Beatle Girl

A Night in the Cavern Club

 "What can I get for you, sir?" You ask, giving the man sitting on the barstools in front of you a quick glance. It's your fourth or fifth shift since you've been hired at The Cavern Club and it's your fourth or fifth time serving this man his pitcher of beer that he'll slowly sip down throughout the night. You've always found him a bit off-putting. He has this way of making eye contact that never seems to leave, even if you're looking the other way. Any time he manages to catch your eye he gives you a wide smile with his piss-yellow and practically black teeth and you try your best to grin back as you suppress the disgusted look on your face. Luckily, you've never had to do much talking with him, as you were always with at least one other bartender who would make him too nervous to say anything. But tonight, you're here alone.

"A pint of your finest." His voice is gravelly and abrasive. "Don't you know that by now, princess? A big part of bartending is keeping track of your regulars."

You give a polite grin. "I'm still working on committing it all to memory." You grab a glass and fill it up with his drink, watching the bubbles rise to the top. You place a coaster and the drink in front of him and start to walk to the other end of the bar. He grabs your arm firmly.

"Where're you going, princess? Can't we have a conversation? It's not like you're very busy." He motions to the empty barstools surrounding us. There are quite a few people scattered across the Cavern but they all have drinks or cigarettes in their hands.

You stare at him, then look down at your wrist. Redness is forming around the place he's squeezing. You look back up at him and he's smiling. He lets go. He knows you're staying for the time being.

"So, d'ya like the band?" We both turn to look at the stage. Four boys around my age play their Merseybeat music loudly into two microphones, their voices reverberating off the walls. They're called The Beatles, and they have been playing here practically every night since I started. There's no place in the Cavern where the music isn't as loud as it would be if you were standing right in front of them because of the structure of the building, so everyone is slightly shouting to hear each other over it. You think their music is okay; it's not your thing by any means, but there's definitely been worse bands to play here. "Hey, it kinda looks like the one on the right is staring at you."

He's referring to the main guitarist – you rack your brain to remember his name, they introduce each other before every performance. Garry? Jeffrey? Joe? Your eyes dart to him and he was in fact looking at you. The two of you make eye contact for a split second before he looks away and stares blankly into the crowd. You brush it off as a coincidence.

"I think he was just zoning out."

"No one is just 'zoning out' looking at you, darling. He's lost in your beauty." He flashes another one of his gag-worthy smiles. You look away and try to grab the guitarist's attention again. He is quite attractive. Definitely nicer to look at than your current suitor. "You are quite beautiful, you know. I'd really love to take you–"

"I'm not interested."

His demeanor shifts. His shoulders tense and his hand grips his glass tightly. A part of you feels threatened – afraid he'll try to throw the glass at you. "You won't even give me a chance?"

"You're quite a bit older than me, no?" Your eyes glance at his well-into-balding hair. The band ends their song and quiet fills the Cavern. Suddenly, the conversation feels much more intimate and you can sense the anger coming off of him.

"You're quite cheeky, aren't you?

"I prefer charming. Or fascinating." You're keeping up good banter because it's what you're trained for but you're undoubtedly uncomfortable. There's a feeling of dread that's been forming in your chest since you first saw him and it's only been getting stronger. You wished more than anything that a coworker was here, or even another customer. Anything to get you away from this.

He tilts his head downward and mutters to himself as if preparing to say something. There's a long pause before his head shoots back up and he says, "You could be a bit nicer, you know?"

"You want me to say yes to every man that asks me out? Especially men who grab my arm and force me to talk to them?"

"You should be grateful you get to talk to me! I'm just trying to keep you entertained here."

You struggle to keep your mouth from dropping at that sentence. "Oh, it's definitely been entertaining." You jab, though it flies right over his head.

"I just don't understand why you won't even give me a chance."

Your discomfort has turned into annoyance. You roll your eyes. As you glance away, you notice a customer at the end of the bar. They're a couple around your age, holding two empty glasses. The girl is waving you over. You begin to walk over, containing your relief. "I have to go."

—

Throughout the rest of the night, the man stays sitting at the other end of the bar, waiting for you to come back over to him. Luckily, a decently steady line of customers began to come up to the bar, keeping you busy. You pay attention to the music more than you ever had this shift – the creep's comment about the guitarist looking at you got you thinking more than it should have. You took another glance at him and he was staring right at you. You looked away, blushed, and then immediately began thinking of explanations of why he would be staring at you. You couldn't think of anything convincing enough to settle your nerves, however.

During one of your customers, it seemed the creep had gotten bored of waiting for you to serve your customers and instead decided to talk to you while you were making their drinks. He tried to get a sentence out, but you immediately cut him off and said you weren't interested. He tried again, and you repeated yourself. You had hit your limit with him, and every word he said only fueled your anger more. He settled for sitting silently again, however, this time he stayed right next to where your customers were lined up.

This continued until the end of the night, when the band began cleaning up and you had closed the bar a while ago. You finally decided to say something. "I need you to leave. It's closing time, and I'm about to lock the doors. There are no more conversations that we're going to have, so there is nothing for you to be waiting for."

Surprisingly, he got up and walked away, though he was pouting the whole time. You were more than happy with that reaction, though. You knew it could have been much worse. You finished cleaning the bar and began to do laps around the floor for any glasses people might have left on tables.

While you were doing so, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Immediately, you think it was the creep. He must have never left and was just waiting for another chance when he could talk to you. At this point, your anger for him has absolutely peaked, and you couldn't control yourself anymore. You quickly turn around and punch him square in the face.

However, once you look more closely, you find it was not the creep that you just punched, but the guitarist of the Beatles!