Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life Read Online Free PDF

me!
    Tony’s waiting for me.
    “Spare me the sob story, what’s he asking for now?”
    “Same thing. He says you’ve served him a bottle of Jack at the table and he wants one tonight!”
    “That son-of-a-bitching liar! You go back there and tell him he’s a liar, and he’s not getting a bottle of Jack at the table and that’s that!”
    “I can’t call Jim Morrison a liar!”
    “Go!” he says.
    I jump. I head back, ignoring the big-hat table still beckoning me. The second I get to the table, Jim looks up.
    “I am so sorry, Mr. Morrison. It seems I’m really not allowed to serve a bottle of Jack at the table. Would a couple of doubles do?”
    “Not really. Do me a favor, go back there and you insist for me!”
    I’m kind of upset now, and my feet are really starting to hurt from my cheap shoes. I say the only thing I can think of, “OK!”
    I head back to Tony determined this time to get that bottle of Jack for Jim. As I approach, I see that the blond girls’ Tom Collins drinks are sitting on the bar. I quickly put them on my tray. Tony looks at me but before he can speak I say, “He wants his bottle of Jack and he means it!”
    And then I take off before Tony has a chance to torture me with his bartending manifesto. As I’m going back to Jim’s table, the two black guys make eye contact with me. They want to know when I’m going to be over there, I give them a nod as if to say “be right with you.” I get back to Jim’s table and gingerly place a Tom Collins in front of each of the girls. He looks at me as if to ask, When? Bottle? Jack?
    I say as calmly as I can, “I’m working on it.”
    The Flying Burrito Brothers have ratcheted up the music. If only I could enjoy it. If only I could enjoy anything about my first night waiting tables at the fabulous Whisky a Go Go, which right now is not so fabulous. Gypsy Boots, an actor and alternative lifestyle guru, has taken to the dance floor with his dancers (girls who looked to be around the age of fourteen, dressed in chiffon and gauze with flowers in their hair). Music swirls around me in the club as I make my way to the “big hat” table, wishing for the good old days, back at the International House of Pancakes (home of the bottomless coffeepot).
    “What can I get you?”
    The two women look at me and each say in turn, “Tom Collins.”
    Hmm, I’m seeing a trend here. Ladies like their Tom Collins. I wondered what was in them. I turn to the men and they look at me and each order a Zombie. Now a Zombie is a drink with triple liquor and while I was being schooled the day before, I was informed we had to charge double for them. I take their order and head back to Tony who is waiting for me in the sixth ring of hell. I put my new order up on the bar. Tony glances at it.
    “Zombies, ha-ha, I like to mix Zombies! Make sure you charge them double. What about Morrison?”
    I look him straight in the eye as boldly as I can and I say these words: “Bottle of Jack.” I can practically see smoke coming out of his nostrils.
    “You go back there and tell that fucker I’ll have the bouncer throw his ass out of here! I don’t care who he is!”
    “You jerk!” I think, as I start to cry and stumble my way back to Jim’s table for possibly the last time. I hear Jim singing “The End” in my head.
    “I’m so sorry Mr. Morrison, but I really can’t bring that bottle of Jack to the table. Can I buy you your double?”
    Jim Morrison responds by taking my hand and looking me in the eyes, “What’s your name?”
    “Cindy.”
    He gently says, “Well, Miss Cindy, bring me that double. We’ve just been playing with ya!”
    I look around and see all the waitresses, plus Mario and Tony, laughing at me. Could it be? Could it be a practical joke? Has Jim Morrison played a practical joke on me? I felt honored and humiliated both at the same time. I realize that Jim is still holding my hand. He squeezes it and smiles at me. I smile back. I’m too weak to