Just to give you some idea of the type of classy ladies I work with, “Alison” came into the club on her day off last week.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was in the neighborhood and I heard the A/C was fixed so I came in to cool off my hot twat.” Ah, sweet little demure lady-like Alison, laying in the booth, legs spread and fanning her inner thighs.
She was right. The A/C had been fixed just that day after a week of it spitting out luke-warm air and making the job even less tolerable than it already is. The room feels like an oasis of cool against the hot muggy streets of Manhattan. I was thankful that I had only had to work sans air conditioning for one shift. Today was going to be a good day now that the thermostat said 68º instead of “fuck you.”
I begin to set up the room and for the first time in a week, I don’t resent lighting candles and making every single table just a teeny tiny bit warmer. The show is a busy one. It’s going to be a packed house and with 80+ people in the room, the A/C was going to get a big fat welcome gang bang.
About thirty minutes before show time, the people start pouring into their seats and ordering their drinks. I breeze through all my tables as happy as a pig in mud because the air is cool and today was a good day to forget to put on deodorant. Not that it matters; I use that stupid crystal rock that is basically just giving sweat and body odor an engraved invitation to party in my pits. The show starts and I notice that the temperature in the room is warmer than I’d like. The thermostat now says 73º but I figure it’s due to all the bodies we have crammed into the space. Ten minutes later, the thermostat says 76º and I know we have a problem.
“Did anyone adjust the A/C? It’s hot as balls in there,” I tell the bartender.
“I think it shut down again. We just had it fixed today but it still seems fucked.”
I grab my tray of drinks and head back into the sauna. No less than three people call me to their table to alert me that they are hot. I wonder if they can see the sweat soaking through my uniform or if the dim lighting and dark shirt have concealed it for me. “Yes, we are having some air conditioning issues,” I whisper. “We are working on it.” By “working on it,” I mean that I have poured myself a glass of ice water and have decided to stay in the sidestand where it’s much cooler. I roll up my sleeves and prepare to step into the room with a dirty vodka martini that was going as far away as possible. By now, my forehead is wet with perspiration. I glance at the thermostat where it says 82º. By the time I get to the other side of the room, the martini glass is sweating more than I am. I feel a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead and onto my nose where it lingers for a brief second. As I am lifting the drink off the tray, the sweat drop decides to end it all by taking a nosedive into the pool of vodka and vermouth. Without missing a beat, I place the drink on the table. “Here you are sir, one martini, extra dirty, just like you asked for.” Yeah, it was dirty, alright. Dirty with the blood, sweat and tears of the bitchy waiter who’s twat is hotter than a cat in heat.
The rest of the night consists of Mr. and Mrs. Obvious telling me it’s warm. Finally, the show ends and we can begin to get the people out of there and try to bring the temperature down a few thousand degrees before the next show starts. We bring fans up from the basement because nothing says sophisticated night club more than plastic oscillating fans sitting at tables. The next performer goes up to the stage to start her sound check. “It’s hot,” she says. I walk past her carrying a fan and choose to ignore the comment in much the same way she chose to ignore good taste when she chose her ensemble that evening. The second show’s audience doesn’t merit two servers and I play the seniority card and ask to leave. The seniority card was damp from sitting in my pocket all night but I played that sweaty bitch nonetheless.
Twenty minutes later, I am sitting in the lobby, shirt unbuttoned and sipping my white wine. I stay until I finish my obligatory shift drink. As hot as it is in this place, I am not turning down free booze.
Like Alison before me, I have my legs splayed in a futile attempt to cool off my hot twat. The wine helps. All I need’s an air conditioner.