She never should have mentioned the blow job, I’m thinking as I feign interest in the bartender’s love life. Her nervous banter continues. This cop she’s met–“the kind of man you want to give a blow job”–should be here any minute. It’s after midnight; his workday just ended. The bartender can’t stop moving. As she leans over the bar to talk to me, her fingers peck around in a basket of popcorn, her jaw snaps up and down vigorously while she chews kernels, her eyes periodically shift to the front door. She exudes a familiar anxiety, and for a brief moment I feel something for her. I too have experienced that queasy excitement of anticipating a new lover’s arrival. I raise my eyebrows, smile gently, and make eye contact with this stranger in an attempt to show empathy. It’s the only honest part of our exchange.
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The guy who hired me must have been right when he said that I don’t look like a spotter. This makes me a prime candidate to be a spotter, which is actually a euphemism for spy. Spotters, he believes, look like retired cops. Whatever stereotypical image he may hold about cops–some of whom may very well be five-two, 105 pounds–it’s indisputable that I’m 40 years younger than a retiree and don’t possess a law-and-order disposition. Nonetheless, now that we’re out on a training session, I feel like both a spy and a cop–not one bit like the nonfiction writer who he promised in his help-wanted ad would earn $8 an hour.
As a spotter, I’m supposed to monitor the employees’ business and personal transactions. The litany of things I’m supposed to report on ranges from the general to the specific, the obvious to the nitpicky. I am guided by a 99-item checklist that includes the employees’ accessibility and personality and whether or not they overpour liquor, charge customers correctly, garnish drinks properly, set out coasters or napkins, thank customers, count back change, or steal from the register.
“In a beauty parlor,” she says. “He walked in.” And then she confides, “I could have screwed him right there.” She’s unaware that her answer fills me with conflicted excitement. Part of me is eager to see how far she’ll go, how much more she’ll incriminate herself. I pride myself on catching each faux pas. It means I’m observant; it means I’m cunning; it means I can act; it means I am doing a good job. But part of me is sickened that I’ve gained her trust under false pretenses. As a customer I would be happy with her attentive service and appreciative of the free drink. I would consider her a capable bartender, maybe even a good one. But I’m not a customer tonight, I’m a spotter, a spy, a cop, a liar by omission. If I don’t catch her slipups, I’m slipping up.
My boss and I finish our drinks. The bartender has not yet barfed. The man has not yet shown up. We agree to leave. I forget to check the time. I forget to check if the bar area is clean. I forget to take a mental photo of what the bartender is doing as we exit. I’m drunk and I just want to go to sleep. Outside, I joke with my boss about adding to the checklist, “Does bartender talk about blow jobs?” He asks if I noticed when she gave away pitchers of beer and rounds of drinks to other customers. I didn’t. He asks if I noticed when she repeatedly overcharged rounds by 50 cents. I didn’t. For the second time tonight I feel something for her. We both blew it.
