Pathetically pathetic

I don't expect anyone to read this blog, since most people I know don't know I am on here anymore. Therefore, I will talk mad shit about my boss. I am pacing back and forth behind my bar, trying to conjure up some enthusiasm for the lame evening ahead of me, when the bar phone rings. It is my boss (the owner) , calling in to see if there is any action at the place. Now, his definition of "action" is different from the literal meaning of the word. He isn't asking if we have a lot of customers, or selling a lot of beer. He is asking if there is a snowball's chance in hell he could get laid tonight.

If he ever asked me that question straight out, I would respect him a little more, just for being honest about being desperate.

He just feels the need to use slang, because he thinks its "hip" and somehow makes him appear to have plenty of prospects. I know for a fact that there is at least one chick in the bar that he would love to "hit it" with. She just happens to love free drinks. I still tell him there's nothing going on tonight, in our sort of bantering-code-talk. I don't want him hanging out all evening with me, and I am not going to encourage a situation which I KNOW she will regret, though it might make Frank's month.

So every 20 minutes (I shit you not) he calls with the same query about the pussy in the bar tonight. I always tell him that all the girls in the place are with guys. It is almost always a lie, but I just think all parties are better off. I tell Frank it's a sausage-fest, and we hang up. Twenty minutes of reprieve, and then again, it's time for a new lie.

So Frank ends up coming in around 1 am and I grind my teeth and hope he doesn't figure out that this chick has been here the whole time. He just looks happy that she is there and starts buying her Crown and Cokes, and asks me to make up a martini for him. (Evil laugh) this is where I get to have some input into the night...
I mix up three shots of vodka into a French Martini, place it in front of him, and tell him to go at it. I now know my place in this situation. I shall get Frank really drunk, and she might get drunk too, and then she will get turned-off by Drunk-Frank and leave. I make up three more martinis for him (at his request) and he starts to slur vaguely. I don't know if she noticed, but I always notice when people get to that point. You know, the altering of the voice, the elongated syllables, the falling off the chair, the passing out upright against a meat slicing machine with a sandwich in your hand.... Only three people know that story, and I'll give you two guesses who it involves. That's another story though, and it was St. Patty's two years ago. Frank is a complete dork when it comes to women, running a bar, and managing money. When you have to pay your beer reps in rolls of quarters, something is not kosher.

He needs those quarters for the hookers on Holloway St. I know he gets fed up with the "action" at the Pub and gets toasted, grabs the Saran wrap, and hits the ghetto for some love.