“Ugh, this fucker again,” Eleanor thought as she walked into the Seashell for her Saturday night shift.

For some reason, Chuckie was under the impression that she and Dante were the ‘dream team’ and as such, he had scheduled them to close together every Saturday for the past two months. It was probably because Dante was Chuckie’s cousin and he always got that pitiful look in his eye whenever things didn’t go his way.

And things were NEVER going to go his way with Eleanor. When he wasn’t watering down the bar’s ocean themed cocktails, he was staring at her tits licking his lips. He affected a totally fake Italian accent to “seduce” her whenever she was around, often yelling, “BUONGIORNO DIGIORNO, IT’S-A-ME, DANTE!” When she caught his eye. He also insisted on calling her Ellie—the name she only allowed her parents to call her.

She looked at the rapidly filling bar from the break room with satisfaction as she tied her small black apron around her waist. Six p.m. and all the tables in her section were already full. She figured that if she could dance around Dante’s idiocy for the night, she stood to make a killing in tips.

She tied her long wavy blonde hair back in a high pony and checked her reflection in the mirror. A couple of months back, she conducted a private social experiment and realized that she earned better tips when’s he wore red lipstick and a tastefully low cut shirt, even from the women. Unfortunately, those items also earned Dante’s unwanted affections and try as she might to shake him off, he was like a hunting dog onto a scent—GOTTAHAVEITIGOTTAHAVEITIGOTTAHAVEIT.

The woman looking back at her in the mirror widened her eyes as if to say NOW OR NEVER. She nodded and took a deep breath as she pushed the door open and entered the bar.

“AH! BUONGIORNO DIGIORNO IT’S-A-ME, DANTE! EH, EH, EH!”

“Hi, Dante. What’ve we got going on right now?”

“Oh, belladonna, we’ve-a got a beautiful night, eh, just-a-like-a pizza pie ova’ heeeeeere!”

“Dante, you’re not even Italian. You’re from Michigan and we don’t even serve pizza. Give it a rest.”

Dante kissed his fingertips and tossed them away, a gesture he likely learned from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. That was another thing about him—his inability to differentiate between Greek and Italian.

He said, “eh, eh, eh, what’s-a-dis? Are you talking’ to me? Are you talkin’ to me? Italian is my heritage, mamacita!”

“Mamacita isn’t even…you know what? I don’t have time for this and neither do you. The bar looks pretty backed up. Get to work.”

“I love it when you talk work to me, Ellie.”

The bar was alive with patrons that night. When her shift began, many seemed disgruntled, probably because of Dante’s poor service, but time, alcohol, and Eleanor’s charms healed all wounds. Soon, the atmosphere was buzzing with laughter and requests for Dark and Stormies, Bay Breezes, Mai Thais, and the Seashell’s signature fishbowl punch, Neptune’s Revenge. That last one was basically all of the alcohol and all of the sugar-filled neon mixers put together, topped off with tiny paper umbrellas and swirly straws. It was a favorite amongst sorority girls. Best of all, they were so busy that Eleanor had minimal down time to chat with/actively avoid Dante.

By the time last call came around, only the usual suspects were left: townies, the occasional college kid posing as a townie, sorority girls, and those last stragglers that hadn’t yet matched up for the night. You know the kind. The not-quite-middle-aged-yet-toothless dude wearing an Eeyore varsity jacket and the out-of-her-prime-but-still-shops-in-the-juniors-section divorcee. This woman had had so many white wine spritzers that it was safe to say she had lost all of her inhibitions and was on course to lose her dignity if she went home with Eeyore.

From the time that Spritzer came in, Eleanor had been keeping an eye on her. She had a vague feeling that she was the mother of a girl she played volleyball with in high school, but she couldn’t quite place her. The years had not been kind to Spritzer, obviously, and it was clear that she was taking the divorce from Mr. Spritzer very hard. Maybe too hard. Eeyore? That guy?

Eleanor had wanted to cut Spritzer off when’s he started walking around the bar, demanding that everyone dance with her, though the Seashell was hardly the type of bar people danced in. When she approached a young woman and her boyfriend to demand that he go with her to the “dance floor,” she was outright belligerent. She couldn’t stand sill. Her glasses were askew. The wine in her glass threatened to spill as she swayed from left to right. Eleanor watched as the girl tried to politely decline, but the moment Spritzer said, “Oh, I’m sorry that you’re a stuck up little bitch,” she had to jump into action before boyfriend could.

She put her arm around Spritzer, grabbing the wine with her free hand as she guided her away from the couple, apologizing to them over her shoulder. That’s when Eeyore stepped in and Spritzer was all too happy to melt into his ready and flabby arms.

“Closing time. One last call for alcohol, so finish your whiskey or beer,” Dante sang out to Eeyore, Spritzer, and the townies.

“Eleanor rolled her eyes and started the closing procedures. The sooner she could get out of there, the better.

“Closing time! You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. I’m looking at you, lady!” Dante sang as he pointed to Spritzer.

Eleanor began cleaning the counter near him. He turned to her and said, “Oh, Bella Ellie! You like-a dat song? I made it up, ova’ here! It’s-a-me, Dante!”

“No you fucking didn’t, Dante, it’s Semisonic and you know that.”

“Eh, mamacita, whatsa matta wit’ you?”

“Nothing. Let’s just finish up.”

By then, Eeyore and Spritzer were nuzzled up to each other at the end of the bar. She was really going for it. Was that tongue Eleanor spotted? Gross.

“When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore!” Dante sang and gestured to the inebriated couple.

Eleanor ignored him and continued cleaning.

“Ah, young love. Reminds you of us, doesn’t it, Ella-Bella? Can I finally have that phone number now, or are you still playing hard to get?”

“Fuck this shit.” She took her tips and left, never to return.