Chapter 2
WILLOW
Who am I kidding? It’s better than my studio apartment in the city that’s more of a walk-in closet than living space. But that’s home. This . . . isn’t.
I walk down the hall, not surprised to see a small but cute bedroom.
The full-size bed is a bit tight for two people, not that I’ll be sharing it with anyone, and decorated with more pillows than I can possibly ever use in the few months I’ll be staying here.
I toss my duffel bag of clothes onto the closet floor, though I promise myself to hang stuff up later, and carefully set my camera bag on the chest of drawers.
Home, sweet home.
I take a shower, letting the hot water wash the stress of the drive and the nerves of seeing Uncle Hank for the first time in years down the drain with the sudsy water.
After, I use the hand towel to swipe the fog off the mirror and stare into my own eyes, gray just like Mom’s and Grandma’s.
I never gave them much thought. They’re just what looks back at me from my reflection.
Now, I wonder if they mean something more .
. . to Unc. Does it hurt him to look at me?
Hurting him is the last thing I want to do. I want to help him.
All right Willow, get it together. Tonight is no big deal. Go in there, watch Unc, and maybe serve some beers. That’s it, easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
The pep talk doesn’t work. I don’t believe me, either.
Hank’s is a madhouse. I have worked bars that would kill for this kind of crowd on a weekend night, much less a Thursday.
But two-dollar drafts are apparently the magic ticket that brings people in.
There’s a line of people waiting to play pool in some self-organized version of a tournament, Ilene’s bell is going off almost non-stop, though her smile never falters, and Unc is pacing back and forth behind the bar to keep up.
I can’t sit back and watch anymore.
I get up from the spot where he put me to ‘watch and learn’ and walk behind the bar to wash my hands in the sink.
“What’re ya doing?” Unc snaps. I’d be worried he would shoo me out of his area if his hands weren’t full of drinks and Olivia wasn’t tapping her empty and waiting tray on the bar in time to the country music playing.
“Helping. You do the beers, keeping them rolling. I’ll do the mixed drinks.”
Under normal circumstances, it’d be the opposite.
You’d put your newbie on the beers because is a drunk guy really going to notice the difference in a draft Miller Light and a Coors Light?
The answer’s no. Mixed drinks are a fickle creature, though, and people want that one thing they had that one time in some random bar, but they don’t remember what was in it, only that it was red, and they’re pissed at me when I don’t know exactly what they’re talking about.
Or they read some snobby article online about top ten mixed drinks you need to try before you die and decide to order one, even though they don’t even know what’s in it.
Newsflash, if you order something with bitters or sour mix, you’re going to get something with bite.
But this isn’t that crowd. The beers are the busiest station and will let Unc stand in one place and quit running himself ragged. And I can sure as hell mix Jack and Cokes all night.
I don’t give him a chance to argue, hip-bumping him toward the beer and taking my new place by the bottles and glasses.
I get started, filling orders as fast as Olivia brings them in.
I know Unc is watching me out of the corner of his eye, seeing if I can put my money where my mouth is.
I’m not worried. I can. I even make a tray full of Long Island Iced Teas—gag—for a table of women who don’t want to drink cheap beer for their buzz.
We stay steady until about midnight, when it slows down considerably as if all these people are Cinderellas who need to get home before they turn into pumpkins.
I load the big industrial dishwasher again, the third time in an hour, and wipe down my station.
“You done pretty good.”
Unc’s praise is kind but delivered a bit begrudgingly, so I compliment him right back. “You do this by yourself all the time, six days a week? You must be a machine!”
His lips purse as he fights a smile.
“C’mon, you can tell me. You’re a robot, right?”
He lifts his elbow, his arm dangling down and wiggling right and left.
I realize it’s his really crappy attempt at the robot dance.
“Oh, my God, please don’t do that again.
Rule number four, no bar dancing.” Really, I wish I had my camera so I could’ve captured that, especially the boyish grin on his wrinkled face.
“What’s one through three?” Those bushy brows rise, looking like snowy caterpillars, and he takes a small sip of the beer he poured for himself. Not the cheap draft stuff but a craft ale I was surprised to see on his beer list.
What a man drinks says something about him, and Unc’s got layers and depth.
“Uhm . . .” I was just kidding, but I’m not going to lose this battle of wits. No way, no how. It’s a matter of honor among bartenders now.
“Rule one, no free drinks. I don’t care who you are. Pay or go thirsty.” Unc tilts his head, and I wonder how many of his friends drink for free.
“Rule two, heavy till ten, we’ll see you again.
Light after midnight because they’re too drunk to give a fuck.
” Crass maybe, and not language I typically use, but it’s one of the staples of tending bar I learned working in college bars.
Those early drinkers are the ones you want to come back again and again, so you pour just a little extra drop in their glass, toss them a wink like they’re getting special privileges, and they’ll be your best customers.
The folks who come in late at night are already half-tipsy, can’t tell if a drink is strong or weak, and skinny pours are a way to keep costs down.
Unc gives me a nod this time, which I take as agreement.
“Rule three, drinks first. I’m friendly, sociable, and I’ll be your free therapist on a slow night and listen to all the ways your day sucked and your wife did you wrong. But if it’s busy, I’m slinging drinks first and chatting second.”
That one was the hardest for me to learn.
I’m a reluctant people person by nature.
I don’t want to talk to them, I’m too quiet for that, but I love to hear stories.
I’m the random stranger people open up to in the grocery line, at the bank, and yep, at the bar.
I enjoy hearing about people’s days, their lives.
Even if I can’t take a picture, it’s like a snapshot into who they are.
But a bit too long at one end of the bar with one customer means you’re neglecting others, and that affects the bottom dollar, for me and the bar. Sad but true.
“Which leads to rule four, I guess.” He’s smiling, and I know he’s well aware that I just made those rules up on the fly. I’m decently quick on my feet, though, so I think they’re pretty on point.
“Right. No bar dancing. This ain’t Coyote Ugly. It’s Hank’s, the best honkytonk in town.” I add in the slogan I read on the paper placemats as an extra sparkle of so there.
“I think you’re gonna fit in just fine, Miss Willow. Welcome to the team, officially.” He sticks his hand out, and I shake it, but then he pulls me in for a hug and I wonder if he remembers Mom’s saying too.
Two weeks pass by in a blur.
I get to know Olivia and Ilene better, and yes, they both tell me their life stories, which are full of obligatory small-town drama.
Ilene’s been married to her high school boyfriend for thirty-eight years, she proclaimed proudly, and they have five kids who are all grown and on their own.
We weren’t sure our middle boy was gonna make it. Cops brought that punk home more times than I could count, and he worked his butt off to make reparations for that tractor he messed up on his field trip.
She’d had to explain that she literally meant he drove his truck through a field, hence ‘field trip’, and he’d crashed it into a rusty tractor, causing thousands of dollars in damages.
But he went into the Army and they took him down a peg or two. He’s got a wife of his own now and two little boys who are the apple of their momma’s eyes and are gonna give their daddy a helluva ride when they’re teenagers.
She seems a bit too gleeful at that prospect.
Olivia surprises me even more. I was right about her age. She’s twenty-one, but she’s not still ‘finding herself’ like so many are at that age, or at least like I was. She knows exactly who she is and who she isn’t and doesn’t have time or patience for anyone who doesn’t agree. I like her a lot.
Moved here a couple of years ago with my girlfriend. We live downtown above her boutique. She sells Western clothes, boots, and hats, mostly to tourists who want a ‘look’ for their vacation but to locals too.
She’d emphasized the word ‘girlfriend’, then waited and watched for my reaction to her verbal bomb which had been nothing more than a promise to visit if I needed some Western gear. Olivia smiled, and I knew I’d passed a test.
Unc has been another matter altogether. We chat as we work side by side behind the bar, which is huge progress, but I don’t feel like I’ve gotten to know anything more than the front he puts on for the customers. Gruff, hardass, hard-working old man whose life is inside these four walls.
I keep trying, though.
“You’ve got something special here. What made you open Hank’s?” I ask on Saturday afternoon while we’re prepping for what he promises will be our busiest night yet. I’m not sure I believe him because we’ve been dead since the lunch rush ended two hours ago.
He looks around as though he’s seeing his own bar for the first time. “A man needs a place to go have a beer, in good times and in bad. So I made one of my own so I’d always have a place to go.”
That onion layer peels back a little bit, letting me peek underneath.