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fishing mentioned the Elbow Room. That notoriety was holding strong in 1986 when I stepped inside and became part of its infamy.
    A reckless, shameless place. Even before my shift began, I knew this job would be different.
    Most bars don’t allow employees to drink. This is a standard, hard-and-fast rule that is secretly, unilaterally ignored. The reason is simple—the absolute worst place to be is sober when everyone else is drunk. Cocktail waitresses the world over know this and practice seditious acts to avoid it. There is a system. Bartenders slip rum into the Coke you sip on by the waitress station. They slip shots of tequila into your hand at thigh level as you come behind the bar. You turn your back, pretending to look for a clean tray or more straws in the corner, and gulp it down.
    At the Elbow Room subterfuge didn’t exist.
    “What do you want?” Marge asked, knocking an empty shot glass on the bar the minute I stepped into the place.
    “Schnapps.”
    She poured; I drank. She poured another.
    “Where’s Thad?”
    “He had to run some gear out to the boat.”
    She nodded. “It’s gonna be busy,” she said. “This is Les.”
    A slim, stunning man at the cash register fluttered his fingers in an over-the-shoulder wave.
    “He’s a fruit,” Marge said. “Half-Aleut, half-white, all fruit.” She handed me a tiny cash box. “You got a two-hundred-dollar bank for making change. If someone gets out of line, let us handle it.” She turned away.
    The tables and stools were full, and about ten men clumped in standing groups. Three dogs lay near their owners’ bar stools, occasionally yelping when someone stepped on a tail. Swirling patterns of muddy sand had already formed across the painted wood floor. I worked the tables first. I noticed the Aleut guys seemed to prefer them, sitting shoulder to shoulder, while the white guys like to hold the center, standing in armored clumps. Not that the place was segregated. A few white locals squished in at the tables with their Aleut buddies. And a few Aleut guys mingled with the standing white hordes. And they all drank the same stuff—beer, rum-and-Cokes, screwdrivers, and dirty-mothers.
    I knew within five minutes that I’d overdressed. Dressing is performance art for a cocktail waitress, and your audience can sour on you fast. I’d worn tight jeans and a tightish black T-shirt with crocheted lace around a V-neck. I’d left my hair down and done a mediummakeup job, which meant everything but eyeliner, brow, and contouring pencils. The object is to look sexy enough to bring in the tips but not enough to bring on the hassles. In Dutch, I could have rolled an old piece of carpet around myself and been too sexy. The mistake had been made, and all I could do now was make the most of it. I snaked through the crowd without meeting eyes. I took orders and delivered drinks without small talk.
    The tips were astounding. I’ve worked in lucrative bars before, but the Elbow Room was like nothing else. Five-dollar tips were average and a ten common. Once that night a guy threw a fifty on my tray.
    Les was good. By ten-thirty he had lines three deep around the bar, but the second he saw my cork and plastic tray waving above the crowd, he was there. “What do you need?” And he was fast, he could fill my entire tray in two minutes. I noticed a gold earring dangling from his right ear and wondered if it gave him any trouble. I didn’t imagine this was a progressive crowd.
    By midnight, the Elbow Room had become a mass of men and very few women drinking and swaying to a jukebox that played mostly George Thorogood, Fleetwood Mac, and Judas Priest. I don’t know how Marge and Les kept all those guys drinking. I’ve never seen bartenders as fast.
    Thad came in a little after midnight. He kissed me and slid his hands up my lower back and into my hair.
    “Having any trouble?”
    “Not much.”
    “I’ll sit right here,” he said, nodding at an occupied stool next to the