Chapter 3
I Love this Bar
Duke
I toss a cardboard coaster onto the beat-up, dull wooden counter and set the open beer on it. Turning, I flip the TV off now that the rodeo is over. Cash put on a decent show tonight, but Miles edged him out again.
“Hey, Duke. Let me get a vodka-cran.” At her voice, my head whips around and a smile breaks out across her face. “Aw, come on, Duke, don’t frown at me like that.” She leans across the bar slightly, giving me a look down the front of her shirt, which I take full advantage of.
I raise a brow and ask, “Indie, what are you doing here? The bar is mine. You got everything else in the divorce. Why can’t I even have the bar?”
Her smile falls. My heart lurches at the face she makes; I’ve always hated when she was sad.
Seeing the tears running down her face the day she walked out broke my heart, just as surely as anything else that had happened up to that point.
I was a bad husband, I know. I worked too much; I smiled too little.
I never took her on the trip to Cancun she’d been asking for since we got married.
We were never able to fill the house with the laughter and footsteps of children.
All she wanted was to be a mother, and I couldn’t even give her that.
After a decade of fighting, fighting each other, and the inevitable, she left.
It was the hardest day of my life. Not hard because she left, but the look on her face, the way her brow furrowed, and the tears welled up in her eyes.
I wanted to hold her and make it better, fix it somehow.
But I couldn’t; it was too late. It only took a few months for the divorce to go through.
I gave her everything she wanted, and half of what she didn’t.
I owed her too much for putting up with me for all those years.
All I asked for was the bar. Waylon’s is mine.
I opened it at twenty-three, still wet behind the ears, with the little bit of money left after my father died.
I’ve worked behind this counter ever since.
I have no idea why she walked in here tonight.
Small towns are rough for breakups, and in a town as small as Inspiration, I see Indie a few times a week.
At the grocery store, at the church bake sale, and at the hardware store. But the bar is mine.
“Duke, don’t be like this. We were happy sometimes, right?”
“Indie, you know the answer. And it’s the reason you’re on your side of the bar and I’m on mine. What’s up?”
“Alright, alright.” She holds her hands up placatingly, an envelope clutched in one of them.
“I’m getting married. I know things didn’t work with us, but I loved you.
I didn’t want you to hear it from around town.
” Extending her hand, she holds out the envelope with Duke Williams scrawled in familiar handwriting across the front.
I look at her surprised. Everything about this surprises me. I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone. “You don’t…expect—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to come. You can, if you want, the invitation is here, but I don’t have any expectations of you, Duke. Not now.” Leaving the envelope on the counter, she walks out.
Swiping it right into the garbage, I grab the rag off my shoulder and start wiping everything down.
A while later, I lean down and pull it back out, shoving it in my pocket.
“Duke, man, how’s life treating you?” I hear the familiar voice as the old man with the dusty hat perched on his balding head claims a seat at the bar.
“What’s up, Sleepy? Not too bad, not too good. Saw your boy on the show tonight. Pulled a pretty decent score.” I’ve seen better from our hometown rodeo hero, but it wasn’t bad.
“Yeah, I was pretty happy with the score myself, but I wasn’t the one ridin’.
Cash seemed pretty down about it even if he won roping.
” He rolls his eyes. “Miles just had a better bull tonight. Goliath only pulled a forty-one. Torpedo scored a forty-six. Five extra points would have won Cash the buckle. Oh well. Let me get a beer.” He’s right, even though I know Cash will let it get to him.
A forty-seven is a damn good score for a rider, but Goliath didn’t show well.
Twisting the top off his lager, I set it on the coaster. “He’ll get ‘em next time.”
“Damn right,” he responds, lifting his beer in salute.
Walking around my bar, I grab empty glasses and bottles from high top tables, the edges of the pool tables, and sitting on the half wall partially ringing the tiny scuffed-up dance floor.
All the music at Waylon’s comes from an old jukebox that only plays old country and rock-n-roll and hasn’t been updated since 1998. It came with the place.
We’re mostly empty, with a few regulars sitting at the bar, and Sleepy.
On a Tuesday night in a small town, I manage my expectations.
Waylon’s is, for sure, the local dive. We don’t even have any food, just liquor and beer.
I stock what the regulars order, nothing more, nothing less.
The atmosphere sucks; it’s dark and smoky, with a few neon lights over the pool tables and lining the walls.
No honky tonk line dances or whatever passes for a good time in the larger cities.
I love Waylon’s like it’s my child, and they may have to bury me out back.
A loud tone shrills from my cell behind the counter, the emergency alert going off. Heading over, I pick it up to see a weather alert. Turning the TV back on, I click to the weather channel.
“Breaking News out of the Bozeman Weather Center. A sudden late spring snowstorm has developed over the mountains and is moving rapidly across western and central Montana. This storm has caught residents and travelers alike unaware, and we will likely see damages in the coming days.
“An urgent Winter Storm Warning has been issued from Belt to Inspiration and down to Billings until twelve pm Wednesday. Please be advised: road travel will be treacherous and to proceed with caution. We are expecting a period of power loss. Snow accumulation totals near twenty inches. Seasonal weather is expected to return on Friday.” The broadcast concludes before starting over again, replaying the same message.
Walking toward the front door, I call out to my patrons, “Last call, guys, let’s get home before this turns ugly.” I can hear the wind gusting through the closed door. Pushing it open, I see the trees bending under the strain and snowflakes already starting to coat the grass.
Dropping their bills on the counter, the men start filing out.
“See ya, Duke,” Jim says.
“You going to be open tomorrow?”
“Not sure, Sam. Give me a call if it looks bad. If I answer, I’m here.” He chuckles at my response.
“Night, Duke.” Sleepy gives me a wave as he heads out. Slamming the door shut behind them, I lock it and flip the exterior sign off. Grabbing my cash and stuffing it in the register, I rinse the barware quickly, shut everything down, and head out the back door.
My old truck is already half covered, and the snow is coming down so fast, I can barely see. Sudden storm is right. I can’t remember the last time we had a storm this late into April.
Heading toward my house in town, I find cars with their hazards on stranded everywhere along my drive.
Emergency responders, and trucks, make their way down the streets, helping drivers, and taking them to safety to wait out the storm.
Straight ahead of me, I see a small two-door sedan spin-out from the traffic signal, turning in a full circle before landing themselves in a ditch.
Pulling onto the shoulder, I climb out of the cab, grab my jacket off the seat and flip the bench forward to grab my old flannel blanket, before making my way down into the ditch.
The little red BMW 3-series sits sideways in the grass, mud and snow covering everything.
I tap on the fogged-up window. It slowly descends, and inside, I find a stunning woman with bright green teary eyes and blonde hair seated behind the wheel.
The look of surprise, and horror, on her face is almost comical.
“Hey, you okay? I saw you go down into the ditch.”
Tears immediately begin running down her cheeks, and great, hitching sobs come out of her. “I–I–I’m not sure.” Sob. “What.” Hiccough. “Happened.” More sobbing.
“You spun out.” Leaning back, I see her tires have had better days. “You can’t park here. Your tires suck, your car isn’t made for this weather, and you don’t seem to know how to drive in it.”
Her mouth drops open, and her sobs cease momentarily. “Wow, you’re an asshole.” A half-choked laugh-sob erupts from her.
“I do what I can. Look, I brought you a blanket. Emergency services will be along soon. Turn your hazards on. They’ll take you home, or,” I wave my hand generally toward town, “wherever you need to go tonight.”
Who are you?
Climbing back up the hill, I get in my cab just as Tommy in his truck, yellow spinning light on top, pulls up behind me. Throwing him a wave, I pull away.
She called me an asshole. I am. But she took the blanket, so I win.