All the rocks and highball glasses were clean and draining on the sink board behind my bar as five o’clock rolled around. Friday Happy Hour; it was two for one drinks and I was prepared for a rush.

I landed the job at the Spice of Life restaurant in the semi-rural township Burnt Hills New York after an abysmal failed attempt to be an actor in New York. Six months of no work and countless cattle calls drained all my savings. Plus I made no friends in the city, I was too depressed. All that drove me back to my home town in upstate New York. Before I left, I used the last of my funds in the city to take a bartending course and had come north to apply at a new roadside restaurant and lounge that had formerly been a flower shop. The owner and my boss Ray, was a Brooklyn deli owner with dreams of being a wise-guy. He had financed The Spice of Life with money borrowed from a loan shark in Rotterdam. I was all of nineteen, fresh from the American Bartender’s institute of mixology and, although I could make a mean Manhattan or gin fizz, I had no clue about bar etiquette and serving drunks, punks and other types of social drinkers. I was just happy to have the job.

Ray was a small, squat man with wiry brown hair, and an equally wiry moustache that made him look sufficiently shady. He slid into the high bar chair and ordered a Canadian Club and soda. He shot his cuffs from his sports coat, pulled out a Marlboro, hung it on his lip and drummed his fingers on the bar.

“Where the hell are they?” he grumbled as he lit up.

“Who?” I asked.

“The goddam customers. Jesus, you’d think two-for-one drinks would bring ‘em in like crazy. If this place was in Brooklyn the bar would be three deep by now.”

“When did you put the ad in the Pennysaver?” I asked. “It might take a while to get the word out.”

Ray puffed on his cigarette. Despite the great food, business was bad.  And to make it worse, every Friday night at 11, Big Jim Esposito, the loan shark, would send his goons out to collect on the note. These were scary guys wearing expensive leather sports coats who looked at you with dead eyes. On nights he was short, Al would give them each a case of lobster tails to let him slide.

“These hicks.” Ray scorned. “I put Beef Wellington on the menu. Do you know what that is? Prime steak en croute with pate. These yahoos would rather eat chipped beef on a biscuit at the Homestead up the street. That place is full up right now. I just drove by.”

“That’s what they like up here, Ray.” I said. “It’s homestyle.”

He blew a few smoke rings and stirred his drink.

Outside we heard the crunch of gravel in our parking lot and the slam of a car door – A customer.  Ray swiveled in his chair; I got set to serve and stood there, smiling.

The screen door opened and the front door swung wide, flooding the dark walnut paneled anteroom with bright afternoon light and in walked a matronly middle-aged woman dressed in black with a black sweater over a white, high-collared blouse. Her face was an oval with soft powdery jowls and her hair was black shot with grey and pulled up in a tight bun on the back of her head. Her thin lips were pressed tight in a polite smile and she stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The pouchy bags under her eyes crinkled as she blinked a few times to help make the adjustment.

She made her way to the far end and placed her purse on the bar and took a seat next to the animated Miller High Life beer sign with the flowing waterfall. Once she was settled comfortably on the stool she said in a soft formal tone, “A black Russian, please.”

Ray smiled and nodded to her from his perch at the other end of the bar. She curtly nodded back. Though her lips were thin, they were painted with dark red lipstick. The color seeped into some of the age creases around her mouth. Her complexion showed that she was definitely an indoor person and maybe a smoker, though she didn’t smoke at the bar.

“The ad in the Pennysaver said it’s two for one. Is that correct?” she asked.

Ray smiled and gave me a look that said “See?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I replied. I slid a second empty overturned rocks glass behind her first drink, as I was instructed to do at Bartending School, showing the customer had another drink coming.

I thought to myself, look up spinster schoolmarm in the dictionary and there’d be a picture of her. Sure enough, in the course of our casual conversation she said she taught English at the local high school.

“Hey Ray!” a gruff Southern-fried voice shouted from the other room. “Where the hell are the lobster tails?” Frank, the chef rounded the corner in his unbuttoned white chef’s coat, sleeves rolled up revealing his navy tattooed forearms, a snake-wrapped anchor on one arm and a bare chested mermaid on the other. He stood there with his fists balled up on his hips, in righteous indignation. “How the hell can we do surf and turf when we don’t have any surf?”

Ray hopped off the stool to stop any further commotion. “It’s okay Frank. We’ll do a scampi or something.” He took Frank back to the kitchen and left me alone with the schoolmarm.

The hubbub didn’t seem to bother her. She kept that same polite smile in place, though she seemed more relaxed. Her smile was almost beatific. I glanced down at her drink and it was nearly empty. It was nice to see her pinched expression replaced with an easy smile. She pointed to her overturned rocks glass.

I happily placed the second drink in front of her. She was positively delighted and stared at it almost as if trying to keep it in focus. Her head bobbed very slightly.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” I asked.

She brought her eyes up and held mine in a steady gaze, saying nothing, but nodding affirmatively. The one drink had done a good job of taking the edge off. She was definitely feeling it. She drained the remainder of her first glass and handed it to me and sat staring at the second drink.

She brought the drink up to her lips and sipped at it gingerly. She looked back at me and frowned. I guess I was staring. I immediately grabbed a bar cloth and started wiping down the sink, giving her some privacy.

Ray rounded the corner from the dining room and returned to his seat at the bar. His cigarette was clamped in his teeth. He pulled it from his mouth and stubbed it out, exhaling a jet of smoke. He gave me a sad glance and shook his head. I caught his eye and cast mine toward the end of the bar. He watched as the woman’s head nodded a bit more pronouncedly as she made her way into her second drink.

“How many did she have?” he asked.

“That’s her second.” I said.

“Jesus.”

“Should I cut her off?” I asked.

He held up a hand and shook his head.

We both watched as she succumbed to the vodka and Kahlua as if the black Russian had been drugged. She propped her arms on the bar and stared down into her glass, looking ready to fall asleep as her head bowed lower.

“Are you alright lady?” Ray asked.

She came to attention, turned and said indignantly. “I’m perfectly fine.” She remained at attention and faced the bar, not bothering to address us any further.

Ray and I exchanged looks. He shrugged and gave me the ‘let her be’ look. I did. He resumed his agitated mood and groused about the stupidity of the locals who had no idea of what good food was. I wanted to assure him that things would work out, but I was not privy to his private dealings. I had no clue how bad or good things were. I was just glad Ray gave me my first bartending job, thus validating my choice to abandon acting in favor of a more secure career in the restaurant business. I was naïve and I think he enjoyed mentoring me in the ways of the restaurant business, Brooklyn style.

He was a decent guy for the most part. Yes, he was a wannabe wise-guy. Yes, he was cheating on his wife Lonnie, with his girlfriend Patty, a short, feisty Italian waitress who was devoted to him. I would watch when Patty and Lonnie would both be serving on a busy night. I saw that his wife had no clue and I’d have to act the innocent. That was the bartender’s code: To hold all digressions in sacred confidentiality. Something else I learned at Bartender’s School.

I went over to her and took the second glass which was drained away. I gave her the check for the one drink. She stirred after a moment and started rummaging in her purse. She was definitely weaving and having some difficulty finding what she wanted. Finally, she produced her wallet. She unclasped it with the concentration of a surgeon. She counted out three dollars and seventy five cents and pushed the money at me across the bar. No tip. That was fine. I was more worried about her equilibrium and what to do. She was obviously too drunk to drive.

Ray came over and helped her out of her seat. She resisted and slurred “I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine, please.”

“Gary, take her keys and drive her home.” Ray ordered.

I reached for the keys on the bar and she snatched them away. “I am fine, please don’t fuss. Do NOT fuss over me. Please!” Her voice rose and the scolding command came from that place that could put thirty students on their best behavior.

I looked to Ray for guidance. He was weighing the alternatives. We would be liable for anything that happened if she were in an accident and been over served at our bar. That I also knew from my mixology course. If we didn’t let her have her way, she might become belligerent and who knew what to expect from a two-drink drunk school teacher? Did we want to force it?

I looked to Ray for what to do. At length he said “Alright. Let’s at least help you out to your car.”

I got the message. There was still a chance we could keep her mollified and maybe change her mind on the walk to the car. I took the keys and Al took hold of her arm. Once again she straightened up in a sober pose and allowed us to escort her out to the car.

Her car was a sprawling 1970 Buick Electra; A large four-door midnight blue sedan with no discernable damage. A clue that maybe she had gotten this far without incident and could continue. “After all, officer, it was only two drinks.” was going to be my defense.

Ray asked once more if she wouldn’t like it if I drove her home. She wouldn’t hear of it.

I opened the door and she got in the driver’s side. She put her seat belt on and asked for her purse. I handed it to her and she put it on the seat next to her. Seated in the car, she seemed a little more in control. She held out her hand for the keys. I put the keys in her soft hand and she nodded her approval. I closed the door for her and winced when she turned the ignition. She held the key in the on position that made a horrible grinding noise in the starter motor.

I joined Ray on the porch and watched nervously as she dropped into reverse. She hit the gas and the wheels spun, spitting gravel at us and the porch as the big sled lurched backward toward route 50. I held my breath, hoping no cars were coming in either direction.

Ray waived and shouted “Drive safe!”

As quickly as she spun out, she hit the brakes, skidding to a halt. Then she threw the car in drive and stomped on the gas spraying gravel out onto the highway and the car bolted forward, heading right at us.

There was no time to jump or do anything except wait to be killed. In the next instant, she braked hard and the car slid dangerously to within an inch of the concrete porch.

We were frozen with fear. She rolled down her window and leaned out. “You mean drive safe-ly!” she hollered. Then she ducked back in, went in reverse, maneuvered handily to head south and sped away.

Ray and I looked at each other.

“Drive Safe-LY.” I said to him with a smile.