Chapter 22 #2
“Actually, no, I have a better idea.” Benji was already taking off his jacket.
“What if I just work tonight? Like right now. No pay, completely free, just let me show you what I can do. You can watch me, see if I fit, and if you hate me, you never have to see me again. But you won’t hate me because I’m fucking delightful. ”
I blinked. “You want to work a shift right now?”
“I mean, sitting here answering questions about ‘what tree would you be’ or whatever is boring as hell.” He yawned dramatically.
“Clearly you need help or we wouldn’t be talking.
You open soon, right? Let me help set up.
Let me work. Let me show you instead of tell you.
That’s way more effective. You can even keep all the tips, which I predict will blow your minds. ”
Mark was giving me a very aggressive thumbs-up behind Benji’s back.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Sure. Why not.”
“EXCELLENT.” Benji hopped up from the table and vaulted—actually vaulted—over the bar.
“Okay, Mark, what do we need? Where do you want me? What’s the priority?
I’m ready to work, and also I’m probably going to reorganize some things because I can already see three inefficiencies and it’s giving me hives. ”
“The garnish station could use—”
“Say no more.” Benji was already assessing the plastic bins filled with limes and lemons with the focus of a teacher inspecting a class of first graders.
“This is chaos. Beautiful, functional chaos, but still chaos. Give me ten minutes and I’ll have this running like a Swiss watch—a gay Swiss watch.
Very efficient, very sparkly, with the most dreamy accent. ”
“I don’t think watches are—”
“Mark!” Benji called, despite Mark standing right beside him. “Silver Daddy, can you grab me more lemons? We’re going to need way more. Also limes. Also, those little plastic swords because I have plans.”
Mark looked at me. I was still smothering laughter from Benji calling him “Silver Daddy.” That was going to stick. Hell, it might end up on T-shirts for all the staff.
Mark let out a sigh and went to get lemons.
Benji began reorganizing the garnish station with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times while also somehow humming along to whatever music was playing over the speakers and spinning a bottle for no reason except that he could.
“Is he always like this?” I asked the universe.
“I can hear you!” Benji called. “And yes, this is my normal setting! Wait till you see me when I’m excited!”
Chase must’ve had attorney-ESP or something, because he chose that moment to text.
Chase: So, how’d it go? Find anyone interesting or want to poke your eye with a pen?
Me: The first two were just okay. This third one . . . I think my whole body’s going into shock.
Chase: Good shock? Should I call a doctor? Maybe a priest. Do you need an exorcism?
I chuckled into the screen. Mark, returning with arms laden with limes, shot me a narrowed gaze.
Me: Let’s just say this one guy is unique. He’ll either light the place up or set it on fire. I’m not sure which. He insisted on working tonight for free so we could see him in action. Who does that in an interview?
Chase: Huh. Sounds exciting. I might need to see this.
Me: Come on by. We’ll be busy, but I’d love to see you.
Chase: Aw, he missed me.
Me: Stop it. Fine. A little. I don’t even know you. This is stupid.
Chase: I can hear you blushing through the phone. See you in a few hours.
My five o’clock interview—Sarah Morrison—never showed up. She didn’t call, didn’t email, just didn’t appear. I tried not to take it personally, but it reminded me too much of my dating past.
Then I looked up from my phone and realized that Benji had taken over my bar . . . but not in a hostile takeover way. In an “I love this and I’m going to make it better” way.
By the time we opened at five-thirty, he’d reorganized the garnish station, the speed rail, and somehow convinced Rod to let him rearrange the garnish prep in the kitchen “for optimal workflow.” Rod, who let no one touch his kitchen, had just . . . let Benji.
“I like him,” Rod said when I went to check what Benji had done. “He’s got good energy, and he knows his way around a knife.”
“That’s either reassuring or concerning.”
“Both, probably.”
By 6 p.m., we had our first real rush.
And Benji was . . .
I still didn’t have words for what Benji was.
He was fast—faster than me, which was saying something.
He could make three drinks simultaneously while carrying on a conversation with a customer about why the Tampa Bay Rays deserved more respect, and also did they know that the mojito was actually Cuban and not Puerto Rican despite what most people thought?
And damn, he was efficient. It was like watching a professional athlete playing at the top of his game. Every movement had purpose, no wasted motion, and the kind of economy that came from years of high-volume work.
He was also insane.
“Okay,” he announced to a customer. “You want a whiskey sour. I’m going to make you the best whiskey sour of your life, and I’m going to do it while singing ‘Running through My Head’ from Horny Rivals—”
I gaped as he made the drink perfectly while also putting on a spectacular performance. By the time he sang the last note, a huge crowd had gathered around the bar and was singing along with him. They cheered when he stopped and presented the drink with a flourish.
Mark and I were watching from the far end of the bar. I didn’t glance over, but I was pretty sure both our mouths were hanging open. I was leaned against his shoulder, and he was braced against the bar.
“Is he always talking?” I asked Mark.
“Apparently, sometimes he sings,” Mark said. “But look at him work. He’s incredible.”
“The guys sure love him.”
Mark grunted. “That’s an understatement. They’re calling out song requests with their drink orders.”
Around 8 p.m., a group of guys approached the bar—the kind of group that made my bartender instincts tingle because they were definitely going to order something complicated.
“What can I get you delicious hunks of man meat?” Benji asked, somehow making it sound genuine instead of sleazy.
“Can you make a Midnight in Tokyo?” one of them asked, clearly testing him. “It’s got sake, gin, plum wine, yuzu, and—”
“Stop right there.” Benji held up a hand. “I know what you’re doing. You’re testing the new bartender. I respect that. I appreciate that. I’m about to blow your mind in a way that will make you think I just blew something else. Watch this.”
What happened next was somewhere between performance art and witchcraft.
Benji grabbed bottles without looking, like he had some kind of spatial awareness that defied logic. He started building the drink while talking.
“So Midnight in Tokyo was invented in 2015 by a Japanese bartender in New York—ironic, right?—and the key is the ratio of sake to gin, which most people get wrong—”
He flipped the sake bottle.
Caught it behind his back.
Poured a perfect measure without looking.
“—you need a two-to-one ratio of gin to sake, not equal parts, because equal parts makes it too heavy—”
The gin bottle sailed from one hand to the other mid-pour.
“—and the yuzu is fresh, none of that bottled garbage. You muddle it gently. You don’t murder it—”
He was muddling with one hand while building the next part of the drink with the other.
“When did we buy fresh yuzu? Fuck, what is fresh yuzu?” I whispered to Mark.
He shrugged. “I think Rod did that. Maybe the kid had some in his pocket. He’s just weird enough to carry his own stash.”
“—and the plum wine is just a float, like a whisper of sweetness, and if you shake this, you’re a monster. You stir it exactly forty-seven times—”
Benji wasn’t counting. He was just stirring while juggling three different bottles and somehow also making it look easy.
“—and the ice matters. Always use the big cubes, never the crushed stuff, and—”
He finished with a flourish—a spin of the cocktail glass that somehow didn’t spill a drop—and set it down with a little bow.
“Midnight in Tokyo. Made with love, expertise, and a concerning amount of caffeine on my part. First one’s on the house because you tested me and I respect that energy.”
The guy took a sip.
His eyes went wide.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “This is perfect. How did you—”
“I’m very good at my job, and also I don’t have an off switch!” Benji was already moving to the next order. “Tell your friends, find me on TikTok, and tip your bartender!”
The guy left a twenty on the bar.
Mark whispered. “We’re hiring him.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, immediately.”
“Yeah.”
“Before he gets away.”
“Mark, I know.”
“Good. Because if you don’t hire him, I’m going to, and then I’m going to fire you and replace you with him.”
“You can’t fire me. I own twenty-five percent—”
“I know a lawyer. I’ll find a way.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s my lawyer—”
“And he finally admits his crush! My night is complete.”
“Fuck off,” I said, though Mark’s rumble drowned out my words.
I walked over to where Benji was making four drinks at once while explaining to someone the difference between Japanese whiskey and Scotch.
“Benji.”
He looked over, didn’t stop making drinks. “Yeah, boss?”
“You’re hired.”
He set down the shaker. “For real?”
“For real. Can you start next weekend?”
“I can start right now if you want. I’m already working, and this is great.
You won’t regret this.” He was talking even faster than usual.
“Okay, I’m going to make like seventeen more drinks and then we’re going to discuss my compensation package, which needs to include creative freedom over the cocktail menu because some of your drinks are boring.
I’m going to make them un-boring. Everyone will love it. ”
“We haven’t even discussed salary—”
“We will. Later. After I prove I’m worth it.” He was already back to making drinks when he glanced back over his shoulder with a wolfish grin. “I’m so worth it.”
Mark was laughing so hard he had to lean against the bar.
“What did we just do?” I asked.
“Hired chaos incarnate.”
“He’s going to drive me insane.”
“Probably, but he’s also going to make you so much money you won’t care.” Mark clapped me on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you have a bartender. Now, go text your lawyer boyfriend and nail down that date.”
I pulled out my phone, but motion pulled my gaze upright. I looked up at Benji, who was making six drinks at once while somehow also taking a selfie with a customer and explaining why the Lightning were going to win the Stanley Cup this year.
“Hey Finn!” Benji called from the bar. “Where do you keep the edible glitter? Every gay bar needs edible glitter. It’s not optional.”
“Um, we don’t have edible glitter. I’ve never even heard of—”
“We do now! I’m ordering some. Consider it an investment in sparkle.”
Mark was laughing again.
I moaned.
But the crowd around the bar cheered and chanted, “Glit-ter! Glit-ter! Glit-ter!”