Tommy’s face was always red. He had brown rocker hair with puffy bangs and thinner wispy parts in the back. He had white business cards with a black font reading: Master Tim – Bartender. Tommy was the quintessential New Yorker from the 70’s who wore the same outfit, tight black jeans, white t-shirt and black leather vest with a gold zippo in front pocket for easy access. Even with an owner who was fussy, and always gave Tommy a hard time, he had the final say on anything that was changed in the bar. He was Red’s Corner. His presence behind the shiny, dark wood bar rail was huge. He’s who you want to greet you in a bar when you’re 20. He’s the person that you wait for to serve you these cocktails that you’ve waited your life to experience while hustling up customers to take back next door to the Chez Paree, cause it’s illegal to serve alcohol in the gentlemen’s club.
Tommy would start, “Heeeeeeyyyyyy, girls – no joke, why don’t you give your boss Steve free dances? He’s the one who gave you a bar next door to spend all your hard earned money at and get smashed, eh? Why don’t you offer him a quickie in the back next time you see him, do it for the simple fact he’d be a hell of a lot happier and stop riding my ass for stupid shit.”
