Chapter 1
— Chapter 1 —
Ellsworth, Maine
February 2007
“You look like shit on toast,” Buck says when I take over for him behind the bar. It’s eleven AM, and the slip of his words means he’s already drunk. Our only two customers are watching a monster truck rally on the TV behind me, drinking stout from IPA glasses. I wonder which beer they actually ordered.
“That bachelor party last night kept buying me shots,” I say. The ick is more in my stomach than my head, probably the combination of a hangover and the leftover fried clams I gulped down like a hungry seagull after we closed the bar at three AM. I know better. I’ve learned this lesson before. But with a full day of clam water soaked in my shirt and six hours of whiskey shots bathing my soul, I was already marinating in misery, and greasy food felt like the fix. I even ate the little burned up fried bits that clearly have no clam inside.
Buck shrugs. When I first started working here, he got mad at me for dumping my gifted shots in the sink under the bar on the sly. As far as he’s concerned, happy customers don’t drink alone. Hangovers are a cost of doing business.
“That guy called,” Buck says.
“What guy?”
“Hans Gruber.”
“Hans Gruber is the bad guy from Die Hard .”
Buck makes a face like the world is folding in and I’m asking him to think his way out of the crease.
“I know who you mean,” I say, giving his arm a squeeze. “Thank you for the message.”
“His number is around here somewhere,” Buck mumbles, rummaging through a stack of receipts, patting down his jeans. He gets frantic whenever he’s confronted with how many brain cells he’s killed. He’s still with it enough to notice he’s lacking, but not enough to function. Last week he thought I was a customer and told me to get out of the kitchen, even though I’ve worked for him for seven years. Sometimes he calls me Freda instead of Freya. It’s hard to tell how much is drunk and how much is burnout, but the result is the same regardless of cause.
“It’s okay,” I say, stashing my backpack under the register. “Wouldn’t call him back anyway.” I pull a bottle of Pepto from the front pocket of my bag and pour some into a coffee mug.
“Can I get a hit of that?” Buck says.
“It’s Pepto.”
“Yeah. I love that stuff.”
I grab another coffee mug and pour.
“Better heated,” Buck says, taking his mug, wandering into the kitchen.
I down mine and head to the end of the bar to ask if our patrons want a refill on their beers.
“That guy is a real trip,” the one in the Pats jersey says. Boston accent. Not Maine.
“Buck’s alright,” I say, mostly because I want him to be.
“Is he?” the other one asks, raising an eyebrow like some kind of Ben Affleck wannabe.
I nod. “Good intentions count.” Tips are better when you agree with your customer—let them trash their target, even egg them on. But I can’t play that game with tourists. These guys will be back in Boston by Monday. If I bat for their team, I’ll be left with the grime of selling out a friend for a few dollars.
“You say so,” Pats says, smirking.
I wish he looked like Matt Damon. But mostly, I just wish these guys weren’t here. I could sit at the end of the bar, dry silverware in silence, and wait for the Pepto to kick in. “You two are a real trip is what I think.”
Pats laughs.
“Did that guy really play the dobro with Jerry Garcia?” Off-Brand Affleck asks, giving me eyebrow again.
“Yeah,” I say with gravity, although to be honest, I have no idea if it’s true. All I know is Buck played banjo before his fingers went stiff, and he at least followed the Grateful Dead for a while.
I pour them a round of Guinness in pint glasses this time. “On the house,” I say, because it’s a good way to end a conversation.
Off-Brand Affleck grins. He thinks we have a rapport that we don’t. I hand them menus. Recommend the steamers.
Hank comes in, work boots shedding clumps of snow on the floor with every step. I wave hello and set him up in his usual seat with the first of four bottles of Budweiser I shoved in the ice bin for him last night, because he likes his beer extra cold.
We’re in for our usual Sunday. I’ll listen to all of his ice fishing stories, and he’ll slip me a twenty once he’s settled the bill.
“Thanks, beautiful,” he says after his first swig of beer. Then he takes a second to really look at me. “You okay, hon?”
“Late night,” I say, but I can feel that Pepto like it’s sitting in my chest and won’t drip down.
I’m only at work for two hours when the cold sweats start.
The bar is packed with belligerent hockey fans, air crowded with the stench of fried scallops on special because they’re two days past expiration. I think about calling Nadine, begging her to come in on her day off. The waitress on shift is sixteen, so I can’t give her booze duty. Buck is sleeping in his office. The dishwasher only speaks Russian. Suck it up , I tell myself, breathing through my mouth to avoid that smell. Suck it up.
But then everything starts to feel slow. I’m taking an order with a golf pencil that’s too worn down, and the scratch on the paper is inside my brain. I can’t pull air into my lungs. When I breathe, all I get is steam and fish and spilled beer, and the ache in my side explodes into fireworks. I drop my order pad on the table. Off-Brand Affleck catches me before I hit the floor, his dimpled chin fading in and out of focus. “Where’s Matt?” I ask, but he doesn’t get the joke.
When the EMTs are wheeling me down the cobblestone path to the parking lot, Buck runs at us, shouting, “Wait!” He grabs the side of the gurney. His sleeve is unbuttoned, and he rolls his cuff frantically while the EMTs stare at him, unsure of what to do.
“Is this it?” Buck asks, holding his forearm so close to my face that I can barely see the numbers written in Sharpie. “Is this Hans Gruber’s phone number?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know, Buck. I’m sorry.”
And then I puke on his shoes.