So I Named Her "New Year's Eve"

The old joke goes like this:

Two doctors are sitting at a bar, talking shop.

"So, why proctology, for God's sake?" One asks.

"I know, I know." The other answers, holding up a hand with his thumb and forefinger just an inch or so apart. "I was this close to being a gynecologist."

That gag fits for bartenders, too. If you're going to work with wildlife, why not be a zoologist? The medical and travel benefits are better. Still, having hung my shingle as a drink-slinger, I've had the opportunity to observe many an interesting creature prowling the watering holes where I've stood post. And where the imbibing social animal's concerned, it's less about wandering in for simple sustenance than it is sniffing around for some excitement.

Consider my encounter with a half-dead kitty I'll call "Eve," who curled up to my bar on a New Year's Day some years ago to lick some self-inflicted wounds.

"May I have two double Bloody Marys, please?" She appeared out of nowhere, smiled and ordered ever so sweetly, still gorgeous in smeared makeup and last night's party dress.

"Want to see a menu, too, Sunshine?" I asked her, thinking she probably needed a little something in her stomach.

"Don't think I could eat, Sweetie," she confessed.

"So, you want two doubles?" I double-checked.

"Yep. Boyfriend's in the bathroom," Eve explained. I made the drinks and she downed them both before boyfriend showed up.

"Sorry," Eve apologized either to him or me or both of us. "May we have two more, please?"

"We're dead-ass hung-over, dude," Boyfriend barely had the breath to explain. "Haven't slept yet."

"Been there," I offered some obligatory sympathy. I served them a total of six drinks. Eve drank four and rallied. Boyfriend faded.

"I'll be in the car," were the last words I heard from him.

"So, how was your New Year's Eve?" Eve, suddenly all by her lonesome, flirted in conversation.

"New Year's Eve's always a crazy late night for me, Sunshine," I bandied back. "Sadly, the party's over by the time I punch out."

"Poor Sweetie," she slurred just a little. I made a few rounds of the other barstools, then she called me back over.

"Got any book matches, Babe?" She asked me, sounding downright affectionate.

"I've got a light." I shot back, reaching for my lighter.

"I need book matches," she persisted. Assuming she wanted them to take with her, I found some. She asked for the tab as I handed them to her. I was working the other side of the bar when I heard her call me again.

"Hey Sweetie, Happy New Year!"

I spun around to see her standing arms-raised behind her barstool: a bare-breasted vision alight with two paper matches she'd wedged wishbone-style onto her nipples, beautiful smile twinkling, waving me a wondrous goodbye. It was a topless dancer's trick I'd witnessed once before, and an encore performance which dimmed the face of its first perfomer forever from my mind.

She was my once-in-a-lifetime New Year's "Eve." And among the many extraordinary creatures I've encountered in the wild world of bar and restaurant work, she burns brightly in my memory.