A Note for My Head Asking What My Heart Said

Bartending at Monday’s was the third job Marizella got, and by far it was the most dangerous, though the tips she received from the patrons funded her life the most. Putting aside the risk of being an attractive girl working at a somewhat seedy bar, there was the fact that she was underage and if any authorities discovered the eighteen year-old was working there, a lot of people would get in trouble.

The worst part, Zel felt, was when she and the other girls had to dance. It started before she got the job and the tradition was dropped into her lap her first night when the other two female bartenders pulled her atop the bar and the crowd crushing towards the bar roared.

Zel knew it was degrading and compromised her dignity, but those nights were the ones she made the most money. And lord, she needed the money. Besides, there were worse things she be doing. A girl she went to high school with admitted to her that she was a stripper.

The place was mostly empty—surprising for midnight—but it gave Katrina time to pester Zel about not working so much and getting out to enjoy her late-adolescence. She always seemed to have some excuse though. “I don’t get it,” Kat griped, leaning her chin into a hand against the bar. “You’ve got so much going for you. What the hell could keep you from taking advantage of it?”

Zel’s smile glimmered with sadness as she turned back and forth on the barstool. “Personal things.”

“You always say that! Seriously, tell me!”

“It’s… family. My family.” She shrugged, face impassive and tuned out. “It’s complicated and personal and--” Luckily the door swung open a group of young guys walked in, allowing her quit babbling. “--And we have customers.”

She walked around to the other side of the bar just in time to smile at the chosen messenger; he looked sort of familiar, but she seemed to have seen everyone who came into Monday’s. “What can I get for you?”

“Four Heineken,” the guy requested with a returned smile, “And we’re gonna need a tab.”

“Celebrating, are we?” It was customary to make idle conversation with customers unless they expressed desire to be left alone. Some of them expressed it verbally and others... well, you just knew to keep them silent.

He chuckled, running a hand over his shaved head. “Something like that, yeah,” he replied as Zel set the drinks on the bar top. He grabbed all four with a grateful nod and turned to go, but Katrina stopped him.

“Hold it,” she ordered, using her “stern” voice. Zel never figured out why Kat-- standing a little over 5’3” and skinny as a rail-- thought she could ever be intimidate with that voice, but she’d seen her knock out a guy who was getting a little too friendly with one right cross. So she knew not to mess with her. “Let me see your ID, kid.”

The guy set the beer on the counter again before pulling out his wallet and sliding his driver’s license at her. Zel rolled her eyes at him apologetically, which made him stifle a laugh. “Alright, Mister Dawson,” Kat announced, handing back his ID, “You’re good. Sorry about that. It’s just, you don’t look 22.”

“I get that a lot,” he said with a shrug before departing to his rowdy-- in comparison to the rest of the bar-- table.

Zel shot her companion a knowing look as she leaned against the counter. “Oh, shut up,” Kat snapped, rolling her eyes. “He doesn’t look my age.”

“Because he’s not,” she explained shortly. “You just thought he was cute and wanted to know his name.” Zel glanced over at the table of guys, chatting and laughing loudly. “My guess if they’re all about my age with really convincing fakes.”

“Marty would throw them out,” came a mutter after a few minutes.

She laughed and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Marty isn’t here and Marty hired me. Plus we need the money. Tonight is not a good night for tips.”

The group kept sending one of them back for more beer-- well, sometimes; when two of them got their turn, they simply yelled-- and Zel continued to make conversation with them until eventually talking became more enterprising than the beer. And that brought the whole group over.

“Jeez, I know she’s hot, Zack,” the one with the hat drawled, draping an arm over the shoulder of the latest errand boy, “But seriously, I need booze. Bros before hos, man.” Zack flushed slightly and pushed his friend off into a stool. With a grin, the hatted wonder continued, “’m Alex, Gorgeous.” And then he swigged his drink, taking in about half of it.

“You’re wasted, Alex,” Zel informed him kindly, cleaning the counter. “Maybe you should lay off for a while.”

“Naaah,” he contested casually, “I’m good. We’re having a party here, right, Jack?” The other of the boys who simply called, ‘More beer, beerwench!’ hollered approvingly. Zel snorted in amusement; she’d forgotten how amusing people her age could be. “So.” She turned her attention back to Alex, who’d removed his hat to ruffle up his hair. “What’s your name?”

She shook her head and went to fill up another glass for Rian, the one with the shaved head who was only slightly less polite than Zack. “Sorry, kid. Not allowed to give names. How about you tell me about you guys.”

In the next hour and a half, Zel learned that the boys were a band called All Time Low and they were taking some time off from touring to be home. She also discovered, and decided against mentioning, that she’d gone to high school with them and had been relatively good friends with Rian before The Accident. It wasn’t hard not to recognise him without that mop of hair, but Zel was surprised he hadn’t identified her.

She waved to the boys after she locked up at three and headed towards her car. Three years wasn’t an exorbitantly long time. She couldn’t have changed that much. Had she?