the nerves of seeing Uncle Hank for the first time in years down the drain with the sudsy water. After, I use the hand towel to swipe the fog off the mirror and stare into my own eyes, gray just like Mom’s and Grandma’s. I never gave them much thought. They’re just what looks back at me from my reflection. Now, I wonder if they mean something more . . . to Unc. Does it hurt him to look at me? Hurting him is the last thing I want to do. I want to help him.
All right Willow, get it together. Tonight is no big deal. Go in there, watch Unc, and maybe serve some beers. That’s it, easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
The pep talk doesn’t work. I don’t believe me, either.
Hank’s is a madhouse. I have worked bars that would kill for this kind of crowd on a weekend night, much less a Thursday. But two-dollar drafts are apparently the magic ticket that brings people in. There’s a line of people waiting to play pool in some self-organized version of a tournament, Ilene’s bell is going off almost non-stop, though her smile never falters, and Unc is pacing back and forth behind the bar to keep up.
I can’t sit back and watch anymore.
I get up from the spot where he put me to ‘watch and learn’ and walk behind the bar to wash my hands in the sink.
“What’re ya doing?” Unc snaps. I’d be worried he would shoo me out of his area if his hands weren’t full of drinks and Olivia wasn’t tapping her empty and waiting tray on the bar in time to the country music playing.
“Helping. You do the beers, keeping them rolling. I’ll do the mixed drinks.”
Under normal circumstances, it’d be the opposite. You’d put your newbie on the beers because is a drunk guy really going to notice the difference in a draft Miller Light and a Coors Light? The answer’s no. Mixed drinks are a fickle creature, though, and people want that one thing they had that one time in some random bar, but they don’t remember what was in it, only that it was red, and they’re pissed at me when I don’t know exactly what they’re talking about. Or they read some snobby article online about top ten mixed drinks you need to try before you die and decide to order one, even though they don’t even know what’s in it. Newsflash, if you order something with bitters or sour mix, you’re going to get something with bite.
But this isn’t that crowd. The beers are the busiest station and will let Unc stand in one place and quit running himself ragged. And I can sure as hell mix Jack and Cokes all night.
I don’t give him a chance to argue, hip-bumping him toward the beer and taking my new place by the bottles and glasses. I get started, filling orders as fast as Olivia brings them in. I know Unc is watching me out of the corner of his eye, seeing if I can put my money where my mouth is. I’m not worried. I can. I even make a tray full of Long Island Iced Teas—gag—for a table of women who don’t want to drink cheap beer for their buzz.
We stay steady until about midnight, when it slows down considerably as if all these people are Cinderellas who need to get home before they turn into pumpkins.
I load the big industrial dishwasher again, the third time in an hour, and wipe down my station.
“You done pretty good.”
Unc’s praise is kind but delivered a bit begrudgingly, so I compliment him right back. “You do this by yourself all the time, six days a week? You must be a machine!”
His lips purse as he fights a smile.
“C’mon, you can tell me. You’re a robot, right?”
He lifts his elbow, his arm dangling down and wiggling right and left. I realize it’s his really crappy attempt at the robot dance. “Oh, my God, please don’t do that again. Rule number four, no bar dancing.” Really, I wish I had my camera so I could’ve captured that, especially the boyish grin on his wrinkled face.
“What’s one through three?” Those bushy brows rise, looking like snowy caterpillars, and he takes a small sip of the beer he poured for himself. Not the cheap draft stuff but a craft ale I was surprised to see on his beer list.
What a man drinks says something about him, and Unc’s got layers