3. Carolina
Chapter three
Carolina
H e’s late.
The wooden blinds thud against the windowsill when I let them drop. 4:30 has come and gone and I’ve been waiting around for as long as I can to catch Berg before I have to leave for work, but he hasn’t shown up. Every time I hear car tires splashing through puddles on the road, I perk up and my heart pounds as I strain my ears to determine if the vehicle is headed up the drive. Is he really going to be grumpy like Chris said? Or was he just screwing with me? Will he make me sign some sort of tenancy agreement? What if he wants to check my credit score?
Oh my god, I should have thought of that sooner. Rain patters against the glass, the heavy cloud combining with my worries and making my new place feel drearier than it is. I quickly use the washroom before leaving, patting down my hopelessly frizzy curls that the humidity is doing no favours for. Smoky grey tiles line the huge glass-door shower and I can’t wait to get in there later. I gather my purse and zip up my jacket, rushing out to my car. Peering down the road one last time for any sign of Berg returning home, I hop in the driver’s seat and head out.
Annoyance pulses at the edges of my mind as I drive. Why didn’t he show up? My time is valuable too. And the last thing I need is him telling my brother that I didn’t care enough to meet up with him. At a stoplight, a group of women about my age cross the road. A wave of jealousy washes over me when I see their stylish athletic wear, the expensive coffees in their hands, the fresh highlights. I’ve been living bare bones for a year now, all my money going to my credit card and to keep my car running. But it will be worth it. I’ve set some money aside so that I can manage this move and so long as Berg doesn’t charge me an arm and a leg, I might be ahead for the first time in too long. The light changes and the women walk by and I set my focus back on where it should be. On starting over.
Pulling up at work a few minutes later, I park in the back lot and hold my breath as I speed walk past the full dumpsters against the fence line.
“Shoot,” I say, noticing that I’m a few minutes late.
My car clock must be slow. I practically burst through the back door into the kitchen. The scent of tomato and onion lingers in the air while I unzip my dripping coat and hang it up .
“Hey, Theresa,” I say, fixing my hair back the best I can as I greet the pub's chef in her tiny but immaculate kitchen. You’d never know we’re in the back of an ageing pub owned by an old guy with a serious appreciation for oceanic decor.
“Whatever you’re making smells amazing.”
“Hey! Thanks.” She smiles, lifting a ladle in greeting and dripping sauce down her front. “Meatball Monday!”
The office door off the kitchen swings open and Carl, the owner’s son, leans against the door frame. “You’re late,” he says.
Theresa gives me an uneasy look and turns back to her giant pot of marinara bubbling on the gas burner.
“Sorry, I had an appointment. I’m ready to go.”
“You’re not wearing your apron.”
My teeth grit. “I will be momentarily, Carl.”
Carl’s dad, Marv, is the sweetest man ever but his son is a piece of work. He seems to think that his couple of semesters of business school transformed him into serious management material. In reality, I’m pretty sure he needs a calculator to make change and doesn’t have the next clue about labour laws. But who am I to talk? I can’t even show up on time for a bartending shift.
“Get going then.”
On principle, my feet want to root themselves to the tile beneath me, but I force a smile and turn toward the swinging door that leads to the bar. I need this job and being snarky isn’t how I’m going to keep it.
“Your shoes are wet,” he calls after me .
Right as I open my jaw to tell him it’s fucking raining outside, the door to his office slams shut. He always has to get the last word.
Theresa grabs the mop in a flash. “I’ll clean up the water, Caro. I’ve got sauce splashed on the floor anyway.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I really don’t mind. He sure seems to have it out for you.”
I shrug, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Aw, so he’s only an asshole to me?”
She snorts as I head through the swinging doors, peeking through the porthole windows.
Thankfully, Marv is behind the bar. He’s probably only about ten years older than my own parents, but he gives me total sweet old grandpa vibes. I enjoy working with some of the other younger bartenders too, but the patrons don’t mess with Marv, and that makes for a smooth night. My shoes squeak on the polished floor, and he turns from the till to offer a crinkly smile that shrinks his brown eyes.
“You made it,” he says.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Marv glances up at the old nautical style clock encircled in thick rope.
“Hardly. Just glad you weren’t washed away. It’s raining cats and dogs!”
Total grandpa.
Opposite ends of the bar are occupied by two regulars and people are finishing early suppers at a couple of four tops. Booths line the walls to my left and right, the worn leather shiny beneath the stained glass light fixtures. I snag a black apron from the bin below the counter, tying it snug around my waist.
“I left a little list of things to do if you have time, Caro,” Marv says as he pours a pint from the tap.
“You bet.”
I’ve only been working at The Tipsy Mermaid for a few weeks, but the clientele is nice enough, predominantly local, and most of them tip. Bartending isn’t really the long-term goal. It’s barely my short-term one. But it’s the sort of thing that will help me get back on my feet. Carl usually puts me on closing shifts, which is exhausting, but I’m not full time. A flutter of nerves works its way through my gut at the thought of paying rent on the first of every month.
“Wanna pick the movie?” Marv says, nodding up at the tv.
In sticking with the nautical theme of the bar, Marv likes to keep an ocean themed movie playing at all times. There are a handful of other televisions that play sports and news, but he reserves one particular tv for his silly tradition.
“Hmm.” I peruse the drawer of old DVDs. “Titanic.”
I withdraw the case and insert the disc into the system.
“Not again,” says the old guy closest to my end of the bar.
I fist my hands on my hips. “And what would you have picked, Norm?”
He scratches the white scruff on his chin. “Jaws.”
“Well, imagine there are sharks in the water. ”
The next couple of hours really fly by, and I keep chuckling to myself because, despite complaining about my movie choice, Norm’s attention is glued to the screen.
“Eyes are getting a little misty there,” I say.
“It’s smoky in here.”
I freshen his drink, adding an extra napkin next to it as I slide it back and laugh. “You haven’t been able to smoke inside in like thirty years, old man.”
He grumbles, but I catch a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.