally locked eyes and extracted one finger that had been shoved into his snug skinny jeans pocket. He pointed it at her, winking as if in concentration. "Lupita? Right?"

She seethed. Like he didn't know who she was. They'd only had at least two classes together every year since they started school. "Hi, Markus. Welcome to Marlowe's Piano Bar and Grill. Do you have a reservation?"