Page 2 of Dirty Money
‘Oh well’, she thought. Dylan had paid fourteen’s tab, and Aullie watched him from the POS as he continued to scribble on the receipt long after he should’ve been finished signing it.
“Told you I’d get weirdo Visor Boy’s number,” Aullie grumbled to Brittany, who was slipping into her coat to leave for the night.
“Bummer girl, I’m sorry,” she replied. Suddenly, Brittany perked up, pointing a bright teal finger in the air. “Unless! Maybe British Dream had to leave early on some kind of emergency or something and dipshit over there is giving you his number instead!”
“Yeah, ha ha,” Aullie’s voice was dripping with sarcasm and she rolled her eyes. She hugged Brittany goodnight and waved at the other girls who were heading out the door.
Eventually, Dylan and his friends left too. Aullie walked the row of booths, tucking checkbooks into her apron pockets and balancing cold, dirty glasses in her arms. The bar stank of fried food and spilled beer, and the air was hotter and muggier than it had been before the rush.
She carried her mound of glassware to the dish pit in the back, the humidity was almost choking. Water rushed through the pipes, the pressure-washing dish machine whirred. It was only ten, so the bar wouldn’t close for two more hours, but the kitchen had begun shutting down most of their stations.
Tackleman’s late-night menu, like most sports bars, consisted of just a few low-maintenance fried appetizers but no one expected it to get busy again.
They were right, too. Aullie and a tall, ginger-haired bartender named Danielle, fielded the five men, total, that came into the bar once everyone cleaned out. By closing time, the bar was swept, mopped, vacuumed, and scrubbed from top to bottom and Aullie had Eric clock her out.
“How was your night?” he asked, not looking up as he flipped through the pile of receipts in her checkout.
“Another night in paradise,” she said with a weak smile.
“Did you want this?” he asked, holding up a receipt.
“Want what?” she asked, but looking closer she saw it was table fourteens receipt. “Oh that, no thanks.”
“You sure?” Eric said jokingly. “You’re just gonna ruin poor Mr. uh…” he squinted through his glasses, “Weston’s night.”
Aullie’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it actually Weston’s number?”
“That’s what it says.”
Aullie snatched the slim sheet of paper away from him. She honestly hadn’t even read what was on the back, and she couldn’t believe that Brittany may be right.
But there it was; a note and ten digits in a very traditionally male chicken scratch:
Weston had 2 go but wanted me to leave u his #
‘It looks like it might rain’, Aulora thought as she idled at a stoplight. She waited for the green arrow to signal so then she could turn into the parking lot where she worked, becoming more frustrated with each passing moment that the road on both sides stayed empty and that the light stayed red. “C’mon,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m gonna be late.”
Finally, mercifully, the green arrow appeared and she turned across the wide street into a sloped parking lot outside Tackleman’s, the grungy sports bar that had helped her pay her bills for the past two years. The gravelly noise in her engine was back, she noticed, as she situated herself in her favorite parking spot. It’s just because it’s cold, Aullie told herself. She couldn’t afford any significant repairs.
The dated, blue Accord was on its last legs and she was firmly in denial about it. It wasn’t like she had the money for a new car.
Twisting the keys out of the ignition, she snatched her black, canvas, serving apron off the floor from under the passenger seat, amidst an array of discarded receipts and crinkled plastic water bottles. The door creaked as she opened it and again as she slammed it behind her and manually locked it.
The air was crisp and cool, making her snuggle into her fleece-lined hemp hoodie as she crossed the mostly empty parking lot. ‘Great…’ she thought as the chill bit the tip of her nose, ‘…another slow night’.
The front door, a heavy, scuffed monstrosity with fading brass handles and a white TACKLEMAN’S decal, peeling off from the dingy windows, groaned as she yanked it open and a blast of heated air warmed her chilly cheeks. Inside, feel-good music played quietly on a constant loop in the dimly-lit bar.
Tackleman’s boasted thirty-six beers on tap. They were usually out of about twelve of them. A full wet bar, all house liquors, loomed behind a colossal wooden bar plastered with tacky sports memorabilia, flickering neon signs and celebrity mug shots. Worn tables, most with an aged and peeling finish, were scattered around the bar in a sort of ‘wherever it fits, it goes’ design. A low stage sagged into the back corner, near a small, pathetic excuse for a dance floor. It was usually lonely, except for the wretched weekend nights when local bands of graying wannabes did their best to rupture Aullie’s ear drums.
“Hey, Aullie!” a baby-faced blonde called out, galloping up to the front of the bar with an enthused smile. Dammit, Aullie thought, she had really been meaning to learn the new host’s name.
“Hey,” she said vaguely, with a half-assed smile, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t said her name back.
She didn’t. The girl just rested her elbows on the weathered wooden podium used as the hostess stand. The dusty chalkboard on the front advertised the daily specials in colorful chalk, and whoever had done it that day had some very big, very loopy handwriting done in pink.
“Long time, no see! Am I right?” Blondie tried for a lame, over-friendly joke. Aullie wanted to roll her eyes but resisted the urge. “But hey, look. You’ve got, like, a really good section tonight.”
“Yeah, I would hope so. I told Napoleon I would come in early and close tonight,” Aullie said, peering over the host stand to scan the table chart. Five tables, all large, somewhat clean booths near the bar, plus whatever came in after everyone else was cut. She could work with that.
