The Cleanup

In my three years as a non-trained bartender, I had never seen so many people in the club. Sure, in comparison to nightclubs in the states this was a rather small one but for Ponce it was the nightclub. It was a gynecologist’s daughter’s birthday party. Why must I mention the woman’s profession? You see, women in Puerto Rico are most likely to choose a female gyno. So, once you learn the bitch sees and touches vaginas on the daily, you know she’s got the moolah.

Bryan, Brian and I (notice the different spelling, two different guys) did everything we could to keep the pussy princess happy. Hell, when I noticed she had too many whisky sours in her, I offered to take her to the ladies room. Out of what she claimed was embarrassment, she refused and barfed all over the carpeted section of the dance floor. My boss was about to leave and asked me to clean it up. We only had a toilet bowl brush and there I was in a short, cheap and skimpy dress on my knees scrubbing what smelled like onions mixed with cheap liquor– with a fucking toilet brush.

Pussy Princess tried to apologize by drunkenly knocking down her birthday cake. The Chinatown-purchased Eiffel tower used as a cake topper hit me on the head and I asked myself why people think alcohol and sugar are a good mix. Brian gave me one of the club’s shirts I was supposed to wear to tie around my waist. Apparently, too many comments regarding my wannabe Victoria’s Secret Walmart panties were being heard at the bar.

As I scrubbed, Bryan approached me with the woman’s check.

“You do it. I can’t tell her it’s $3,525 with a straight face.”

“Holy shit. That’s more than $500 for each of us.”

He smiled. “I know. I’ll finally be able to pay rent on time.”

“Here,” I handed him the brush, “not much left.”

I walked the doctor to the cash register with the check in hand.  It was already 2AM and I wanted to go home.

“I’m sorry you had to cut the night short but at least she had fun. Keep her hydrated.” I pretended I cared.

She smiled and nodded while handing me her black, shiny Visa.

“Your total is…” I felt every word slowly roll off my tongue. “…Three thousand, five-hundred, twenty-five dollars.” She nodded again.

I swiped the card and handed her the only pen we had along with the receipt. People had begun to leave. The birthday girl was surrounded by just a few friends. I gave her a bottle of water.

“On the house.”

“Thanks. Let’s go, Camilla,” said her mom while dropping the pen on the floor. I turned around.

“No worries. I got it.”

They walked out as I grabbed the receipt. Bryan looked up and Brian sneaked his head out from the bathroom door. I locked the doors and Brian turned the lights on. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Three zeros,” I froze.

“What?” Brian walked towards me, mop still in hand.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Bryan snatched the receipt from my hands. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. “Well, Daisy’s going to have to pay us the minimum for tonight.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Brian replied.

I continued to clean the huge mess the cunt queens made. The anger that filled the room was interrupted by the DJ asking for his money as he plugged out his system. I totally forgot he was still there.

“It’s two fifty for three hours.”

“Yeah, I know.” I took his money out of the register and a knock was heard at the door. It was Daisy.

Bryan let her in while telling her we had to talk. With a confused look on her face, she smiled at the DJ as he was leaving. Bryan locked the door.

“The bitch stiffed us. By law, you have to pay us minimum wage tonight.”

“Um, it’s not my fault Ana didn’t tip you.”

“Ana? You guys are friends?”

“She’s my doctor.”

I wanted no part in the discussion and kept myself busy. I noticed balloons needed to be popped and took the Eiffel tower statue from the middle of the dance floor. The pops allowed me to drain out the argument between Daisy and the Bry/ians.

“How do you figure…” Pop!

“I’m not responsible for…” Pop!

“We busted out asses…” Pop!

“What about you?” Daisy shouted across the dance floor. I knew she was talking to me.

I thought about what she asked. What about me? What about me? Three years had passed and I was still working in that shitty nightclub. I stopped and looked at the cake topper. It still had frosting on it.

“I quit. I’m going to Paris.”