October 24, Friday
angel's share the portion of bourbon lost to evaporation during barrel aging
THE TOUR bus rattled to a stop outside the strip mall office, and I could already see Teresa waiting in the parking lot, her signature clipboard clutched against her chest like armor.
She wore a particularly vibrant shade of coral today that seemed to glow against the morning overcast, and there was something about her posture that suggested she'd been planning whatever fresh torment awaited me.
"Here we go," Jett muttered under his breath as he opened the bus door.
Teresa climbed aboard with theatrical flourish, her smile so bright it could have powered the entire bus. "Good morning, my dear performers! I have wonderful news—we've decided to implement another one of Bernadette's brilliant suggestions."
My stomach dropped. I'd made so many offhand comments about improving the tours that I couldn't immediately recall which particular idea she was about to weaponize against me.
"Since you mentioned making the historical lectures more engaging," Teresa continued, settling into the front seat and opening her clipboard with ceremony, "we want you to fully embrace your barmaid character.
We're talking full theatrical presentation—historical brogue, maybe throw in some cockney or Irish accent here and there.
Really transport our customers back to the frontier days! "
I stared at her, understanding that this was designed to humiliate me.
Teresa had seized on my suggestion about costumes and twisted it into something that would make me look ridiculous in front of paying customers.
The barmaid outfit was one thing—it was actually quite flattering and authentic-looking.
But performing in dialect? That was pure sabotage.
"You want me to speak in character for the entire tour?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral.
"Absolutely! Think of yourself as a living history lesson. Our customers will feel like they've been transported to a real 1800s saloon!" Teresa's pen was already poised above her clipboard, ready to document my inevitable failure.
I glanced back at Jett in the rearview mirror and caught his slight nod of encouragement. Whatever Teresa was plotting, I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
"Well then," I said, standing and adjusting my leather corset with deliberate theater, "if it's authenticity ye be wantin', then authenticity ye shall have."
I slipped into what I hoped was a passable Irish accent, drawing on half-remembered movies and the occasional Celtic music festival my mother had dragged me to in Arizona. The words felt strange on my tongue, but there was something liberating about hiding behind a character.
"Welcome aboard this fine vessel, me hearties," I continued, gesturing broadly as our morning customers—a group of retirees from Ohio—filed onto the bus with bemused expressions. "I be Bernadette O'Malley, and I'll be yer guide through the grand adventure of Kentucky's liquid treasures."
The customers looked delighted rather than confused, immediately leaning forward with interest. One elderly gentleman actually applauded.
"Now then," I said, warming to the performance, "before we set sail on our journey through bourbon country, we must attend to the sacred ritual of safety instructions. And what better way than with a proper tavern song?"
Teresa's smile faltered slightly as I caught Jett's eye in the mirror. He was grinning broadly, and I could see him trying not to laugh.
"Mr. Jett, if ye would be so kind as to join me in our traditional safety ballad?"
"My pleasure, Miss O'Malley," Jett replied, playing along with obvious enjoyment.
Together, we launched into an improvised version of the safety rules set to the tune of "Happy Birthday," complete with exaggerated gestures and harmonized verses about seatbelts and emergency exits.
I threw myself into the performance with gusto, adding flourishes about "keepin' yer limbs inside the carriage" and "respectin' the sacred bourbon spirits we'll be tastin'. "
The Ohio retirees were absolutely enchanted. They clapped along, laughed at our theatrical pronunciations, and by the end of our musical safety presentation, they were completely won over. If Teresa had hoped to embarrass me, her plan was backfiring spectacularly.
Throughout the day, I maintained the character with increasing confidence.
I regaled our customers with tales of frontier life, spoke of bourbon as "liquid gold blessed by the ancient spirits of Kentucky," and described each distillery as if it were a mystical temple dedicated to the craft of alchemy.
The customers were eating it up. They asked me about my "family back in the old country," complimented my "authentic costume," and by midday, the tip jar was already fuller than it usually was by tour's end. Several of them had taken photos with me, posing as if they were at a Renaissance festival.
During our lunch break, Jett caught my eye and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Brilliant," he mouthed, and I felt a surge of satisfaction that had nothing to do with Teresa's approval.
"Well," Teresa said tightly as we prepared for our afternoon stops, "the customers certainly seem... entertained."
"Aye, they do indeed," I replied, maintaining character even in conversation with her. "Sometimes ye just have to give the people what they're truly wantin', wouldn't ye agree?"
By the end of the day, our Ohio retirees were raving about their "most memorable bourbon tour ever," and the tip jar was heavier than it had been in weeks.
Teresa's clipboard had remained mostly unused after the first hour, her attempts at criticism rendered pointless by the customers' obvious enjoyment.
As we unloaded at the strip mall office, my cheeks ached from smiling in character all day. Teresa might have intended to make me look foolish, but instead she'd accidentally given me the freedom to be as theatrical and engaging as I wanted.
With a shock, I realized I was better and more interesting when I was someone else.