In Summer Devon and Bonnie Dee’s collaboration, Serious Play, the bar featured in the story sounds like a party every night. Our heroine, Mary Scott, owns a theme bar called My Parents’ Basement that caters to the child in her clientele. The décor, music and games are reminiscent of casual parties of youth.
Enter the hero, Luke Bailey whose childhood was anything but innocent and wholesome. After five years in prison for a convenience store holdup, Luke just wants to regain a toehold in society and find a job—any job. He ends up working and living at Mary’s bar, where he’s captivated by his vibrant, fun-loving boss.
Sparks fly between this mismatched pair against the backdrop of game-playing, retro formal dances and other activities at Mary’s bar.
My Parents’ Basement sounds like a fun place to hang out, but in real life, anyone who’s worked as a bartender or waitress know that those can be pretty demanding jobs.
Summer says: I lasted about a month as a real waitress in a real restaurant. The sheer energy required to carry those heavy trays, keep track of orders and put up with unpleasant people was almost enough to make me say goodbye. When a couple split without paying and I learned I had to cover their bill, I was done. Then I moved to Boston and got a part-time job in a bar. I lasted three years working as a waitress and occasional bartender. The place was seedy and smelled like smoke and old beer and so did I at the end of the night. It was one of the best jobs I’ve had. I loved the regulars and they kept me safe on the days and very occasional nights I worked alone. Every Thursday night was rugby night and a huge number of students showed up. The place was packed from about seven until closing. Why that bar? Why Thursday? I still have no clue. I only know that for years, the word Thursday would bring back memories of sticky change weighing down my apron and trying to wedge myself and my drink tray through crowds of screeching people. That’s my strongest memory–even after some other sucker had to act as waitress on Thursdays and I got to draw the pitchers and mix drinks.
Bonnie says: I worked as a waitress one summer during college. It wasn’t even at a restaurant but at a local Elk’s club a few nights a week. I was horrible at it. I have no social skills so I sucked at flirting with the middle aged men which was apparently an expected part of the job. Even though the menu was limited, since this was a club and not a restaurant, I couldn’t keep things straight—especially drink orders. I didn’t last the summer in what should’ve been a pretty cushy job with good tips. I “quit” when I learned through the grapevine I was about to be let go.
We’d like to hear about your experiences as a waiter or bartender for those of you who’ve held such a job. If you haven’t, then share a funny, or annoying, story about your experience with wait staff at restaurants. We’d love to hear from you.
Excerpt from Serious Play.
She looked down at the folder in her hands—his life reduced to a handful of facts, all of them bad—and he was certain he’d lost her. Why would she hire him? He wouldn’t if it was his bar. Then she lifted her gaze to meet his and for a second his heart stuttered. Her eyes were beautiful, wide and framed by dark lashes that enhanced the blue.
“I know what’s it’s like to be at a point in your life when no one has faith in you and maybe you’ve lost faith in yourself.” Her voice was kind but not condescending. “I’m not suggesting I know what it feels like to be fresh out of prison, but I’ve had my own hurdles.”
She gestured at the room around them. “I didn’t come by this easily. I couldn’t get backing. No bank would take my business plan seriously and my family thought I was naive to try such a venture. I got no support from them. But here it is—real at last, and successful.”
Luke looked around at the comfortable mismatched furniture grouped around squares of carpeting on a concrete floor, local band posters on the walls, tables and chairs with shelves of board games placed nearby. The place really did look like somebody’s basement rec room, casual, unpretentious and inviting.
“It seems really nice,” he said. “A good place to unwind.”
Mary smiled again and sunshine flooded the dimly lit bar. “Thank you. How about you start in two days?”
“I really appreciate this opportunity.” He paused, wondering how to bring up the living arrangement. “Ms. Horton said you might be willing to rent me space here. A room…?”
Mary Scott’s face was transparent. He saw the doubt chase across her eyes like clouds over the sun. She was regretting her rash offer of having a convicted felon live in her place of business. But she blinked and smiled. “I did say that. It’s only a spare storeroom but there’s space enough for a single bed and dresser. You can use the microwave and fridge in the bar’s kitchen and clean up in the restroom. I live in the apartment above the bar so I have no better rooms to offer you. I can show the storeroom to you. It’s really small so I don’t know if it will do…”
“I don’t care how small it is, I’d be happy to have it. My year at the halfway house is about up, then I’ll have to find an apartment.” Could he sound more pathetic? He was trash swirling around a storm drain.
A slight frown puckered Mary Scott’s perfectly arched eyebrows. “The room’s yours then. You can move in and start in a couple of days if you want.” She rose and extended her hand, her smooth palm sliding against Luke’s, gave a firm pump then let go. It had been so long since he’d shaken anyone’s hand, let alone a woman’s, that he’d forgotten how good the simple contact felt.
“Thanks again for the job. I really appreciate it.” Luke picked up his jacket and headed for the door, feeling her eyes on him. He wanted to look back at her but waited until he was outside, then glanced sideways through the window.
Mary Scott stood where he’d left her and she was watching him leave, probably regretting her decision. She pushed back her honey-blond-streaked brown hair then bent to the table to pick up the cups of coffee neither of them had drunk.
Luke lost sight of her as he passed the window and walked down the crowded sidewalk. He felt a tremor of an unfamiliar feeling. Not anxiety, dread or fear, although this had the same prickly edge. It took him a few seconds to identify the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach as anticipation—maybe mingled with a glimmer of hope.
“Honey, you can bare whatever you want. I’m not dropping my pants for anyone else.” Bastian’s rich butterscotch voice held a note of iron. “You’ve talked about my sex life, or lack thereof, quite enough to a certain writer who shall remain nameless.”
higher. “I do like anticipation, the building excitement, the pulse-pounding, breathless wait for that one moment when everything—” She dropped her eyes to his zipper “— and I do mean everything, comes together at the end.”
