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room, weaving my way around wooden tables, chairs and longer rectangular bar-like structures that had been built around metal floor to ceiling poles – structural supports, I assumed. These counter type bars had slate tops and a small raised ridge around the edge, presumably to keep drinks from sliding off. The men working on the beer tap stopped what they were doing and gawked, with questioning expressions on their faces as I passed by.
    The main bar ran the length of the right side of the room, and appeared to have a slate top matching the smaller structures; behind it were rows and rows of alcohol set off by a mirrored wall. The rest of the walls were plain plaster, painted a medium gray with neon signs placed in a strategic manner all around, advertising various brands of beer and liquor. The wall on my left had three small ‘basement type’ windows level with the sidewalk outside so you could see people’s feet as they passed. Given that we were in the basement of a multi-story building, the ceilings were high with exposed beams, pipes and wires jutting in every direction; but it felt somewhat oppressive, since everything had been painted an even deeper shade of gray than the walls. I noticed a juke box out of the corner of my eye by the stairs and the bathrooms.
    As I walked, I could feel the soles of my shoes sticking to the painted cement floor in places where drinks had spilled, and not completely been cleaned up, giving the cement the same stained appearance as the carpeting on the stairs. Each time my foot lifted off one of these spills, a sound like Velcro ripping apart pierced the silence of the room – Guess those little ridges don’t work very well, I thought. Why hasn’t someone washed this floor? And the smell – God I didn’t realize alcohol smelled this much.
    As we reached the far end of the room, a small, darkened stage area with a mirrored ball suspended above the middle came into view. The stage area itself was only elevated by one small step up, and was cluttered with ratty old over-stuffed furniture. Why is that there , I wondered. My escort opened a heavy looking wooden door with a brass ship’s porthole window at the side of the stage, and flicked a switch, turning on lights that were nothing more than a couple bare bulbs hanging at the end of wires, revealing a short hall and two small offices. The hall and one of the offices were lined with cases of liquor stacked five or six cartons high and shelves holding other necessities like, jars of cherries, mixed drink straws, and stacks of napkins; this was the store room as well as the administrative heart of this operation. The office doors were wooden, but the top half had been cut out and large panes of smoked glass had been added so whoever was in the office could see shadows in the hall. Smiling, Mr. Peace, as I had named him in my mind on the walk through the bar, nodded at two cracked maroon Naugahyde chairs in front of the desk and said, “Have a seat.” He then rounded the paper strewn structure and slid into his own creaking swivel chair.
    I smiled back and sat down. By this time I was having major doubts about my decision a few minutes before… What the hell am I thinking; this place is a dive, and it smells like stale booze and cigarettes … Am I out of my mind… Well, maybe I am, but I do need a job and this could be perfect… I can always quit when I find something better… and besides, I’m already here.
    The stark lighting revealed that Mr. Peace was older than I thought –somewhere in his early to mid-forties, although he dressed like a classic young hippie. “I’m Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding friendlier than it had by the doorway, “Charlie White. My partners and I own this place, but I’m the one that runs it. What’s your name? I haven’t seen you in here before. What makes you think you want to work for me?”
    “My name is Jackie Moretti,” I told him, using my maiden name for some unknown