Prompt: Brandy Alexander

Not a Brandy Alexander

That summer I tended bar at Massanutten Resort. Not knowing how to tend bar, fudging that on my — quote — resume. I bought a Trader Vic’s cocktail recipe book at the bookstore and memorized every drink I’d heard someone order when I was a cocktail waitress at the Country Club of Virginia.

Me, just 22, and pink as a peony from the sun, from blushing. I smoked Marlboro Lights and knew a thing or two — I thought — but I was also aware of what I didn’t know, as a cocktail waitress in my little black dress and fishnets and sensible pumps. Armed with a tray with a diameter not much bigger than my outstretched hand, I’d face the post-golfing patrons and the business men who came directly from work. Their wives would show up later, ostensibly having gotten supper for their kids and greeted the babysitter.

In this twilight before the swagger of drunkenness set in, I felt / didn’t feel their appraisal of me. Head to toe. Asking me how my day had been. Saying things to me and to each other — with a wink — that I couldn’t grok. And being so very polite in that southern-kill-you-with-kindness way.

When I turned my back to fetch their order, there’d be a few seconds of silence behind me. Then a murmur, an exchange, and some laughter from the group. They were using their imaginations — I imagine — for something besides coming up with a fun drink order: Grasshopper, Singapore Sling, Harvey Wallbanger. It was six scotches on the rocks every time.

Later, at my next job, I was glad to have a physical obstacle — a wooden bar two feet wide — between myself and those men.