“Uhm . . .” I was just kidding, but I’m not going to lose this battle of wits. No way, no how. It’s a matter of honor among bartenders now.
“Rule one, no free drinks. I don’t care who you are. Pay or go thirsty.” Unc tilts his head, and I wonder how many of his friends drink for free.
“Rule two, heavy till ten, we’ll see you again. Light after midnight because they’re too drunk to give a fuck.” Crass maybe, and not language I typically use, but it’s one of the staples of tending bar I learned working in college bars. Those early drinkers are the ones you want to come back again and again, so you pour just a little extra drop in their glass, toss them a wink like they’re getting special privileges, and they’ll be your best customers. The folks who come in late at night are already half-tipsy, can’t tell if a drink is strong or weak, and skinny pours are a way to keep costs down. Unc gives me a nod this time, which I take as agreement.
“Rule three, drinks first. I’m friendly, sociable, and I’ll be your free therapist on a slow night and listen to all the ways your day sucked and your wife did you wrong. But if it’s busy, I’m slinging drinks first and chatting second.”
That one was the hardest for me to learn. I’m a reluctant people person by nature. I don’t want to talk to them, I’m too quiet for that, but I love to hear stories. I’m the random stranger people open up to in the grocery line, at the bank, and yep, at the bar. I enjoy hearing about people’s days, their lives. Even if I can’t take a picture, it’s like a snapshot into who they are. But a bit too long at one end of the bar with one customer means you’re neglecting others, and that affects the bottom dollar, for me and the bar. Sad but true.
“Which leads to rule four, I guess.” He’s smiling, and I know he’s well aware that I just made those rules up on the fly. I’m decently quick on my feet, though, so I think they’re pretty on point.
“Right. No bar dancing. This ain’t Coyote Ugly. It’s Hank’s, the best honkytonk in town.” I add in the slogan I read on the paper placemats as an extra sparkle of so there.
“I think you’re gonna fit in just fine, Miss Willow. Welcome to the team, officially.” He sticks his hand out, and I shake it, but then he pulls me in for a hug and I wonder if he remembers Mom’s saying too.
Two weeks pass by in a blur.
I get to know Olivia and Ilene better, and yes, they both tell me their life stories, which are full of obligatory small-town drama.
Ilene’s been married to her high school boyfriend for thirty-eight years, she proclaimed proudly, and they have five kids who are all grown and on their own.
We weren’t sure our middle boy was gonna make it. Cops brought that punk home more times than I could count, and he worked his butt off to make reparations for that tractor he messed up on his field trip.
She’d had to explain that she literally meant he drove his truck through a field, hence ‘field trip’, and he’d crashed it into a rusty tractor, causing thousands of dollars in damages.
But he went into the Army and they took him down a peg or two. He’s got a wife of his own now and two little boys who are the apple of their momma’s eyes and are gonna give their daddy a helluva ride when they’re teenagers.
She seems a bit too gleeful at that prospect.
Olivia surprises me even more. I was right about her age. She’s twenty-one, but she’s not still ‘finding herself’ like so many are at that age, or at least like I was. She knows exactly who she is and who she isn’t and doesn’t have time or patience for anyone who doesn’t agree. I like her a lot.
Moved here a couple of years ago with my girlfriend. We live downtown above her boutique. She sells Western clothes, boots, and hats, mostly to tourists who want a ‘look’ for their vacation but to locals too.
She’d emphasized the word ‘girlfriend’, then waited and watched for my reaction to her verbal bomb which had been nothing more than a promise to visit if I needed some Western gear. Olivia smiled,