authenticguccishoes

ON a Wednesday: "Ma'am, your cab is here," I said to a woman who shook her rumpled mane, which had a barely connected hair clip dangling in the back.

"Where are your, um, friends?" asked another woman — dressed in a gold lamé minidress and bright white thigh-high boots — who was helping me get the woman out of the booth.

Ms. Mane pointed toward the restrooms. "Where are my car keys?" she asked.

"You can pick them up tomorrow," I said, knowing that technically you cannot deprive someone of her personal property — it's against the law — but chances were that she probably wasn't going to call the police, at least not tonight.

Ms. Lamé and I finally located the friend (and the friend's newest friend) by the bathroom. After allowing the friend to compose herself, including straightening out her hair and putting on some clothing she had sort of misplaced, we loaded the group into the cab and sent them on their way.

I then turned to Ms. Lamé.

"Thank you so much. That went a lot easier with your help."

She picked up her Pellegrino water. "No problem," she said blinking a very black eyelash nonchalantly.

9:50 p.m. that same Wednesday: "Hey!" I yelled, causing two heads to pop up from two women's midsections. Both women were lying on their backs on the bar booth table. "You guys can't do that in here!"

"Why not?" said one of the men, wiping a trail of drool from his face.

"Those ladies have had enough, and we don't allow body shots."

I was suddenly in a brief argument with the two women, exclaiming such phrases as, "No, you can't," "You aren't getting anything else to drink," "Yes, we have your car keys."

If it wasn't for the intervention of a woman in a gold lamé dress and white thigh-high boots, the conversation could have gone round and round for 10 minutes.

I looked at the clock; 10 minutes to closing. Thank goodness.

9:30 p.m. that same Wednesday: I glanced again at the lady in the white boots and gold mini-dress sitting at the bar. People don't often dress like that unless they are looking for attention. And often times that attention can be bad.

Meanwhile the two women sitting in the adjacent booth were starting to squeal louder and louder. Gone were the eyeglasses and most of their inhibitions. The two gentlemen who had been sitting at the bar abandoned their barstools and now, armed with several shots of tequila, moseyed on over.

9:15 p.m. that same Wednesday: "We are going to take that booth," said a woman with her brown hair held up neatly by a leather hair clip.

"Yes," said her blond friend, peering over her eyeglasses. "Please send our bottle of wine over."

Well, so much for our conversation, one that had encompassed the fact that both had advanced college degrees, both were in their 40s, unmarried and heavyweights in their respective fields. Too bad, I thought, it had been articulate and intelligent, whether it was about the wine or about the weather.

8:50 p.m. that same Wednesday: The three women sat at the bar almost simultaneously, but not together. One was wearing a skintight gold lamé dress and white thigh-high boots, and while her dark eye makeup made her appear slightly sinister the rest of her attire produced a different feeling altogether.

The other two — calmly self-confident and wearing designer jeans, carrying demure but pricey handbags, accessorized tastefully but not heavily, and with no wedding rings — were clearly self-made career types.

Subconsciously I made a choice. I helped the two women first, even though they all had sat down at the very same time. An expensive bottle of wine later and I turned to Ms. Lamé. I made a mental note; I'd better keep an eye out.

By the end of the evening, I had two thoughts:

. There's no such thing as "just another day" in the bar business.

. Over the years I have learned that the people who first look like they are going to be trouble usually aren't, and the people who don't usually are.