Always take care of your homeys.

That’s what Craig says.

It’s a good idea to remember what they drink.

Regulars like that.

If you can hold on to that alone, there’s usually a couple extra bucks in it for you. Anything else you hold onto is a bonus.

Jerry likes perfect Manhattans, straight up, ice cold without the cherry. He’s a retired bread truck driver from Kirkland and now he works for a rental car company two days a week.

Dale drinks double Tanqueray on the rocks. He brings his own peanuts and always has three drinks before aerobics class at the YMCA.

Bruce used to be a Dewars man, but lately he’s been getting in to Chardonnay. He always gets at least one shrimp cocktail appetizer, often commenting that the kale garnish is the best lettuce he’s ever tasted.

Tom and Sue drink everything.

Actually, Tom drinks most everything, but he prefers bourbon presses, Smith & Wessons, Brandy Alexanders and any kind of shot you set in front of him. Sue drinks anything with tequila.

Their kids are grown and off to college and they just moved north from San Francisco. I’d only been behind the bar for a few weeks when we first met, but we took to each other immediately. I know enough to keep their glasses full and pour heavy and they know enough to reward me for it.

I was working my usual Saturday afternoon shift and the restaurant was a ghost town when they walked in.

“Danny!” Tom waved as they entered the cavernous dungeon. It might be 85 degrees outside, but there was no way to tell in the giant, windowless barn.

Sue headed straight to the bathroom after a brief chat with Holly at the front desk. Tom sauntered down the ramp that led to the lounge.

“Hey, hey, what do you say?” I asked and held my hand over the bar, offering it to Tom as he sidled up to a stool. He snatched my palm and gave it a firm tug. His hands were strong, rough to touch and carried confidence.

“Where the hell is everybody, Danny boy?” he asked.

“Anywhere but here, man. You see that weather?” I responded.

“Hell yes. We just got off the Sound,” he said. “You guys are crazy though, that thing’s colder than shit. Damn near froze my nut sack off.”

Sue made her way out of the restroom and slowly down the ramp, her hand tight on the wooden rail. She wobbled to the stool next to Tom. Her head was down and her eyes led the way for her dragging feet. She gripped the chair and climbed on top, smiling with victory.

“Ah, it couldn’t have been that bad,” I said while holding up a bottle of Cuervo and motioning to Sue. “Margarita?” She didn’t move.

Tom continued, “Oh no, the Jet Ski, or Sea Doo actually, was perfect. The whole thing was great. But when the hell does that thing warm up, man?”

“It doesn’t really,” I said. “If we get a few weeks in a row of hot, hot weather, it will get more tolerable. But it’s deep man. It takes a lot to warm water that deep.”

“Shit,” Tom laughed and shook his head, drove a finger into his ear and tilted his head to the side. “Water, man. It’s everywhere,” he said.

I laughed. Still holding the bottle of tequila, I motioned to Tom, “You guys want margaritas?”

“Sue?” he broke her daze with a gentle nudge. “Margarita?” She nodded. “Me too,” he said. “It’s margarita weather. How ‘bout a couple shots back too?”

“You got it,” I told him. I limed and salted the rims of two ’rita glasses, loaded them with ice, and poured. Heavy. I finished with a splash of sweet & sour and lime juice, set them in front of Tom and Sue and leaned up against the coolers behind the bar.

Tom was focused on the TV above my head. The Mariners were beating the Devil Rays, 5-2, and Edgar Martinez was at the plate.

“Damn, these guys are unreal,” Tom said.

“You two been to a game yet?” I asked.

Tom shook his head as he gulped from his glass. He pulled away, chomping on ice, “Next month,” he said. “The Giants are in town and we got tickets for all three.”

“Nice,” I smiled.

Sue nodded. She raised her head in excitement but just as she was about to talk, Tom leaped out of his chair and screamed, “Jesus Christ!”

I looked up at the screen just as the ball bounced off the wall in center field. Tom Lampkin and Ichiro walked home as Edgar cruised into second with a double. Tom took his seat along with another pull from his glass.

“These guys are un-fucking-believable,” he shouted in amazement.

“He’s the man,” I added. “Edgar’s a beast.”

Tom took another long sip and started in again, “I’m telling you, I’ve never seen a winner, but these guys might be it. We’ve had a lot of good teams down there, but never won a Series. A few times we got close. ‘89 of course. We should have won that shit, by the way. Fuck Oakland. We should have gone in ‘87 too. Mitchell and Clark, that team was good. ‘71 was sweet, but they laid down to the Pirates. Who can blame them though? Clemente and Stargell, that was their year. We split at home, and then never came back from Pittsburgh. I was pissed.”

“Damn, that’s old school,” I said.

“That was the first postseason I really saw,” Tom continued. “My older brothers are always yakking about ‘62, but I was only eight back then. That still tears up my brother John though. Jesus, don’t get him started on that shit. Shut out in Game 7 at Candlestick. One-nuthin’ to the fuckin’ Yanks. John can still recount the misery pitch-by-pitch. I was only eight though. I remember everyone getting all pissed off and shit. I remember trying to get upset too, but I didn’t really care. I was too young. ‘71 was the one for me, man. They didn’t even get to the damn Series, but I was in it all the way. I was a senior in high school. I wanted that shit bad. Pirates were too good though. We all knew it going in. That was the best I’d seen until ‘89.”

“You guys got a pretty good squad now,” I said.

Tom paused for a second before responding, his mind lost in thought. Then, suddenly, “No, we’re good. Dusty’s a hell of a coach, and Bonds is unreal, obviously. But I’m telling you, these Mariners are fun to watch. I miss my Giants, but these guys have been a pretty damn good replacement so far. I think they really got a shot at–“

Before he could get another word out, Sue awoke from her daze and jumped into the conversation with a vicious shout, “THE GIANTS ARE GONNA KICK THEIR ASS!” She smiled as her head wobbled atop her dainty shoulders.

I caught eyes with Tom and we both laughed. Sue leaned toward us, resting her head on her right hand, her body was limp. She threw her left finger in our direction and slurred, “You guys don’t think I know what I’m talking about, but I do.”

Tom patted her gently and began rubbing her back, “No we do, Baby, it’s OK.”

“Fuck you,” She shot back, pushing his hand away. “You motherfuckers think I’m some kind of idiot. You think I’m stupid or something. You’re the ones who don’t know shit,” she added, louder and louder all the time.

Tom and I laughed again. He shook his head, downed the shot of liquor in front of him and motioned for a refill of his margarita.

“Both?” I asked.

He nodded in mid-swallow. Sue continued, “I know enough to know the Mariners haven’t won a goddamn thing,” she said. “This team might be decent, but they’re still a bunch of pussies from Seattle.”

“All right. All right,” Tom said, motioning for her to calm down. “Take it easy, Babe.” He reached again to rub her back in reassurance. She threw his hand away and shot back with more volume and fury than she had before.

“You’re the goddamn worst,” she said. “I can understand Danny’s love for the club. The poor kid grew up here. It’s not his fault his team’s a bunch of slack-jaws. He’s got to like ‘em anyway. In fact, I’d think he was some kind of asshole if he didn’t. But you. You’re the fair-weather motherfucker around here. You move in to town and just jump on board. Shit. Where’s your balls, huh?”

As she finished her rant, she stood on the crossbars of her stool, towering over Tom for dramatic effect. He looked up at her and the two of them laughed. So did I. She stumbled back to her seat and smiled.

“I gotta hit the head,” Tom said and he set his empty glass back on the bar and headed up the ramp.

“I’ll get those drinks,” I said.

Sue laid her head on the bar.

I leaned down to catch her eyes and asked, “How you doin’?”

She nodded and spoke softly, her eyes focused on the bar, “I’m OK.”

I nodded back to her and headed for the well. I grabbed both a ’rita and shot glass and went to work. Halfway through, the phone rang.

“Dan?” It was Dick, in his office.

“Yes,” I said.

“Could you come back here please?”

It was an order, not a question.

“Sure,” I said and hung up. I headed back to the well and finished Tom’s margarita, placed it in front of his empty seat along with a fresh coaster and started for the manager’s office.

“I’ll be right back, Sue.”

She nodded.

Dick was waiting in the doorway when I arrived.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I heard cussing, yelling. Holly came back and said some drunk lady told her she pissed her pants. Said she left her undies in the bathroom.”

I laughed.

“It’s not really that funny, Dan.”

“I know. You’re right. But it’s just Tom and Sue. They’re cool.”

“Sounds like they’re drunker than shit,” he said.

“Tom’s fine, and besides, they just live right around the corner. They’re regulars. You remember, you were talking to them about the 49ers for like an hour the other night.”

“Well you got to calm them down or get them out of here,” he said. “They can’t be cussing like that. This is a family restaurant.”

“All right, I’ll talk to them,” I told him and headed back to the bar, slightly worried about the situation. Passing the employee bulletin board, I rounded the corner into the lounge. Tom was back at his chair, screaming at the television and Sue looked to be asleep, her head resting on varnished mahogany.

“There he is,” Tom shouted with a rub of his hands as I walked by. “Is that my shot?” he asked, his hand pointing at a lonely glass of tequila on the rubber mat in front of the ice bin behind the bar. In my hurry to talk to Dick I hadn’t served him his second tequila.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Sorry Tom.” I returned to the service side and delivered the small glass.

“Beautiful,” Tom said. He picked it up and slammed it back. “Abbott just gave up another run, Lou yanked him. It’s still 7-3 though.”

“Right on,” I said. “Is she all right?” I asked him and pointed at Sue, genuinely concerned.

Tom tilted his head to the left and leaned close to the bar. Peeling her hair back from her eyes, he examined her face. “Sleeping,” he said, and returned to the TV.

Shit, I thought. Dick might be right. These guys are pretty housed. I reached down and grabbed a wet towel from the sanitizer bucket beneath the bar and began to clean. Randomly, I went to work. I moved mats, glassware, and bottles, wiping the counters beneath. Trying to buy time, hoping that everything would work out without a confrontation.

Tom was focused on the game, shouting at the screen with every ball and strike. Sue snored with her face on the bar and the dinner hour suddenly seemed too close for comfort. Luckily, the place was empty. I decided to serve Tom one more drink when the time came with the hope he would move on shortly. Tom being Tom however, the time came quickly.

“Danny, another shot and a drink please, sir,” he said.

“No problem,” I said. Technically, it was two more, I suppose. But either way, there they went. The last two drinks I was going to serve him.

Craig and Tommy had given me a little advice on cutting people off, but I didn’t think any of it would work in this situation. Craig said it was one of the worst parts of the job, and best to be handled on a case-by-case basis. I hadn’t had to do it yet, but even if I had, this seemed to be a unique case. Tom and Sue were regulars.

Tommy told me he likes to fall back on the establishment, especially since it was a corporation. He would give the customer a line about company policy allowing only a certain amount of drinks to be served to any individual guest. No matter how wasted they were, he’d tell them he knew that they were sober and if he could, he’d serve them all night long. But the company just wouldn’t allow it.

Funny thing was, he said it worked better the drunker the people were. Sober folks could see through the bullshit a little better, he surmised.

Tom and Sue, of course, knew they were above the company line, I thought.

Craig told me he’d seen Tommy pull the company line talk and he admitted that it worked quite well on occasion, but he said he stayed away from it. He preferred to confront things head on. He said he’d often refer to state law and the miniscule 0.08 blood alcohol level. But more often than not, he’d usually just tell them straight up that they’d had enough and he wasn’t serving them any more. He made sure to point out the importance of telling them that they’ve had “enough” as opposed to “too much.”

Not only did customers get defensive with any talk of them going overboard, he said, but if they ended up totaling their car and killing some poor SOB on the way home, the bullshit law might allow them to come back after the bartender for damages. And if they or another customer were to recall the bartender telling them specifically that they had drank “too much” before they left, that might open up the case all the more.

At this moment however, cleaning the bar and trying to recall all of what my mentors had told me didn’t seem to be helping my feeling of impending doom. To make matters worse, Tom was ready for another round.

“Shot and a drink, Danny,” he called from the other end of the bar. “Sasaki’s in for the save.”

“All right,” I said instinctively, and trudged back in his direction. In the midst of my absent-minded, fake cleaning I had worked myself as far away from Tom and Sue as possible.

On my way back down to the well, I tried to rationalize. Two more, I reasoned. Besides, Sue’s been sleeping. Perhaps she’s sobering up.

“What the hell you been doing down there anyway?” Tom asked as I prepared his drinks. “This has been a hell of a game. 7-4. Top nine. Sasaki’s bringing in ‘the thang’ to close this sucker out.”

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Dick’s got me detailing the damn bar. He said he wants to see his face in the brass before Craig and Tommy get here for the night shift.”

“Ah, those sons-of-bitches,” said Tom. “Give all the grunt work to the rookie.”

“I guess so. How’s Sue?” Upon closer inspection it looked as though she was beginning to come around.

Tom looked at her briefly as she stirred, then back to the screen. “Poor girl,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her out of here after the game.”

“Who’s worried?” I said with what must have been a wry smile as I placed his margarita and shot in front of him. I turned to the TV and watched, but Sue was awake all right, and she let us both know soon enough.

“Who you gonna get out of here you motherfucker?” She screamed and sat up quick, strands of hair still clinging to the side of her face. Tom and I shifted our attention.

“Baby,” he said. “So nice of you to grace us with your presence.”

“Fuck you,” she shot back.

“Sue, how you doing?” I asked. “Coffee?”

“Tequila!”

“Hold on Baby, we’re getting out of here,” Tom interrupted.

“I told you I want a steak,” she said. “We’ve been here for over an hour and you’ve just been watching baseball.”

“Well, Baby dear, I figured it might be hard for you to eat a steak while snoring.”

“Dan, give me a steak,” she barked.

“You guys want menus?”

“No,” Tom said.

“Yes,” added Sue.

“Baby, the game’s almost over,” Tom pleaded.

“I don’t give a fuck,” she shot back, loud enough to wake the dead. “I came here for a goddamn steak, and I want a goddamn steak. In fact, I don’t even need a menu, just give me a big-ass filet Danny.”

“The twelve-ouncer?” I suggested with a nod.

As much as I couldn’t stand the screaming and was nervous as hell about what Dick was gonna do, I knew enough to not argue with Sue. I’d take my chances at pissing off Dick, Tom and every SOB in the restaurant before I argued with her.

“You want garlic mashed potatoes, rice pilaf or fries?” I added.

“Hold it, hold it,” Tom said. “We’re leaving. Look, Sasaki just shut the door. C’mon. What’s that make them anyway? Jesus, look at that, 30 games over and it’s barely June. Come on Baby, we got steaks at home. Daddy’s gonna fire up the grill.”

“I want a steak,” she said.

“I know, Baby. I’m gonna cook you a steak. Besides, we got Don Julio at home too. Come on.” Tom stood from his stool. “What do we owe you, sir?” he asked me as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

I motioned to the bill I had printed, folded neatly and served along with the last margarita. He flipped it over and studied. Looking up, he smiled and threw three twenties on top of it. I nodded to show my appreciation. He grabbed his drink and knocked back what was left of it. Then he grabbed Sue by the waist, picked her off the chair and carried her three or four feet before setting her gently in the direction of the door.

“Danny, thank you. It’s always a pleasure, sir,” he said as the two of them wobbled to the lobby.

“The pleasure’s mine, Tom. You too, Sue. Good to see you. Thanks again,” I said with countless levels of gratitude. Tom kept Sue in front of him as they stumbled out the door, but I could hear them going at each other.

“I want a steak,” she said.

“We’re cooking steaks, Babe.”

I retrieved their empty glasses and was wiping the bar. Dick emerged from the hallway leading to his office. “They’re gone?” he asked.

“Long gone, Dick,” I said with pride.

“Nice work, how many drinks did you serve them?”

“More to Tom than Sue,” I said. “But not many.”

“Good.”

I grabbed the three twenties and cashed out their bill at my register. Dick lit a cigarette and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat by the well and looked at the TV above him. The two of us started talking baseball and Craig walked in. He wasn’t due to start work for another hour, but he always came in early on Saturday to write the schedule. He had on his black pants and slip-resistant shoes, but he was holding his apron and uniform in his hand, wearing just an undershirt on his back. He circled the bar and stared straight toward me, but he stayed at the other end as he put his keys and wallet in the closet next to the cable box behind the bar.

“Danny, come down here, yo. I got a question about your schedule next week,” he motioned with his hand.

I walked over, still smiling from my good fortune. He leaned close to my ear and half-whispered, making sure Dick was unable to hear.

“How many drinks did you serve Tom and Sue?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Too many probably,” I whispered back. “But they were shitty when they came in.”

He shook his head. “They’re shitty all right,” he said. “Damn near hit me pulling out of the parking lot. You got to be careful about that shit, man. Remember, it’s your ass on the line, and you control the flow of alcohol.”

“Yes sir,” I said sincerely.

“How much did they tip you?”

“Fifteen,” I said.

“Nice,” he said.

Kenny Via once considered himself to be a master of mixology. Now he writes about it on occassion.