Seeing Stars

by A. Sanchez

  I went back in there that night with a scowl on my face. Orlando was apologetic and confided he had fired the waitress who had stolen. That made me feel vindicated, but it shouldn't have happened at all, so I was still in a bad mood. I went through the motions, but I was wary and stayed to myself. I helped Orlando bring some kegs to the bar and wondered why his lumberjack friend wasn't helping him with it, but I said nothing.

  I was making good money again. The men just preferred to be left alone when they drank and did not require trashy women for company, because they didn't really want to talk, just get shitfaced. I wondered how bad their lives were to warrant such self-induced forgetfulness. Another man came in later that night. I use that term loosely. Thin and delicate, John was a flaming fag who fluttered everywhere he went, smacking his lips to make sure his gloss was still there. What was stranger, he looked like he worked here. Orlando's introduction confirmed that.

  God, he was fluttering his eyelashes at me and swear to God, he was wearing eyeliner. I stood a good foot and a half taller than him, just staring down, taking in the longish hair, the tight-fitting clothes, the gold chains around his neck. I had no words. I looked to Orlando. Maybe he could explain why he had hired the guy.

  “John is going to be our buss boy.”

  Really? Wearing all that jewelry and pants so tight he couldn't move, that was the buss boy? “Good luck,” I said, then went back to work. As expected, the men were cat-calling him and trying to pinch his ass. He was disruptive and so damned flirty he was going to get himself in a jam or cause a fight. I lost all respect for Orlando. First, he hires a militant plumber, then he hires this delicate flower, someone is stealing from him, and he set up his bar in the worst part of town. By comparison, my decisions weren't that bad, after all.

  I tipped John at the end of the night like everyone else and ripped my hand back when he tried to hold it, but I felt tonight had gone better. No sign of the thug, at least. I wondered if Orlando had fired him.

  A week later, and I was in the groove of things. I knew everyone's names, ignored John and his boyfriend Felipe who came in to guard his piece of ass, like he ever could weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet. Best of all, I hadn't seen the plumber once. I was sure he had been fired. I held my mouth open beneath the box of cheap wine in the kitchen, flipped the tap and drank a mouth full. I worked easier with drunks when I wasn't totally sober, I realized. I had paid Cynthia back and was now working on my fines.

  But it all kind of came crashing down one day when my mouth was poised beneath the wine box, ready to take a sip, and it got all over my face. I sputtered and wiped my eyes, my nose burning, and it was none other than that fucking lumberjack holding the box. The shithead purposely poured wine in my face! I was so damned enraged I was looking around the kitchen for something to stab him with. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, my shirt soaked.

  “Not a drug addict. Drunk, maybe?” He looked so smug I wanted to start swinging then and there.

  “Take a look out there if you want to see a drunk. Every damned one of them way past the legal limit. But you don't care about that, you just want to lash out at me. Good luck finding another job when this place gets closed down by the government.” I turned to march myself out.

  “Wait. Are they not being cut off?” he asked skeptically. He took a step forward and so did I. No way was I backing down from him.

  “Fuck no, they're not! I have to drink just to put up with them!” I said, waving an arm to the box.

  “This is serious. I'll speak to Orlando.” He nodded and went right out there and told him. I watched from the kitchen door. I couldn't believe it. He'd... believed me! Oh, look at me, pleased to be earning the respect of a thug! Let me go out right now and have a gang sign tattooed across my knuckles! What did I care if he believed me or not?

  After that night, Glen the Plumber changed. When he saw me nipping the cheap wine, he just passed me with a laugh. He didn't seem to be plumbing anymore, but he still hung around in his plaid shirts and blonde hair trimmed severely like he was in the military. He sat sometimes and talked with the customers and there were no more incidences of theft or severe drunkenness. It made things easier.

  At the end of the night, I sat at the bar having a beer and talking with a customer who was lucid enough to discuss his truck driving route. Glen appeared beside me and plopped down a plate of chicken wings. Orlando brought him a beer. I shut up immediately. I didn't want Glen involved in my conversation or my life. That he was quiet was enough for me.

  “Have some,” he offered. And he smiled.

  “I have to get back to my cleaning,” I said, getting up from the stool. Why did he smile at me?

  “Dont worry about that. Let John do it.” He still smiled.

  I didn't like John, but he shouldn't have to clean up my mess. I still tried to extricate myself from Glen and his wings.

  “Sit. I want to ask you something,” he insisted, almost pulling me back down onto my stool. “Orlando said you used to work as an apartment manager and you worked in accounting, too. Is that right?” He looked at me like he expected me to lie to him, which pissed me off. He ate a wing.

  “Yes, I did. You think I lied on my resume?” I could feel my cheeks heating. What a bastard.

  “No, I don't think that. I just want to know why an intelligent man wants to work in a place like this. You gotta admit, it doesn't make sense.” His blue eyes darted over my face, looking for signs of truth or lies. He was the most distrustful man I'd ever seen. And unfortunately, the most handsome. And I hated him. I looked away.

  “I quit my last job without having another lined up. I took the money and blew it in Europe. I wanted to just... feel free for a little while,” I admitted, but I didn't know why I had. I think I felt sorry for anyone who could not trust at all, so I opened up a little, in spite of myself.

  He nodded and took a long drink of beer. “I wanted that too, but I have a lot of responsibilities. I doubt I'll ever be free of them.”

  I wondered how much responsibility plumbing required. “I'm sure Orlando would give you some time off. I mean, you're an insufferable asshole, but he hasn't fired you.”

  He cut his eyes at me and said, “I should have fired you the first time you ran your mouth off at me.”

  I sat there confused. Did I hear him right? “What?”

  He laughed. Cackled. Whatever. It was loud, and he found it hilarious. “This is my bar, you foul-mouthed shit! Orlando's the manager.”

  Oh.

  “Instead, I got banished from my own damned place so I didn't get in a fight ending with you cursing a blue streak and running off again.”

  Chapter 3

  I had run him off? “Why didn't you fire me?” I asked, really bewildered. Downright baffled. “When I quit, why did you allow me to come back?”

  Glen smiled shyly. He didn't look arrogant anymore. He looked afraid. “I spent all night looking through those tickets. I wanted to prove you guilty so badly. But you weren't. I asked Orlando to get you back.” He looked sheepish. “I'm sorry I accused you.”

  He had looked through the tickets. Not Orlando. Interesting.

  “But you and I don't get along at all. Wouldn't it have been easier to just let me go?” That's what I would have done, anyway. Damned if I'd spend every day with someone I hated.

  “I don't think it matters if we like each other, do you? I stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. But look—I learned something that night.”

  I was curious what this epiphany could be, so I asked him to elaborate.

  “You're the only person I know I can trust in here. That's why I asked you about your past jobs.”

  “But you thought I was lying about them!” I exclaimed, so enraged it gave me an appetite. I gave in and stole one of his wings.

  “Was not!” He looked around. People were looking at us—Orlando looked pissed to see me cozy with the owner. Others were just curious. “I need your help,” he said quietly.


  I sat back and licked my fingers. “No you don't. If anyone's proven that, it's you.” He could find an accountant any day of the week if he thought his books were off.

  “Marshall—pax, please. I have my reasons. Would you meet me tomorrow afternoon at the pizzeria?”

  I was tempted for all of five seconds. “No. I'm working tomorrow afternoon here.” So there.

  “No you're not. I gave you the afternoon off.”

  Damn it, he was so freaking smug! I didn't want to laugh at his audacity, but I did anyway. He clinked his glass of beer to mine, and smiled. “Tomorrow at noon. Go home. I'll make John clear up. God knows he doesn't do much besides wiggle his ass.”

  As I was driving home, I thought about our conversation. Was Glen really as horrible as I'd thought, or was he just worried about his business and the thieving lowlifes he had working for him? He was handsome. I had to admit that, but I still didn't like him. He was aggressive and demanding. I briefly imagined what he'd be like in bed. On your knees. Suck my cock or I'll fire you. That would be a goddamned disaster. I laughed at the thought, then turned the radio up. We'd kill each other mid-coitus.

  I met Glen the next day at the pizzeria. I didn't have much to say, didn't ask how he was doing, nothing. I just sat down and tried to avoid eye contact. We ordered a pizza after way more back and forth arguing than it needed. We had not one thing in common, not even a topping. It would have been funny if it were happening to someone else.

  As we waited for our plain cheese pizza to arrive, we sipped our sodas until we cooled off, then he brought up the reason for our meeting. “I don't trust Orlando.”

  That wasn't even a surprise. Who did he trust? That was the real question. Then, I remembered it was me, and I blushed. “Why not?” I had my reasons, but I wanted his.

  Glen sighed and ran a palm over his short blond hair. “He hired everyone in the place, and things aren't adding up. I think they're a team.” He shoved some papers toward me. “Look that over while we wait. See the beer deliveries? They're off by a couple hundred dollars from the expenses. He's pocketed that, I'm positive.”

  I started looking over everything, and a very clear miscalculation came to light while I read the figures. I didn't even need a calculator. “Everything's screwed up. Bad,” I said with a deep sigh. “But you knew that. What do you want me to do?” I risked a glance into his eyes and I saw he really did trust me. I felt obligated, but I didn't want to be.

  “Find out who is involved and how they make the register add up every night. I know my earnings are short because of beer and food delivery costs, but the register print out is not a penny off, and it matches the receipts.”

  He wanted me to spy for him. I frowned and passed the papers back to him. “You've got like ten waitresses. I don't know how I'm supposed to do that and wait tables, too.” If I invested all my energy in this, I would be broke, doing nothing but following everyone around, and they would know it.

  “How much do you make a night? And don't lie.”

  Why the hell did he think I went around doing nothing but lying? He didn't respect me in the least. What a jerk! “Usually two hundred. One fifty on the slower days. Never gotten less than a hundred on any day.” I met his eyes and dared him to accuse me again.

  “Who are you fucking to get that much money?” he asked with a grunt. His eyes were smiling, but I felt like he was making fun of me.

  “Now I'm a prostitute? Damn, Glen. What debauched planet did you fall off of?” I sat back and thought about walking out. I didn't need this shit.

  “I could ask you what fluffy cloud you've been living on, that you think everyone is honest and their motives are so pure. I mean, look at John! He's in there selling himself.”

  “How do you know?” I asked slyly. I wanted to get back at him a little for his accusation.

  “Felipe told me,” Glen said casually, waving it away as the waitress refilled our glasses. When she'd gone back to watching daytime soaps, he said, “I didn't know there was any market for his...skills...in there. They're all truckers or married drunks or something. Hell if I know what the allure is.” He sighed and looked down at his paper place mat of Italy.

  “The allure to men in general or to John specifically?” I asked simply. I was curious what he thought about people like me.

  “Both? I mean, I can kind of tell if a man is handsome, but that's where my understanding ends. John's...eew.” His nose crinkled with distaste.

  We found something we both agreed on. “Right? I'd never fuck a guy like that,” I said with a laugh. When I took a sip of my soda, Glen was staring at me. “What?” Shit. I'd gotten too comfortable.

  “Are you.. are you gay?” He looked shocked. I don't give myself away by my clothes and demeanor, so I guessed it was a shock. I noticed he was not disgusted, though. No nose scrunching.

  I nodded. “You going to fire me again?”

  He smiled. “No, I was going to ask you if that man over there is actually handsome or not. I couldn't tell.”

  I looked to where he pointed and then turned back quickly and shook my head. “Eew, what is wrong with you, Glen?” I laughed harder than I had for a long time. I think he did, too.

  By the end of lunch, we were much more comfortable with each other, and Glen agreed to pay my tips while I spied. I told him I'd be found out soon enough, but his response was, “then find out quickly.”

  I was sly. Oh, I was so damned sneaky I should have gotten an award. I was aloof and inconspicuous. The problem was Glen. He was terrible at espionage. He insisted on having a beer with me every night at the bar. Everyone could tell he preferred my company, and I was an outsider, not part of Orlando's crew. Orlando hadn't really wanted to hire me, but did it as a favor to Cynthia's friend. He'd always planned to fire me, I realized, because I would be the only person working there not in on the plan. A liability. He'd thought to keep me on a few days maybe, then say oh well, it didn't work out, and be done with me. But now I was closer with Glen, Orlando's hands were tied. They even tried to sabotage me, fucking up my orders in the kitchen or pouring me the wrong beer, trying to make me quit and telling Glen every tiny thing I did wrong. He took up for me, which made it more obvious. Glen forbade me from cleaning up afterward, simply leaving my dirty tables behind for an angry John to deal with. I'd told Glen it was too much, but he didn't care. He said it didn't matter what they thought, because as soon as he got his proof, he was firing them all, and it was his bar. I did my best, but so far couldn't figure out how they were stealing.

  I came in on my night off as requested, so I could do some more spying. I didn't mind, now the company had improved. “What about that one?” Glen asked. It had become a sort of game between us.

  I shook my head and cut my eyes at him. “You're doing that on purpose. Tell me one attractive thing about him. Really, I want to hear it,” I said, taking a hold of his brawny arm and gently shaking it to get him to see sense. I ignored Orlando's stare. The register and Glen were my only concerns.

  “His eyes look nice,” Glen said.

  I groaned and said, “I don't think you're thinking these men through. Yes, his eyes are okay, but his build isn't. His face isn't. I'm sure he's very nice, but... tell me the truth, would you want to be naked with him in bed?”

  Glen twisted in his bar stool toward me like he'd seen a ghost. “God, no!” he exclaimed, like I was forcing him to do it. “I mean, I never thought about being in bed with men. When I ask you if they're handsome, I'm not thinking further than their faces!” He was blushing so furiously, I took pity.

  “Why do you look? What is the point, if they're attractive or not? What will knowing that achieve?” I chewed on a sprig of celery covered in ranch and waited. I think I confused him. He sat there thinking so long I thought he'd broken his brain. Meanwhile, I watched the register.

  “It might relieve my mind? I don't know. About a year ago, I saw this guy and it was weird. He just made me think of all kinds of shit, none of it repeatable.
It was insane. I'd never thought like that before, and so after that, I started looking at guys. I wanted to know if I'd have the same reaction again, because then it might mean I was...like you.”

  I stared at him. Gape-mouth stared. This was not a game to him. He was confused and struggling. “If it's never happened again after a year, then I don't think you need to worry,” I said, going back to staring down the register. I was seeing something, but not seeing it, and it bothered me. I cared about Glen's dilemma, but I was so close to cracking the theft, too.

  “It did, once,” Glen said quietly, crashing my concentration. I was still turned away from him, spying.

  “It happened a second time?” I was hardly listening, because I was witnessing the theft, right now, right in front of my eyes and I understood at last.

  “With you.”

  I caught them! Fuck me, I caught the bastards! “Huh?” Wait. What had he just said?

  “I said, I felt it with you.”

  The smile dropped from my face and I spun around on my stool. Glen's legs were spread casually, and when I turned the stool so quickly, I sort of knocked into one of them and the stool stopped spinning, propelling me into his lap. My arms wrapped around his waist, and my face was in his groin. Of all the bad timing and bad ways to fall off a stool, mine was the most spectacular. I righted myself immediately, but Glen was terrified. I'd never seen him go so pale. “I fell,” I told him, but he was so panicked, probably scared of his own feelings which he'd only just now so bravely told me, I shouldn't have been surprised that as soon as I stood, he ran out through the kitchen. I stood there looking around. John was mouthing the word bitch at me. Orlando looked smug, as if I'd made a move and been rejected. I didn't care what anyone thought. I ran after Glen.