Chapter 4 #2
But as much as I loved him, he was and always would be an outdoor cat. And I wasn’t looking to change him. He was perfect just the way he was.
I slipped on my trusty fluffy Birkenstocks and walked over to the fridge in my kitchen. Similar to my bathroom, I hadn’t had much space to decorate in here, but given the open plan setup, my living room more than made up for the lack of décor.
I stared into my fridge, and the only thing that stared back at me was a mouldy lemon and a half carton of oat milk. Ugh. “No wonder you won’t visit, Mort, there’s simply no food in here to bribe you with.”
Some adulting came easily to me, and some adulting, namely having to feed myself on a daily basis, came unbelievably hard.
I dropped onto a stool at my wooden breakfast bar, pulling out my phone and scrolling through the rest of the photos from last night, trying not to overanalyse any of the social interactions I’d had.
Especially not where red-headed assholes were concerned.
Above the bar was a poster-sized black and white photograph of my grandparents from when they were younger.
It was the first thing I saw every time I walked into my apartment.
It made me happy, especially on the bad days when I felt despondent about life.
It was like my eyes were drawn to it, and even in the shittiest moods, it seemed to bring a smile to my face.
Maybe it was because I loved my grandparents, or maybe it was because the happiness, so clear in the photograph, was infectious, but either way it made me feel like bad days were just bad days, and on the good ones?
Well, it just helped me feel a little more grateful that I had people I got to share the good with in my life.
Several hours and a depressing bowl of Froot Loops later, I was making my way toward The Bootmaker, a bar in Darling old town that was a twenty-five-minute walk from my apartment.
It was situated away from the main campuses and the more gentrified bars and restaurants.
I’d originally taken the job to avoid running into people I knew.
I wasn’t all that interested in feeling obligated to socialise with people I half-knew or had met in passing, and The Bootmaker had seemed like the perfect place to avoid all that.
It had taken me thirty minutes into my first shift to understand that there was a reason that people, well, normal people seldom came to a place like this.
I had pulled on whatever I could find draped over the back of my desk chair, which today was a black miniskirt, a white cable knit sweater, and a clean pair of stockings (that desperately needed throwing away because of the ladder coursing down the side).
I’d paired the look with messy hair, donning the classic half-up, half-down look, and the bags under my eyes from the general lack of sleep.
My manager, Nick, laughed as I recounted the story of the previous evening between drink orders, which wasn’t too hard to do given that The Bootmaker was uncharacteristically quiet for a Saturday night.
Something about one of the bars down the street doing some buffet and drink discount combo had meant that we were completely cleared out.
Not that I was complaining, the lack of sleep from the previous night had me flagging early, meaning that I didn’t have to awkwardly bumble my way through social interactions with our regulars was a godsend.
I poured a pint of the Black Hedgehog Hazy IPA, one of seven pale ales we had on tap, all with ridiculous names.
I had to cringe every time someone asked for a suggestion.
Although that was never quite as bad as the internal mortification I went through any time our regulars got a little bit rowdy.
That often resulted in someone stalking up to the bar and confidently ordering a Blowjob or a Slippery Nipple.
Both shots consisted of Irish cream and some kind of spirit, usually Amaretto or Sambuca.
Each and every time it happened, I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I thought I might topple backward into the countertop behind me and knock myself out.
At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with our charming customers.
I pulled out my phone, showing Nick the photo Esme had taken of me yesterday before swiping to the stealthy photo Esme had snapped of Bizarro Ariel.
“There is no fucking way you called her a cannibal.” Nick laughed as he sipped a clear liquid from a glass.
Water or gin? A fun game I liked to play every once in a while.
Gin, probably. When he placed it down to take my phone from me, I picked up the glass and sniffed before grimacing and putting it back on the bar counter.
If I was a betting woman, I’d be feeling pretty smug, right about now.
“It was not one of my finest moments, but she was being kind of mean. And I’m telling you she must have gotten at least nine or ten pieces into her mouth in one go,” I said, nodding along as I recounted the story with wide eyes that said ‘Believe it, because it’s true.’
I kept the rest of what I had gotten up to that evening to myself.
Nick was one of those superstitious people who didn’t like messing with anything to do with fate.
To him, “bad vibes” were contagious, and Mercury being out of alignment could really fuck a person up.
He threw salt over his shoulder, never stepped on pavement cracks or walked under ladders, and he absolutely hated that I left my apartment window open for a stray black cat that liked to come and go as he pleased.
Whether it was Nick’s paranoia or the fact that he had watched one too many horror films, I wasn’t really sure, but for the sake of our working relationship, I thought it was best to keep the information to myself.
The rest of the night slipped by uneventfully.
I’d spent most of the night wiping down tables and questioning how long it was hygienically acceptable to leave out lime wedges and maraschino cherries because, whilst I didn’t want anyone to get food poisoning, I also didn’t want to get fired.
And our boss, Orson, was as slimy and tight as they came.
Not that he would actually fire me, given that he threatened to do it bi-weekly for whatever reason he had pulled out of his hat that week.
But The Bootmaker was the epitome of disreputable.
The bar itself was worn out; the wooden bar was scratched to within an inch of its life, and the splotches of beer and other liquids that stained the carpet and fabric of the barstools likely dated back to long before I was born.
And whilst most people couldn’t think of a more unappealing place to work, I really didn’t mind it all that much.
Sexually charged shots aside, for the most part, the regulars were harmless.
They sat and drank and nodded when I walked by with my cloth and antibacterial spray.
They were rarely that forthcoming with personal information, which suited me fine because small talk really wasn’t my strong suit anyway.
But over the last few weeks, there were several new faces that were working their way up to regular status.
One in particular that I’d never seen in town before.
One face that, over time, had me feeling ever so slightly unnerved.
He was a man of average height and medium build, a plain face with no distinguishable features sitting on his shoulders.
He had a full beard, which was, in theory, supposed to make men hotter, but all this did was make him look dirty and unkempt.
He and his loosely fitting navy pinstripe suit (I’d seen him almost trip over the hem of his trousers on two separate occasions) would always sit in the dimly lit part at the back of the bar.
An area very few people ever sat unless they were doing something shady.
Usually, something that involved illegal narcotics or women who were definitely not their wives.
After dotting around, picking up empty glasses of beer, and sweeping up empty nut shells, I made my way behind the bar, where Nick handed me an already opened bottle of beer.
“That guy’s here again,” I said matter-of-factly, once again trying to swallow the rising panic that lingered at the back of my mind.
Too many girls had gone missing recently and something about him just had my whole body on edge.
But Nick grinned down at me, gearing up to play the stupid game we liked to play on nights like this, where it was quiet enough to hear people’s inhibitions dissolving away in their drinks.
For regulars like Rusty and Clive, who had lived in Darling all their lives, we knew who they were, what they did, and where they lived.
But for the less seasoned faces, we came up with stories about their lives to pass the time.
But the only thing that signalled in my mind when I looked at the guy in the back of the bar was danger.
Maybe it was gut instinct. Maybe it was intrusive thoughts and anxiety.
Or maybe, just maybe, the guy was fucking weird.
“Yeah, he was in here yesterday, too, but he didn’t stay long.
Probably about fifteen minutes. He just paid for his drink and then left it on the bar,” Nick mused before turning to Rusty and placing his third beer in front of him.
“I’m cutting you off after this. I see your wife, Gladys, in the grocery store, and she’ll have my balls if I let you go home drunk again. ”
“Yeah, Rusty, drop your keys in the jar,” I said, nodding to the glass jar at the end of the wooden bar. “You can barely drive when you’re sober.”
The little old man in the tweed flat cap looked up at me with pleading eyes before flashing me a terrifying smile. One with far too many teeth missing.
“Come on, buddy,” Nick said softly, smiling and shaking his head. “You know that smile isn’t charming either of us.”