You’d Better Watch Out
Issue 4 - September 2020
by Dorian Yeager ~ Wordsmith in residence
It was one of those perfect December days in the city. Not too cold, not too much wind, not too many panhandlers on the walk to work. Okay. Three panhandlers, but they were all regulars and we were used to each other. Crazy Rainbow Danny, named such for his enthusiastic use of mismatched plaids and tie-dye scarves, had not yet set himself up on the corner to dance and twirl and sing and stalk to the gods and scare the beejeezus out of female tourists. Men, too.
Bach’s Goldberg Variations soothed the air in the bar via Pandora and on my iPod, connected to the stereo system. I like to calm myself before the onslaught. I’d been there two hours before opening because I have an unnatural fear of not having a damned thing not ready should I need it. So the fruit tray was filled—and may I say artistically because that’s the way I roll.
I always prepare the bar for opening as though John Taffer of “Bar Rescue” is taping my every move, doing duties that no one in the world would ever notice except me. And John Taffer. At the rack of noon, I turned on the lights and unlocked the door. Saturdays are always slow to start so I picked up a beautiful white bar rag and started polishing the stemware to the accompaniment of Glen Gould on piano. I checked on our 90-year-old Caribbean cook who was sound asleep in the kitchen. I always check in case he’s not breathing.
Lost in thought, or lack thereof, I found myself amused. This is a big deal early in the shift..
Three Santa Clauses wandered in the door. My delight undoubtedly showed on my face because, even though these Kringles were neither fat nor old, they looked around appreciatively and smiled back. Very festive. Not as titillating for me as a herd of bagpipers taking over on Tartan or St. Patrick’s Day, but very holiday festive. As an ex-actress, I have an appreciation for scene stealing. Not the guy who strode in dressed in full armor as Don Quixote waiting for someone to say something (no one did, of course. This is New York) who merely annoyed me for being transparent. I have disdain for transparency which is probably why I stopped dating a decade ago.
Happily, I set up three beers and threw in three shots to get the day and the Santas off to a good start. Quirkiness should always be awarded as long as it isn’t Rainbow Danny. Being a decent bartender and all, I was about to ask what the occasion was when I looked up to see three more Santas and one sexed-up elf. Worth a second look. Disney elves don’t show cleavage. Maybe in the director’s cut. I don’t know. Word is that Walt had a few secrets of his own. What threw me a little was that the assembly of Santas and elf didn’t seem to know each other. You would think there would be some kind of Saint Nick union. Let’s face it, the hours are killer and seasonal at that.
They, too, ordered beer and now that the bloom was off the rose, I didn’t throw in any whiskey. Good thing, too, because before I had popped the second cap, seven or eight more folk donned in gay apparel purposefully entered. Being a professional and all, I can spot a mission for a mile away. They brought to the table another slutty elf and a reindeer in fishnets. I’ll admit it. For a woman who has seen it all—twice—I was taken aback. (That was my grandmother talking. Who else gets “taken aback” these days?)