Hot Night at Boom Boom's Neptune

"Excuse me, I'm hoping to speak with Julia, the manager," he said and mounted the stool with a deep exhale. He put a legal pad, folder, keys, and plump wallet on the bar. His well brand cologne throttled me.

"Well, your dream just came true," I said. "What will we speak about?"

"I'm an adjuster from Danville & Lowe Insurance. Sid Ripley." Sweat pasted his blue Oxford shirt to his skin, and he held out a damp hand. I shook it, grabbed a towel, and feigned wiping the bar. Disgusting.

"Still Julia."

"Right." He eyeballed the liquor bottles on the shelf and lusted for the beers on tap. Day drinker. You could hear his drool dripping onto the bar before he even looked at a menu. After 23 years as a waitress and bartender at Boom Boom's Neptune, I was a pro at spotting cretins who escaped sunny days by slithering into bars.

"Have to fill out claim paperwork for an accident that happened here, maybe snap a photo or two."

"Sounds exciting." I counted the change in the register before the second shift. "Can I get you anything in the meantime, Sid Ripley?"

"What's good?"

"You've got another twenty minutes to get a frosty schooner of beer for only a buck-fifty. Kitchen's always open."

"I'll try a schooner, thanks." He turned and surveyed the restaurant and bar. "Guess it's a ghost town when the college slows down after the spring semester."

"A bit, sure," I said. "Some kids stay for the summer session. Most go home for Christmas break too. The international ones usually stick around. There are also students who decide to give living here a whirl after graduating. I did."

"Yeah? Where are you from?"

"Cleveland."

"Why'd you stay?"

"I was a fine arts major. Ceramics. I liked the town, the weather was great. State park only 45 minutes away. Beautiful place." The door opened. Billy Gelpi--same thing every day: three dollar's change for the pool table, two gin and tonics, and a twenty-five cent tip. "I began working here as a freshman, and after I graduated, I swept my nickels and dimes into a pile and opened a studio a couple of blocks from here." I gave him one of my business cards. "Julia Bates Studio. Ceramic Art, Gifts & Lessons." "The phone number changed, so I wrote the new one on the back."

"Ok." He took the card, turned it over, and put it next to his beer. The frost from the glass slid down and melted on the bar, and my handwriting blurred as the card soaked up the water. He looked at the electric eagle beer clock and asked, "Am I too late for another dollar-fifty beer?"

"You've got less than ten minutes left, but I'll give you two more on the house for making you suffer through hearing about my studio." I picked up the card, held it like he wiped his ass with it, and tossed it in the trash.

"No, it sounds great. I might have time this afternoon to pass by."

"Sure. Most of the pieces you can fill with beer."

"Right," he said and shifted on the stool.

"I don't expect anyone in here to appreciate the studio. Maybe if I sold fried pickles or put peanuts out, I'd see more traffic. I'm not much of a marketer. So what's the accident?"

He opened the folder and took out a form. "Let's see. Student eighteen, boy, eating here with a few friends. Picked up his tray of food and walked back to their table. He said the bottom of the tray felt greasy and he wiped his hands off." He nodded at a short stack of trays at the end of the bar. "Are those the trays?"

"Boy, you're good. Those are the trays."

"Lunch trays?"

"Owner says it adds flavor to the place. Gives it a homey vibe. Truth is she got a couple of boxes of them for free when they shut down Danbury High."

He drained the glass, and I took another one out of the freezer. He watched it like a dog admiring a piece of bacon. "At some point the student touched his face, wiped his eyes."

"I'm really sorry he got his face dirty. Will we have to go to court?"

"Ha. I don't see why. Anyway, his eyes began burning, quite severe actually. He had to go to the hospital."

"Oh, you mean Sgt. Pepper. I was here that night. Shit, I can tell you all about it."

"Please. That would be a help."

"First, another one, on me. And a shot to make a memory out of it, also on me." I poured another, and the tap started to cough and spit foam on my hand. I placed it on a napkin, grabbed a shot glass and a bottle of bourbon, the good shit. His eyes were as big as his fat ass. "When I started here, I was nineteen. Smart. Cute, believe it or not. I was friendly, honest, hardworking. Even optimistic that I could put a dent in the world."

After going to first base with the schooner, he wiped his mustache and threw back the shot. He drummed on the edge of the bar to the jukebox and tried to stealthily pass a glance over my boobs, which he accomplished with the discretion of a 13 year-old boy. As if--I wouldn't fuck him with someone else's pussy.

"Sounds like you had a lot going on."

"I don't know. Maybe I did. So, where do I go? This place. Why? When it's packed--which it mostly is--it's a profitable gig. I didn't know a soul here. Applied and started the next evening. It's been good to me. The only reason I can be an artist--or be a professional artist--is because of this place here." Kids were starting to come in. Group of three. Another of five. "Did I bust my ass when I first started here. Fucking right I did. And what did I have to deal with? Whistles. Comments about my legs and panty lines showing through my shorts. A jerk putting an arm around my shoulder, a dick drawn on a receipt."

I took the bourbon off the shelf and gave him another belt. "Thank you. You're too good to me," he cooed. I stared at him.

It felt good to say it all. It felt great. I'd rather not let some steam off with Sid Ripley, but I guess you can't have it all. "During my first year, there was this one kid, Gary King. All I have to do is say his name, and I can see that ugly, round, freckled face like he's right in front of me. He teased me and did everything he could to embarrass me--call me baby or kitty, holler my name across the dining room, whisper comments about my body. He pulled out all the stops an asshole would. Loosen the tops of the salt and pepper shakers so it gushed out when the next person went to shake one, crush the crackers into dust while his retarded friends grunted in delight. He was relentless."

"Sounds like a terrible person," he said. Any tone of empathy in his voice was drowned in alcohol, and instead of person, he managed "pershon."

"You know, Sid Ripley, I agree. One night, Gary King and his clan of trolls came in to eat. We were packed to the gills. I had to turn sideways to walk through the crowd with a tray of drinks--never dropped one by the way."

"Of coursh."

"When I passed by his table, one of them slapped my ass. They laughed and whooped, and two of them patted King on the shoulders in congratulation. He beamed and raised a glass to clink theirs in celebration. I, on the other hand, was mortified. I went to the staff restroom and cried."

The last shot got him. He was mesmerized by my voice and stared at my lips. "I dried my eyes while avoiding the mirror and finished the shift. When I got home, I began to stew. Out of my hatred for him arose a towering regret: I didn't tell him to fuck off, punch him--stand up for myself. And you know what? It's eaten me up. If I could go back and handle myself differently, fight back or put him in his place, I would. You bet your dumb-looking watch I would. But guess what, Sid Ripley, I can't.

"What I could do, and did, was vow that if I saw that motherfucker, I'd do or say something that he deserved to get or hear. I don't know if I'll ever get that chance. I doubt it. But I did get a chance of sorts when lil' Sgt. Pepper came in recently. When I saw that ugly round face, I knew. He looked just like him, a dumb, doughy freshman like his father. I checked the credit card he started a tab with. Sure enough. King.

"I was hot as a pistol. Turbo. I walked by to take a good look before considering a course of action. Right when I passed, the little asshole farted. I had to restrain myself from cutting his head off with a steak knife.

"While he waited for his order, I prepped a tray. Come on, Sid. Field trip." I walked through the swinging stainless steel door to the kitchen, he followed like a puppy. I took a lunch tray from the dish-pit and wiped the water off. I showed Sid like it was a prop in a magic trick. Then, I ripped off a couple of paper towels.

"So I took that bottle of olive oil and poured some on the paper towels, much like this." I did. "Then I smeared it under the tray on the sides where you would hold it. My next step was to take this bottle of cayenne pepper and sprinkle it on the oil." He stared at my hands while I did. "The pepper would stick to it, and his first instinct would be to wipe it off, not wash his hands.

"He did, and the rest is history." Sid raised his eyebrows, wise enough to keep his mouth shut. I held the tray out to Sid, and he took it. "Go throw that back on that sink of dirty dishes for me, Sid Ripley, and next one's on me."