I wouldn't describe Tootsie's Saloon as rundown, but I reckon some folks might. It looks a little shabby from the street, what with the peeling paint and the old wooden hitching posts out front, but when you get inside, the bar stools are comfortable, there's a genuine oil painting over the bar, and brass spittoons are conveniently located at every poker table. I'm not saying it's the kind of place you'd go to mix and mingle with the big-shot cattlemen, but if you're looking for a no-frills watering hole where cowboys and regular folks come to hang out and do some serious drinking, Tootsie's is the place.

Thanks to cattle prices, this year business has been good, so good, I was finally able to afford to hire another bartender. Normally, I would try to find someone with at least a couple of years of bartending experience, but I made an exception for Lola. She was straight off the farm and knew next to nothing about bar tending but as soon as I laid eyes on her I said to myself, "Tootsie, you need to hire that gal."

My decision probably had something to do with the fact that the minute she walked in the door, every man in the place stopped to watch her sashay up to the bar in her tight-fitting, low cut gingham dress. Fred Murphy, who had been playing poker all night, turned his chair all the way around to get a better view, right in the middle of a good hand. Now mind you, poker is his very favorite pastime and he had twenty dollars bet on that hand. I never saw anything like it. Bubba Johnson, a flibbergibbet who usually has the attention span of a two-month-old puppy, couldn't take his eyes off her, just sat there all slack-jawed like he didn't have good sense. Heck, Fred Applebee was so gobsmacked by that hourglass figure, he missed his mouth and poured half a pint of beer down his front. Even old man Johnson had a smile on his face, something I hadn't seen since Clementine, his wife, left him and took Max, his favorite hunting dog. He doesn't seem to miss Clementine too much, but he always gets all misty-eyed when he talks about Max.

It turned out that Lola's only work experience was doing chores on her daddy's farm. She'd been out of a job ever since the bank came in and repossessed the place, hogs and all. She was used to spending long hours on her feet, had experience handling unruly animals and wasn't expecting much in the way of pay. In short, she was perfect for the job. I hired her on the spot, knowing that once word got around, every man in town would be bellying up to the bar just to get an eye full.

Now mind you I'm not one to brag, but I'm pretty easy on the eyes myself. I'm a curvy, 5'1" redhead and while I dress a little more for comfort than for style, I get my share of compliments from men who like a woman who has a little more meat on her bones. Why, just the other night, Luther Ledbetter said, "Tootsie, you have curves in places where most women don't even have places."

Earl, my first husband, God rest his soul, always admired that I was built a little on the hefty side. He was a carpenter and used to say my figure reminded him of a well-built chest of drawers - with the top drawer pulled out. He used to swear that I'd look just like the naked woman in the painting over the bar if I had a better hairdresser and a waistline. That Earl was a real sweet talker, and he meant every word of it, not like some of those malarkey-mouthed bar buzzards who come in here looking for a quick roll in the hay.

Like I was saying, I can hold my own in the looks department, but if I'm honest, I have to admit that I'm no match for Lola, not even close. She's a whole other kind of pretty, with an innocent smile that attracts men like flies to a manure pile. After her first few days, I knew Lola had the makings of a great bartender. She was quick to learn, customers loved her and in no time, her barkeeping skills were almost as good as mine.

Monday was supposed to be Lola's day off, but that evening when I looked up from restocking the liquor shelves, there she was, sitting at the end of the bar all by herself. She looked like ten miles of bad road. Her nose was running, her hair was a mess and her eyes were all red-rimmed and puffy.

I don't make a habit of getting involved in employees' personal lives, but Lola looked so pitiful, I couldn't help myself.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked, pouring her a whisky.

"I guess," she replied, as her bottom lip started to tremble. "I just broke up with Slim Johnson, my boyfriend - turns out, he's married."

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. How long were ya'll together?"

"Four months," she sobbed, "He said he was a lonely widower. How could he lie about a thing like that?" Her eyes welled up again as she took a swig of whisky. "He seemed so sincere."

"Of course he seemed sincere," I scoffed. You know what they say, 'The secret to success with women is sincerity, if a guy can fake that he's got it made.'"

Lola blotted her eyes with her sleeve and said, "But Slim told me he loved me," she sniffled. "He said I was something special."

"And let me guess what he said next," I interjected. "No woman has ever made me feel like this."

A wide-eyed look crept over Lola's face. "Yes, that's exactly what he said. How did you know?"

"Oh please, don't tell me you were gullible enough to fall for that one. It's the oldest line in the book."

"I'm not gullible," Lola protested. "I know he had feelings for me. I could tell by the way he kissed me."

"Oh, I'm sure he had feelings for you. The problem is, all of them originated below the belt. You need to wise up, Sweetie," I said, softening my tone. "Men like Slim, are jerks, plain and simple. Trust me. You're better off without him."

"But I must have meant something to him. Look, he gave me a solid gold bracelet."

I took one look at the green ring the bracelet left on her wrist and had to tell her, "Lola, that's not gold, it's brass. Not only is he a low-life cheater, he's a cheap, low-life cheater. Don't waste your tears on someone who doesn't deserve you. You need stop squalling over that sorry excuse for a man and go wash that pretty face of yours."

When Lola came back, I poured her another shot and made a suggestion, "Hey, since it's your day off and things aren't that busy, why not relax and hang out for a while."

"Thanks" she said. "Maybe I will. It's nice to have somebody older and wiser to help me sort things out. I haven't had anyone to talk to since Momma died."

"How about your daddy?"

Lola smiled and shook her head. "Daddy's the strong, silent type. Once when Momma complained that he seldom told her he loved her, he just looked all confused and said, 'I told you I loved you when we got married, I expected you'd remember a thing like that.'"

"I know the type," I said. "My second husband, Jethro, was quiet like that before he ran off with that frizzy-haired, husband-stealing hussy from Laredo. Jethro never could pass up loose women in tight clothes."

"Oh, Tootsie, I'm sorry," Lola said.

"Don't be," I replied. "He was a no good, two-timing loser. I'm happier without him."

"Well, I'm glad you're happy and thankful you took a chance on hiring me," Lola said. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate all you've taught me."

"Honey, you don't have to thank me for anything," I replied as I gave her hand a little squeeze. "You're doing a great job!"

I was getting ready to offer her another drink, when I saw him saunter in - Joe Bob Masterson, the Rodeo Romeo.

"Don't look now," I said. "But there's womanizer coming in the front door who would make your ex-boyfriend look like an amateur. He comes here every Monday night to tom cat around. Mildred, his poor wife, thinks he's playing poker with the guys, bless her trusting little heart. Just watch for a minute. His routine is always the same. He walks in around 8:30, scans the room, singles out a vulnerable looking woman, then starts buying her drinks to lower her inhibitions. The guys call him the Rodeo Romeo because he has a pick-up line about being a wealthy rancher and world-class rodeo cowboy. It's all a bunch of bull hockey. Truth be told, he and Mildred live in a rented shack down by the river. Mildred's daddy is the town sheriff and if he knew Joe Bob was two-timing his little girl, he'd tan his sorry hide and nail it to the wall."

"He's not bad looking," Lola observed.

"I guess, but every time I see a guy like him, I remember what my momma used to tell me when I was a kid, 'Don't pick that up, you don't know where it's been.' Besides, he's just a little too pretty if you ask me. Look at that outfit he's wearing; 10-gallon hat, fancy western shirt, and jeans so tight that if he farts, he's liable to blow his boots off."

Lola chuckled and whispered. "Uh oh, he's headed this way."

Sure enough, as soon as Joe Bob spotted Lola, his eyes lit up like a couple of kerosene lanterns. He combed his fingers through his slicked back hair, smoothed his mustache and made a beeline for the bar.

As he approached, I leaned over and whispered an idea to Lola. When I was finished, she said, "Sounds like a plan. It will serve him right. Let's do it!"

After blatantly ogling Lola's cleavage, Joe Bob eased onto the adjoining bar stool. "Can a lonely cowboy buy a pretty lady a drink?" he asked, as he snaked his arm around her shoulder and put his hand on her knee.

"Only one drink?" she cooed seductively. "I was hoping we could do shots, but not that rot-gut whiskey you cowboys drink. In the back room Tootsie has some fancy liquor from Mexico that I just love. It's called tequila. I get wild and crazy when I drink tequila shots, just ask Tootsie. Besides, I'm a pushover for a man who can hold his liquor."

"Now, Lola," I cautioned, "Remember what happened the last time you drank tequila shots."
Then I turned to Joe Bob and said, "Lola tends to get a little too friendly when she's drunk, if you know what I mean."

"Hogwash," was Joe Bob's reply. "There's no such thing as too friendly, ain't that right, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," pouted Lola. "Don't tell me what to do. My handsome cowboy friend is buying and we're about to get real friendly. Bring on the tequila."

"Okay," I said reluctantly.

When the drinking started, Joe Bob's eyes widened as Lola matched him shot for shot. After an hour or two, he was the drunkest I'd ever seen him, but his ego wasn't about to let a woman out drink him. I could tell he was close to being knee-walking drunk, but he kept on drinking and trying to sweet talk Lola. His hat was all cattywampus and he was sweating like a sinner in church, but he wasn't giving up. Right before he slid off the bar stool and passed out, he slurred, "Lola sweetie, you're so pretty you make me want to get all liquored up and do something I'll regret in the morning."

He was sprawled spread eagle on the floor when Lola stepped over him, looked down and said, sweet as could be, "Cowboy, I think you're already all liquored up and I have a feeling you're going to have some serious regrets in the morning."

We were both about to bust a gusset laughing when Lola stopped and said, "The way you filled those glasses under the bar was perfect. When you set them up, he had no idea his shots were tequila and mine were water. But what are we going to do if he wakes up, sees me stone-cold sober and figures it out? He'll be madder than a nest of hornets in a hail storm!"

"You've got that right," I said. "We'd better send for the sheriff to pick him up before he comes to."

"Okay," she agreed, "But wait just a minute." She paused to apply a thick coat of lipstick, then bent down and planted a big ruby-red lip print smack in the middle of Joe Bob's forehead. Still not satisfied, she smudged more lipstick on his collar. Just when I thought she was finished; she popped the snaps on his fancy western shirt and smeared a few more lip prints across his chest.

"There," she said, "Now you can send for the sheriff to drag him out of here."

I used to worry that Lola wouldn't be tough enough to handle the cowboys at Tootsie's Saloon, but not anymore. She's going to be just fine - but I'm not so sure about Joe Bob Masterson.