The sign in the window said "Help Wanted."
"I'm here for the job," I said to the owner after walking inside.
She nodded and pointed to a table in the corner. "Let's talk."
I sat down at the table. The place was empty except for some people sitting at the bar. All of them were sporting pins of the American flag and drinking imported beer. The woman waiting on them wore a knit shirt and limped when she walked. Printed on the black shirt in gold letters was the name of the bar.
"So what kind of experience do you have?" the owner asked, settling into the chair across from mine.
"You name it, I've done it," I replied.
She clucked her tongue and looked at me over the rims of her glasses. "You don't say." She was about to continue when someone at the bar yelped. I turned and saw the waitress hopping on her right leg. Next to her was a man who looked like he had just walked off the set of the Godfather.
"Dang, Senator," the waitress muttered. "Is that any way to act?" The man shrugged and returned to his stool at the bar.
"What's that all about?" I asked the owner.
"Nothing much," she replied. "Some of our customers kick our employees in the shins."
"They do what?"
"They kick our employees in the shins.
"Why?"
"No particular reason. They just do. It's a habit."
"Some habit," I said. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"Yes."
"Maybe you shouldn't let them," I suggested.
The owner paused. I could tell she was studying my face. "I should make something clear before we go any further. This is my business. I do what I want. Bonnie, there," she motioned at the waitress who by now had rolled up her pant leg to reveal a blue welt, "doesn't have to work here. Nobody does. If they don't like it, they can leave. It's a free country."
The tone of her voice had changed. It had been pleasant. Now she sounded annoyed. I should have shut up. But I had never been much good at that. "I've worked in bars in a lot of places. None of them let their customers kick their employees or anyone else in the shins."
At this her eyes narrowed. "Socialists."
I waited for her to say something else. But she didn't. I wondered what she meant by that, but before I could ask, the waitress yelped again. This time she was hopping on her left leg and glaring at a different man at the bar. He was tall, lean and combed his hair back like they did in the days of James Dean.
"Thanks, Senator," the waitress groaned. "Love the cowboy boots." He, too, just shrugged and returned to his stool at the bar.
"Did she just get kicked in the shins again?" I asked.
"It appears so," the owner replied.
"Don't you feel sorry for her?"
"They kick me in the shins, too. You don't see me complaining."
Slowly, I counted the number of people sitting at the bar. There were 18. "You know," I said, "at one time in this country, kids no taller than those bar stools used to work in factories from dawn till dusk, and miners died by the thousands. You know what the owners of those companies said? 'It's my business. I do what I want.' "
The owner slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose so she was looking through them. For the first time I noticed their green shades. "What do you want me to do? If I don't let my customers kick my employees in the shins, they'll go to another bar and do it. Nobody around here will have a job then."
"What if shin kicking was outlawed everywhere?" I responded. "Then what will your customers do?"
She didn't answer immediately. Finally, she replied. "They'll stay home."
"Are you telling me the only reason your customers come here is to kick people in the shins?"
She said nothing.
I sighed. At that moment it struck me that nothing I could say could convince her. Still, I gave it one more shot. "If you keep letting your customers kick you and your employees in the shins, someday none of you will be able to walk. You'll spend your days lying in bed, suffering and alone."
At this her face tightened. "Do you want the job or not?"
I was broke. All 18 people at the bar were kicking the waitress in the shins now. "Yes," I answered. "By the way, do you let people smoke here?"
The owner laughed. "Of course not. What would ever possess you to ask such a stupid question?"