Chapter 6
The first hour isn’t really that bad.
Dolly takes me under her wing with the patience of someone who has definitely dealt with worse. She shows me how to carry a tray. “Balance is everything, sugar. You lose the tray, you lose your tips.” How to navigate the crowded floor.
“Hips first. Always lead with your hips.” And how to take orders correctly. “Write it down. I don’t care if you think you’ll remember. Write it down.”
I follow her through the bustling crowd, my notepad in hand, watching her work.
She’s amazing, greeting customers by name, recalling their drink orders, and smoothly redirecting a handsy customer with a joke that makes him laugh.
She definitely knows what she’s doing with each customer, and I start taking notes.
“You’re doing good, darlin’,” Dolly says during a brief break. “Just keep watching and—”
“I’d like to try to take an order,” I interrupt. “Just one table, to see if I can do it.”
Dolly’s eyebrows rise toward her impressive hairline.
“Honey, I don’t think—”
“Please. I need to know if I can do this.”
She studies me for a long moment and then sighs in a way that suggests she is already regretting it.
“Fine. Table seven. It’s old Mr. Patterson and his buddies. They’re harmless.”
Table seven is occupied by four elderly men in various states of flannel, drinking beer, and engaged in what appears to be a heated debate over fishing lures. I approach with my notepad and my most professional smile in place.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Can I get you another round?”
Four pairs of eyes swivel toward me, looking confused.
“Well, well,” one of them says, Mr. Patterson, I assume. “You must be Mavis’s niece, the one from Atlanta.”
“Great-niece, and yes. Eleanor Whitfield.”
I extend my hand automatically, and he shakes it with a grip that is surprisingly strong for his age.
“Good handshake,” he says. “Firm. None of that dead fish nonsense.”
“Thank you. My mother always said a proper handshake was the foundation of any interaction.”
“Smart woman.”
He gestures to his nearly empty glass.
“I’ll take another Bud Light, and so will these reprobates.”
I write this down carefully, four Bud Lights, and feel a small surge of triumph.
I can do this.
It is just taking orders and delivering drinks. I mean, how hard can something like that be?
“I’ll have those right up to you,” I say, and turn to head toward the bar.
That’s when I notice the menus.
They’re tucked into the little wooden holders on each table, handwritten on chalkboard-style paper. And as I pass table eight, I can’t help but look at one.
I stop dead in my tracks.
The menu says: Nachos, piled high with all the fixins. Wings, hot, medium, and if your chicken. And loaded potato skins, your gonna love them.
Your? Your gonna love them?
And if your chicken. Y O U R.
That does not even make sense.
It’s clearly supposed to be if you’re chicken, as in if you are too cowardly to try the hot wings.
I pick up the menu and stare at it in horror.
There are more errors, like mozzarella sticks with an unnecessary apostrophe, and queso dip made fresh everyday when it should be every day with a space, two words. And desserts with an apostrophe, which is just, well, no.
“Is there a problem?”
The woman at table eight is looking at me.
“The menu,” I say. “There are grammatical errors. Several of them.”
“Oh.” She looks at her companion, a man in a trucker hat who is more interested in his basket of wings than any editorial concerns. “I guess I never noticed.”
“How could you not notice? ‘Your gonna love them’ is missing both an apostrophe and the proper form of ‘you’re.’ And ‘mozzarella stick’s’? That apostrophe has no business being there. It is plural, not a possessive.”
The woman blinks.
“Um, okay.”
“I have to speak to somebody about this,” I assure her, tucking the menu under my arm. “This is completely unacceptable for a business establishment.”
I march toward the bar where Wyatt is mixing drinks.
“We need to talk about the menus.”
He does not look up.
“What about them?”
“They are riddled with errors. Grammatical errors. Spelling errors. The apostrophe usage alone is a crime against the English language.”
He does look up this time, and there is that expression again, like he is questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
“The menus have been the same for at least fifteen years.”
“Well, then they have been wrong for fifteen years.”
“Nobody’s complained.”
“I’m complaining.”
“You’re not a customer.”
“I’m the owner.”
The words come out of my mouth way louder than I intended, and I now realize that lots of people at the bar are watching me with interest.
Wyatt’s jaw tenses.
“Can we discuss this later?” His voice is low and controlled. “When we’re not in the middle of a night rush?”
“Fine.” I clutch the menu to my chest. “But just know this isn’t over.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t.”
I turn to deliver my drink order, which I had nearly forgotten about because of my grammatical outrage, and nearly collide with Dolly, who has appeared at my side like a rhinestone ghost.
“Sugar, what is going on?”
“The menus are wrong. The grammar is atrocious.”
Dolly looks at me, then at the menu, then back at me.
“Honey, nobody here cares about grammar.”
“I care about grammar,” I say, putting my hand on my chest.
“I can see that.” She gently takes the menu from my grip. “Why don’t you go deliver those drinks to Mr. Patterson’s table, and then we can talk about menus tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow—”
Her voice is still sweet, but there is steel underneath it.
“Right now, we have customers to serve.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. It’s like my mother’s ghost has overtaken my body, forcing me to yell about apostrophes and grammar.
I take a breath, nod, and head back to the bar to pick up the beers I ordered approximately seventeen crises ago.
* * *
The next hour is even worse.
I deliver the beers to Mr. Patterson’s table without incident, but that small success goes straight to my head. I start noticing other things. Things that need improvement. Things a professional establishment simply should not tolerate.
The tables are not arranged efficiently.
There is also wasted space near the wall that could accommodate at least a couple more tabletops, four tops, if someone would consider traffic flow.
The lighting is inconsistent. Some areas are too bright, while others are too dim.
It creates an atmosphere that feels more like a haunted house than a welcoming establishment.
And then the customers.
Oh, the customers.
Their posture is appalling. People are slouching and hunching, practically melting into their chairs as if they have never heard of spinal alignment.
One man is sitting with both elbows on the table, one on each side of his plate, and I have to physically restrain myself from going over and correcting him.
I do not restrain myself with the woman at table twelve.
She’s young, maybe in her mid-twenties, sitting with her legs crossed in a way that makes her lean awkwardly to one side. That’s terrible for her back and looks uncomfortable.
And before I can think better of it, I’m standing at her table.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I couldn’t help but notice your posture. If you uncross your legs and sit with your feet flat on the floor, you’ll feel a lot more comfortable. The way you’re sitting is putting unnecessary strain on your lower back.”
The woman stares at me.
Her companion, a bearded man, stares at me, too.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says slowly. “Who are you?”
“Eleanor Whitfield. I own this establishment.”
The words are becoming commonplace for me.
“I also have extensive training in deportment and physical presentation, and I’d be happy to give you some tips if—”
“I’m good,” the woman interrupts. “Thanks.”
“Are you sure? Because that posture really is—”
“She said she’s good.” The bearded man’s voice has an edge. “Maybe you could just bring us our drinks?”
I open my mouth to explain that I am not actually their server, that I was just trying to help, but something in their expression stops me. They are looking at me like I’m crazy. Like I’ve done something wrong.
So I walk away without another word, my face burning.
* * *
The incident with the biker happens around ten o’clock.
I have been trying to stay out of the way, mostly hanging out by the bar, watching the controlled chaos unfold. The band is on a break, and people are walking around, drinking and chatting.
And it is during this lull that I spot him.
He is large. Not as large as Boone, but substantial, with a leather vest, tattooed arms, and a beard that could house a family of small birds. He is standing at the bar waiting for his drink, and he has just been handed a beer by Presley.
And he takes that beer with his left hand and shakes her hand with his right.
Except it is not a handshake. It is that thing that men sometimes do, that limp-fingered grasp that is more of a little squeeze than a shake. The kind that suggests they don’t think women deserve a real handshake.
I am moving before I can even stop myself.
“Excuse me,” I say, inserting myself into the interaction. “I couldn’t help but notice your handshake technique.”
The biker looks at me. Up close, he is even more intimidating. Small eyes, a scar on his chin, and an expression that suggests to me that he is not used to being interrupted.
“My what?”
“Your handshake. When you greeted this young lady.” I gesture at Presley, who is frozen behind the bar with an expression of horror on her face.
“A real handshake, a proper one, should be firm and confident, with full palm contact. What you did was more of a finger-squeeze kind of thing, and it is dismissive and, frankly, somewhat insulting.”
The bar has gone quiet around us. I am vaguely aware of people turning to watch, but I’m committed now.