Maelstrom

Chapter 36: Millennium

Thursday night

I felt very literary as I walked into Asylum to start my shift. Not in the Jane Austen sense, but something a little more ... contemporary. I'd gone into this assignment as a girl with a dragon tattoo; now I was certainly a girl who played with fire. This perverse notion had inspired tonight's look: a tight, cut-up black T-shirt and black leather pants, topped off with an impressively tall, black-and-blond striped mohawk. My fake nose-ring was back, along with a cluster of fake silver earrings lining the outer edge of each ear, and my lipstick was an unapologetic matte black. I felt like a total badass, an impression apparently shared by many of the people riding public transportation with me this evening, as even the most jaded riders had given me a wide berth.

The effect was somewhat spoiled by Glory's laugh when I walked into the break room to dump my stuff.

"Oh, you'd better be working next to me tonight," my new friend crowed.

"Dare I ask why?" I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation.

"Because everyone is going to come to our end of the bar to check you out, but they'll be too scared to actually order from you, leaving bow-coo tips for me." She reached a finger out to gingerly touch the leading edge of my hairstyle. "Christ, how much gel did you have to use to get it to do that?"

I slapped Glory's hand away lightly. "No one messes with the tresses," I informed her.

"Ooh, I like that! You should embroider that on a pillow. Or make T-shirts! Now come on; I want to see that wicked hairdo in action!"

Getting back into the rhythm of the main bar was, after the weirdness and tension of last night, like slipping on a pair of old sweats. Smile, pour, mix, serve, collect, make change, smile again, take tip, repeat.

Glory had been half-right: the mohawk was drawing a decent share of gawkers, but not even an 18" tiger-striped windsail on top of a bartender's head was going to stop a thirsty New Yorker from placing an order when given the opportunity.

Plus I was beginning to develop a bit of a reputation. "What's the special drink tonight?" shouted a bejeweled redhead who'd managed to wiggle up to the bar. She and her purple-haired friend looked familiar; I was pretty sure they'd been at Asylum last Friday when I was dressed as and serving up the Black Swan.

Now I was stuck; I hadn't even thought about a new special drink. Every spare brain cell I had was seemingly permanently occupied by either thinking about Ivan or struggling not to think about him. "A Hornet's Nest!" I improvised. No one else might get the reference, but for my own amusement, I'd stick with the theme.

"We'll take two!" the redhead shouted, and she and Lavender Locks shared an excited giggle.

Great, now what would go into a Hornet's Nest? I turned around to look at my backbar. First, the shape – I grabbed a pair of globular brandy snifters, figuring they looked a bit like a waspish nest, and put them on the rail. Now, what did hornets do? They flew around and stung people. A Stinger; perfect. I was sure the twenty-somethings in front of me had never been served the classic cocktail, and I would add a little something extra to make it my own. I poured the correct amounts of Courvoisier VSOP and white crème de menthe into a mixing glass to make two drinks, stirred, and strained the concoction into the snifters.

White crème de menthe. Hmm. Mint, mint, what went with mint besides more mint? Lemon, sometimes, or chocolate. Considering my audience, I grabbed the bar of dark chocolate and the grater from my garnish tray and theatrically grated a flurry of cocoa flakes over the drinks. With sudden inspiration, I grabbed two slim black swizzle sticks and stirred the Nests briskly, producing a tiny swirling swarm in each glass.