46th & 7th

"Now look down there, doll. See it?"
"I don't, no."
He tried to squint out the lights of the city, narrowing his tunnel of vision, hopefully, on Sardi's.
"You can't miss it-- it's got a huge awning-- maroon-- says 'Sardi's'. There's gonna be a line outside."
She was used to being his eyes when his glasses and outfit didn't go together.
"I thought you said you'd been before..." she wondered aloud.
"Yeah, once, a few years back. Look, Johnny said he'd step outside and look for us at 6:30-- we're late."
"You're sure it's on 7th? Should I ask someone?"
"Yes, I'm sure. And no, anyone that would know where it is would already be there." He furrowed his brow, squinting his eyes tighter, as if trying harder at something ineffectual might bear results.
"How do you think we'll fit in?"
"We won't if we don't find the damn place."
A mere 10 feet had been traversed in the past five minutes-- a painfully slow tread that closely resembles the pace of this narrative.
"I'll just ask somebody," she decided, aloud. "Excuse me, sir!"
He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back. "We're not asking anybody for directions, got it?"
"But Rupert, it feels like we're not going anywhere. We're going to miss dinner!"
"You know what feels like it isn't going anywhere? Us. We're done, bitch. Get fucked."
He didn't even look back once. 

Fake Friends

"It isn't hard, after a little while, to forget who you are.
"You stand there, and you make leading questions and comments to make it seem like you're actually genuinely interested in, like, house music or something, just to keep the person talking... and they always do-- they want to talk. And it's your job to listen. But not too much. When you listen too much, they get too comfortable, and when they get too comfortable, they don't tip. They start to feel kin to you, like 'why would I tip my good friend, whom I see every day?' or 'We're friends; he'll understand.' Sometimes it's necessary to walk away and clean tables or rinse glasses to re-establish your position as Friendly Bartender, not Friend Who is a Bartender. 
"But that line can be hard to draw.
"It's a game, see?, between you and the customer: every day requires a move to keep them in that comfort zone between feeling awkwardly isolated and feeling too at-home. If you slip up just once it can, potentially, for certain customers, change the whole dynamic- you can be having an off day and act short, and the brevity of your interaction can leave them offended. Or maybe you've accidentally stepped on the other side of the scale and suddenly, briefly, you're the one who's too comfortable. And maybe you make some off-colored joke that isn't taken in jest, or you, I don't know, tell them about your bizarre shitting schedule or infrequent showering habits.  Something ridiculous, trivial-like.
"Once that figurative ice is broken, that fake friendship will probably drown in that cold, cold water, kind of the opposite of the traditional “ice-breaking.” And it could take months to revive. It's like that old adage about trust, and how it can take a lifetime to earn and a moment to lose.
“But that’s a bunch of bullshit, really. What’s really tragic is the customer you want to get to know, but can’t. I mean, what respectable woman thinks, ‘Hey, this dude keeps giving me free shots and strong drinks, I should really give him the time of day!’ Yeah, exactly. Or like, ‘He works at a bar, how ambitious!’ Nah, the girls attracted to the image are the ones to ignore. Or embrace, then ignore.
“…Until you find the one. Yeah, your old Grandad might have called her a hussy in his day, and maybe she has a penchant for drinking too much, but you’re damn sure she has a heart of gold. Why else would she have the same tattoo as you, and pony up to the bar and order your drink?
“Just when she has your full attention, the elephant in the room rears it’s big, ugly, vegetarian head, because guess what? You can’t talk to her. Y’know why? Because the more genuine you try to act, the more fulla shit you seem. And don’t think you’re the first guy to see that fuckin’ glint in her eye, the one you pretend only looks so goddamn beautiful from your angle.
“But what’s a man to do?
"So you throw a curveball, a cheap exercise in reverse psychology. What’s more sincere than casually making a show of throwing back as much Jame-o as you can handle, and still acting unsatisfied. Like maybe throwing in a, ‘this one’s on me, doll,’ before immediately going off to serve someone else, all pissed-off-like, as if you’re having the worst fuckin’ day of your life and only she can straighten things out, but she has to figure that out for herself.
“And the night goes on and, once again, you find a new limit to your capacity for whiskey. And you took your eye off her for a minute, like twenty minutes ago, and next thing you know is you’re turning the house lights on and everyone left looks tremendously fuckin’ hideous.

“So work is finally over and you’re wondering if maybe you’ll see her out at one of the 4 AM bars, and you wonder what that will say about her as a person, and whether or not you’ll really care. I mean, why would you judge her if you don't even judge yourself?

“So you wander down to the Exit and grab a beer. Roy recognizes you but you say you’ll see him around. You search the second floor, don’t see her, then go back downstairs so you don’t miss her coming in. Then to the back of the bar, and back to the front. 

“And the night ends the way it started—avoiding real conversations, faking smiles and making acquaintances that will use you for free drinks next time you’re working. And you’ll do the same to them. And there’s always tomorrow that you’ll see that girl again. But by then you’ll still be, y’know, a fake friend.”

Canadian Tuxedo

That guy had to know he was tipping me in foreign currency, right? I mean, he paid in American dollars and cents, spoke with no accent, and ordered the largest size possible, yet, into the tip jar, he threw two Canadian quarters. Was this some accident? Is he, in fact, Canadian, and I just didn’t realize he was wearing, like, a denim tuxedo? He was friendly… but too friendly? Canadian friendly? Is it only Canadians who are friendly with such abandon as to become notoriously known for it? Why aren’t they all stuck-up and self-righteous? Is it their government? Or is it because of the lack of billboards sprinkled sparsely across the Canadian landscape? Could it be insecurity? Is he embarrassed to be Canadian but has some bizarre urge to express his citizenship or loyalty? And, “nice weather, eh?” Lots of people end their open thoughts like that, right? Eh? That’s not exclusively done by Canucks. Maybe it’s actually underhandedness. Maybe this guy knows that I have very little use for fifty Canadian cents and he wants to rub it in my face. Like, “here’s a parachute,” or, “here’s some anti-diarrheal pills.” Y’know, something that could be needed desperately by a person… other than me.  Or maybe it’s that he thinks my work deserves an extra fifty Canadian cents.