I stash my Tumi under the bar and immediately jump on the line. As usual, I’m working next to Singer-Songwriter, who I’ve never seen sing or song-write in the two months he’s been here. On the other side of him, I’m Not Really a Waitress is making a customer a really strong old-fashioned or a particularly weak manhattan—you never can tell with her since she’s forever getting the glassware wrong. Typically our GM is pretty strict with the mixologists he hires, but I’m Not Really a Waitress has boobs the size of regulation soccer balls, and they’re forever on the verge of toppling right out of the white button-down we wear as part of our uniform. LA fact: cleavage trumps skill-set or reading at grade level when you work for a skeezebag. Jorge, my favorite busser, hustles behind me on the way to deliver food to a group of Eurotrash at the end of the long wooden bar. I give him a slight nod as I start to grab beers for the first order screamed my way.
