Chapter 6
Finn
The space was bigger than the photos suggested but also dirtier, with questionable stains on the floor and a lingering smell that Mark optimistically called “character.”
As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, he reached into his pocket and held out a key.
“Almost forgot,” he said. “This is yours.”
Of course, I needed a key. Still, the moment felt strangely important, like it held weight or gravitas or some kind of importance I had yet to appreciate.
“Thanks,” I said, staring at the cold metal in my hand.
He grunted, clapped me on the shoulder with his meaty paw, then sauntered toward his car like he owned all of Ybor, not just our tiny corner.
I went home and made a list.
Actually, I made seven lists.
Lists of equipment we needed, of suppliers to contact, of permits to file.
Lists of furniture to buy, of potential staff positions, of things I didn’t know yet but needed to figure out.
Lists of lists I needed to make.
Priya came home from her shift around midnight and found me surrounded by legal pads while pecking at my laptop.
“You’re doing a spreadsheet, aren’t you?” she said from the kitchen as ice clanked out of the fridge door.
“Yes, I’m converting my lists into an Excel spreadsheet as the gods intended. Don’t interfere with divinity in action.”
Her laugh was tired but still all Priya, warm and sincere. “You know you’re unemployed, right? You’re allowed to relax.”
“I’ll relax when we open.”
“That’s not how mental health works.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have that look,” she said as she dropped onto the couch and took a sip of her iced tea. “The one you get when you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling. I’m planning.” I held up one of the legal pads. “There’s a difference.”
She gave me the same look my mom used to give me when I had chocolate smeared across my face but insisted I hadn’t been snacking. “Please remember to eat . . . and sleep.” She sniffed dramatically, then wrinkled her nose. “And occasionally bathe.”
“Yes, mom.”
She stood, downed the last of her tea, and vanished down the hall. As her door clicked shut, I lifted an arm and sniffed.
“Oh, God. She’s right about the bathing,” I muttered, then I went back to my lists.
Tuesday morning, I posted ads on every job site I could find.
WANTED: Cook for new gay sports bar in Ybor. Experience required. Creativity encouraged. Must be able to handle high volume and work well under pressure. Competitive pay. Contact Finn at . . .
WANTED: Barback for new gay sports bar in Ybor. No experience necessary but preferred. Hard worker, fast learner, team player. Training provided. Contact Finn at . . .
I stared at the ads for a long moment before hitting “post.”
This was real. We were hiring people. We were building a team.
A thousand butterflies chose that moment to dance a jig across my skin, and I couldn’t suppress a giggle. Then another. Before I knew it, I was on my back on our dingy carpet, cackling like a madman.
Holy shit, we were actually doing this.
My phone rang.
“I posted the ads,” I said before Mark could speak.
His reply held the intensity of a weightlifter struggling beneath a dead lift. “I’ve been refreshing the page waiting for them to go live. They look good.”
“You’ve been refreshing a job posting site?”
“I’m invested. And bored. The dogs can only entertain me for so long.” I heard barking in the background. “Okay, that’s a lie. The dogs are great, but I’m still bored. What’s next?”
“Equipment shopping. I made a list of restaurant supply places—”
“I’m picking you up in twenty minutes. Wear comfortable shoes.”
He hung up before I could argue.
Twenty minutes later, we were in Mark’s truck heading to a restaurant supply warehouse in Tampa that Mark swore had the best prices. The place was enormous, filled with industrial everything—stoves, refrigerators, dishwashers, prep tables, and shelving units that could survive a nuclear blast.
“We need a commercial range,” I said, consulting my list. “Six burners minimum and a flat-top grill.”
“What about this one?” Mark was already halfway across the warehouse, pointing at something that looked like it belonged in a spaceship.
“That’s a combi oven. We don’t need a combi oven.”
“But look at it. It’s shiny.”
“Mark, no.”
“You’re no fun.”
We spent three hours there. Mark wanted to buy everything. I tried explaining that leasing our equipment might make more financial sense and preserve our piggy bank, but he was about as focused as one of his dogs entering a dog park.
I had to physically restrain him from purchasing a soft-serve ice cream machine.
“We’re a bar, not a Dairy Queen.”
“But what if we wanted to do boozy milkshakes?” He pouted.
“We don’t have the budget for boozy milkshakes.”
“We could make it part of the budget—”
“No.”
By the end of the day, we’d ordered a commercial range, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, prep tables, and approximately seventeen other things I’d need a forklift to move. The salesman loved us. My anxiety about the budget was doing backflips.
Wednesday was glassware day. I’d found a wholesale supplier online that sold everything from pint glasses to cocktail coupes. Mark and I spent four hours picking out what we needed.
This should have been simple. It was not.
“We need basic pint glasses,” I said. “Sixteen ounce, nothing fancy.”
“What about these with the textured bottom?”
“Those cost three times as much.”
“But they look cooler.”
“Mark.”
“Fine. Basic it is.” He moved to the next shelf. “What about rocks glasses?”
“Twelve ounce, standard.”
“These have a weighted bottom.” A pause. “Ha, I said, ‘bottom.’”
I ignored my junior high partner. “So do the standard ones.”
“But these are more weighted.”
“I’m going to weight you to the bottom of the bay if you don’t stop.”
He laughed, and we kept shopping.
By Thursday, my inbox was filling up with applications. Some looked promising. Most didn’t.
One guy’s cover letter for the cook position was just “i can make good food hmu.”
No capitalization. No punctuation beyond that period at the end. Neither Priya nor I knew what ‘hmu’ stood for. We weren’t twelve.
Another applicant for the barback position included a headshot that looked like it was from a modeling portfolio and a resume that listed “looking hot” as a skill. He wasn’t wrong. He was devastatingly handsome, but a barback? Just no.
“This is going well,” I said to Priya that night.
“I am Indian. We season our food with sarcasm. Do not start with me, young man.”
I wasn’t in the mood to play and blew out a heavy sigh. “What if everyone who applies is terrible?”
“Then you will keep looking.” She was sprawled on the couch in her scrubs, eating Froot Loops for dinner because that’s what she did when she was too tired to cook. “You are catastrophizing again.”
“Catastrophizing? Is that even a word?”
She shrugged and shoved a spoonful of color into her mouth. “I am a doctor. And I am from another country. I get to make up words.”
I groaned. “You’re not helping.”
“And you are being anxious.” She pointed her spoon at me. “Tomorrow, you are doing interviews. Some will be bad, maybe most will be bad, but you only need to find a couple of good ones, right?”
Of course, she was right. Priya was always right.
I had five interviews scheduled for Friday.
The first guy was applying for the barback position. He showed up twenty minutes late, reeked of weed, and asked if “the dress code was chill” because he “didn’t do uniforms.”
“Thanks for coming in,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”
The second guy, also applying for barback, showed up on time but spent the entire interview talking about his DUI and asking if we’d be “cool about it” when he inevitably needed rides home after shifts.
“We’ll let you know,” I said.
The third candidate, Tamara, was applying for the cook position.
I was shocked to find that she was qualified—too qualified, in fact.
She’d worked at three Michelin-starred restaurants and made it very clear she was only discussing a “bar job” until one of Tampa’s better restaurants earned a star and needed her unique talents.
Then she asked about our “culinary vision” and seemed offended when I said we were planning on burgers and wings.
“I see,” she said, standing up before the interview was even over. “I don’t think this is the right fit.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t think so either.”
The fourth interview was also for a cook position. The guy seemed normal enough until he asked if we’d be okay with him “occasionally” showing up drunk because he had “a bit of a thing,” but it was “totally under control.”
“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said.
“Your loss, man.”
By the time 4:30 rolled around, I was ready to throw in the towel. Maybe we’d just have to keep looking. Maybe the perfect candidates didn’t exist. Maybe I was being too picky, or not picky enough, or—
Someone knocked on the door.
I looked up from my notes to see a man standing in the doorway.
He was stocky, with a muscular build, graying black hair in a neat fade, and a salt-and-pepper goatee.
He wore a faded black T-shirt that showed off tattooed forearms, jeans, and work boots that had seen better days.
I wondered if one of his toes might make a run for it.
He looked like he’d just come from a construction site.
Which, according to his application, he had.
“Finn?” he said, his voice accented with some flavor of South America.
“That’s me. You must be Rodrigo?”
“Rod,” he corrected. “Nobody calls me Rodrigo except my mother when she’s mad at me. Are you mad at me?”
I chuckled, caught a bit off guard. “No, and I’m not your mother.”
“Thank God.” He grinned and extended his hand.
His handshake was firm, callused, and confident without feeling overbearing. As we shook hands, he held my gaze with an earnestness I found . . . endearing.
“Thanks for coming in, Rod,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from me. “Have a seat.”
He scanned the space with an assessing eye as he sat. “Good bones,” he said. “Needs work, but good bones.”
“That’s what we’re hoping.”
He turned back to me, and something in his expression was different from every other interview I’d had that day. He was focused and professional, like he was taking this seriously.
Like this mattered to him.
“So,” I said, glancing down at his application. “You’re applying for the cook position.”
“Yes.”
“Your resume says you’ve been working construction for the last three years.”
“That’s right.”
“Before that . . .” I scanned the page. “I don’t see any food service experience listed.”
“No,” he agreed.
I looked up. “So why are you applying for a cook position? We need someone with experience.”
Rod smiled, just slightly. “Because,” he said, “I didn’t put everything on my resume.”