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Lipstick Graffiti
There were always kisses on the mirror.
Every weekend, I found them. I had been the bartender at Imp's Bottle for three years, and that was the thing that irritated me most: the mirror kisses.
The ladies' restroom was littered with them. Puckered lip prints and waxy scarlet messages defaced the glass, tacky and cheap, like temporary tattoos. Ugh, and those colors. Noxious. Flamboyant. Fugly. "Police Siren Red", "BubbleYum Pink", even "Katy Perry Mauve". Who came up with those names? Somebody got paid for that. Probably the equivalent of what I made in a month.
These girls - these perpetrators - must have been putting on multiple layers of these obnoxious lipsticks and kissing the mirror. Then, in the same collection of blinding hues, scribbling things like:
"Girl Power"
"XOXO"
"I Want Candy"
"For a Good Time Call ____" (insert the name and phone number of some chick who was prettier than them in high school).
All that lipstick graffiti.
On purpose.
Because...why? They thought it was cute? It wasn't cute. Lipstick must be oil based, because it took a lot of Windex and elbow grease to clean the kisses and messages off the dated glass. Who were those kisses for? It was the ladies' restroom! Only girls went in there. Well, and me. To clean the mirror. I liked a clean mirror.
Through some covert investigating, and a fairly simplistic process of elimination, I figured out that it was mostly Ali and her friends doing the kissing.
Ali: the worst excuse for a solitary waitress a bar had ever known (but her father was the owner, so there was nothing for it). She and her band of vapid lemmings were the Lipstick Graffiti Artists.
Weekend after weekend, they left evidence of their sordid misdeeds on the restroom mirror.
But I had a plan. The crimes against my sanity were going to stop.
Friday night, about an hour before Ali's shift was over, a bunch of her friends began wandering in, decked out in their "weekend finest" of faux-leather miniskirts and see-through halter tops.
Translation: they looked like jailbait.
The group of them were hanging out in the ladies' restroom like it was their own private lounge. The bar was empty of paying customers, so I strode in - rubber gloves and a rag in hand.
"Oh, my god, Tate! You pervert!" Ali shrieked at me. "You can't be in here!"
There were four new lipstick kisses on the mirror.
Shaking my head, I ignored Ali's outburst, and said: "Look, if you girls want to leave your lip prints all over the mirror, fine. But you're going to have to clean it afterward. Here, I'll show you how I do it every day."
I donned the rubber gloves. Then, making a show of it, I took the rag into one of the stalls, dunked it in the toilet, wrung it out, and started wiping the mirror with it.
"It's important to really scrub," I lectured them. "Like so."
The stunned silence erupted into a torrent of disgusted shrieks, gagging noises, and "Oh my gawd!"s. The girls ran from the restroom and left the bar, herd of cattle style: all platform boots and jingling jewelry.
Triumphant, I removed the gloves, got the Windex from the supply closet, and cleaned the mirror properly, a huge smile on my face.
Tate - one.
Lipstick Graffiti Artists - zero.
(This is only a piece of the whole story. For more Tate, Ali, & Imp's Bottle, visit my Wattpad! MarCafeWrites.)
#Bar #Bartender #ImpsBottle #BarStory #Lipstick #Kisses #XOXO #Graffiti #lipstickgraffiti #Revenge #Payback
© Mar Café
Every weekend, I found them. I had been the bartender at Imp's Bottle for three years, and that was the thing that irritated me most: the mirror kisses.
The ladies' restroom was littered with them. Puckered lip prints and waxy scarlet messages defaced the glass, tacky and cheap, like temporary tattoos. Ugh, and those colors. Noxious. Flamboyant. Fugly. "Police Siren Red", "BubbleYum Pink", even "Katy Perry Mauve". Who came up with those names? Somebody got paid for that. Probably the equivalent of what I made in a month.
These girls - these perpetrators - must have been putting on multiple layers of these obnoxious lipsticks and kissing the mirror. Then, in the same collection of blinding hues, scribbling things like:
"Girl Power"
"XOXO"
"I Want Candy"
"For a Good Time Call ____" (insert the name and phone number of some chick who was prettier than them in high school).
All that lipstick graffiti.
On purpose.
Because...why? They thought it was cute? It wasn't cute. Lipstick must be oil based, because it took a lot of Windex and elbow grease to clean the kisses and messages off the dated glass. Who were those kisses for? It was the ladies' restroom! Only girls went in there. Well, and me. To clean the mirror. I liked a clean mirror.
Through some covert investigating, and a fairly simplistic process of elimination, I figured out that it was mostly Ali and her friends doing the kissing.
Ali: the worst excuse for a solitary waitress a bar had ever known (but her father was the owner, so there was nothing for it). She and her band of vapid lemmings were the Lipstick Graffiti Artists.
Weekend after weekend, they left evidence of their sordid misdeeds on the restroom mirror.
But I had a plan. The crimes against my sanity were going to stop.
Friday night, about an hour before Ali's shift was over, a bunch of her friends began wandering in, decked out in their "weekend finest" of faux-leather miniskirts and see-through halter tops.
Translation: they looked like jailbait.
The group of them were hanging out in the ladies' restroom like it was their own private lounge. The bar was empty of paying customers, so I strode in - rubber gloves and a rag in hand.
"Oh, my god, Tate! You pervert!" Ali shrieked at me. "You can't be in here!"
There were four new lipstick kisses on the mirror.
Shaking my head, I ignored Ali's outburst, and said: "Look, if you girls want to leave your lip prints all over the mirror, fine. But you're going to have to clean it afterward. Here, I'll show you how I do it every day."
I donned the rubber gloves. Then, making a show of it, I took the rag into one of the stalls, dunked it in the toilet, wrung it out, and started wiping the mirror with it.
"It's important to really scrub," I lectured them. "Like so."
The stunned silence erupted into a torrent of disgusted shrieks, gagging noises, and "Oh my gawd!"s. The girls ran from the restroom and left the bar, herd of cattle style: all platform boots and jingling jewelry.
Triumphant, I removed the gloves, got the Windex from the supply closet, and cleaned the mirror properly, a huge smile on my face.
Tate - one.
Lipstick Graffiti Artists - zero.
(This is only a piece of the whole story. For more Tate, Ali, & Imp's Bottle, visit my Wattpad! MarCafeWrites.)
#Bar #Bartender #ImpsBottle #BarStory #Lipstick #Kisses #XOXO #Graffiti #lipstickgraffiti #Revenge #Payback
© Mar Café
