Friday or Saturday nights. Graham thought about limiting the hours during the winter, especially between the months of November and February, but didn’t know what he would do with all his downtime. He loved being a bartender, even though his passion lay in corporate America. He missed the challenges and the intricacies of working with computers, of being the tool everyone in his building needed. At night, when he was alone in his houseboat with only the sound of the ocean keeping him company, he thought about giving up the bar and returning to the rat race of traffic jams, meetings, and a cell phone that never stopped ringing. He missed the power-hungry women and the sexiness they exuded when they were asking him for help, as well as the corporate ladder and the feeling that came with being indispensable. He gave it all up, and for what? To be a bartender in an establishment his parents owned? Granted, he was free to do whatever he wanted with the place . . . except sell it. His parents were silent partners, the bankroll that kept the place afloat, mostly for his alcoholic brother, Grady. His twin brother.
Graham continued with his busywork. He lost count of how many times he wiped the bar top down, stacked coasters, and quickly sopped up any inkling of a water drop. The old decking that made up the bar top was rumored to have come from the same pirate ship the door and floor had. Again, rumors spread like wildfire, and he had no idea if it was true, but it was in pristine condition as far as he was concerned. At the end of the summer, once business slowed, he had begged his friend Brooklyn to teach him how to strip and refinish the piece. He wanted to maintain the chunks of wood as long as he could, and the previous finish hadn’t held up over the years. He filled the bowls of nuts, restocked the beers he kept in bottles, checked the taps of the newly installed IPAs, straightened the liquor bottles, dusted the glass shelving, washed the glasses, and checked on the old cronies in the corner.
The Whale Spout was Cape Harbor’s only watering hole. Not that others hadn’t tried to open other bars; they just couldn’t compete and often closed within a year or two. Sure, the restaurants in town served liquor, but the locals preferred the one that had been in town the longest. “The OG,” as you’d often hear residents tell visitors. Since Graham took over, he’d made a few changes, such as the large-screen projector in the back that aired local sporting events, the smaller televisions at the bar, a better jukebox—because even he knew he had to cater to the women who wanted to dance while their men wanted to be at the bar. He wanted the place to be the hot spot, the happening joint, the place to be, and for the most part, he thought it was.
There were a few other patrons in the Whale Spout, two of whom sat at the bar and four or five guys in the back, playing darts. Each week, there were darts and billiards tournaments and, in the summer, beach volleyball. He always offered cash prizes, the amount determined by the number of entrants.
For the past fifteen years, Graham had been behind the bar. Before him it had been his father, and before his father, his grandfather. Graham wasn’t sure if it was his grandfather’s intention to create a Chamberlain legacy, but he had. It seemed almost like one hundred years had passed since Floyd Chamberlain bought the Whale Spout. A framed picture of him holding the driftwood sign sat near the cash register, along with similar pictures of the other previous owners. Graham never intended to take over the bar, and it really hadn’t been expected of him either. His parents never pushed and instead encouraged him to go to college in California. They secured the loans with the understanding he would pay them back once he landed his first job. His first, and subsequently only, job came in the form of a systems IT analyst and came with a nice Silicon Valley paycheck.
Living in California wasn’t exactly a dream but a stepping-stone to something bigger and better. His intentions were to either return to Washington or move to Oregon in ten to fifteen years and open his own security and IT company. Far too often, small businesses