Surprisingly, a good number of tables are occupied this early on a Friday afternoon. Older couples sit in the booths, and several men of various ages occupy the stools, a few sitting next to each other, watching a game on the TV above the bar, sipping pints or bottles of beer.
A man stands behind the bar, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, pouring pint after pint. There’s one server on the floor, loading up her tray and stopping at each table to chat and deliver drinks.
I step up to the bar and wait.
“What can I get for you?” he asks as he sets a beer in front of the man beside me. He smells like metal and cigarette smoke. Not the bartender but the man sitting at the bar.
“Is the bartending position still available?” I ask and then smile brightly.
The bartender arches a brow. “What kind of experience do you have?”
“I brought my résumé if you’d like to see it.” I reach into my purse, but he holds up his hand.
“I don’t need to see a résumé. Have you ever tended bar before?”
“I’ll take another pint, Louis.” The guy down the other end of the bar holds up his nearly empty pint glass.
“On it,” Louis says.
He moves down to the taps, and I move with him, standing on the other side of the three men lining the bar.
“Can you pour a pint?” he asks.
“Absolutely.” I nod vigorously and watch as he tips the glass and pulls the lever, beer pouring out in a golden stream. When it’s three-quarters of the way full, he straightens the glass and about half an inch of foam appears, rising to the rim. He delivers it to the customer.
He turns away from me, and for a moment I think I’m being dismissed without so much as thanks, but no thanks.
At least until he tosses an apron over the bar when he turns back to me. “Let’s see what you got.”
“You mean you want me to start now?”
“The afternoon rush is about to start. Consider this your interview.”
“Right. Okay.” I tie the apron around my waist. “Should I come back there?”
“That’s generally the best way to tend bar.”
I blow out a breath, muttering, “You can do this. You can serve drinks.”
“You can leave your purse there.” He motions to a space under the bar. “And you can’t wear your hair down.” He tosses me an elastic band.
The kind you’d find wrapped around a bunch of broccoli.
“I have a hair tie.” I rummage around in my bag until I find one and pull my hair into a ponytail, then tuck my purse under the bar.
“I’m Teagan.” I hold out my hand.
He gives it one short pump. “Louis. I’ll give you a rundown, try to keep up.”
He tells me which beer is at each tap, and I do mnemonics to remember what a lager, pale ale, IPA, red ale, wheat beer, and dark ale are. There are only two kinds of wine: red and white. They’re both table wines, which I assume means they’re cheap and probably not very good. I keep that thought to myself, though.
A pair of men come in and take two seats at the bar. It’s just after three thirty in the afternoon.
“You’re up. The guy on the left is Mike, and the one on the right is Jerry. They work at the ice cream factory in the next town over. Mike drinks the pale ale, and Jerry drinks the wheat beer. Ask them if they want the special. They usually do.”
“Okay. Should I ask them what they want to drink first or—” His arched brow tells me everything I need to know. “I’ll pour the beers.”
I do exactly what Louis did, tipping the glass so it’s at an angle. It’s unnerving to have Louis watching me like a hawk while I pour the pale ale first and then the wheat beer. The pale ale has slightly less foam than his and the wheat beer a little more. I don’t think I do a bad job, and Louis doesn’t comment either way.
Thankfully they’re slightly different colors. The pale ale looks like normal pee, and the wheat beer looks like the morning pee after too many drinks and not enough water, possibly of someone suffering from a UTI.
I bring them their beers, thankful when I give the right one to the right man. “I’m Teagan, I’m helping out Louis today. Would either of you be interested in today’s special?”
“Sure would, darlin’，” Jerry says with a smile. His front tooth is gray.
“Same here. And it’s about time Louis hired someone with a nicer mug than his.” Mike lifts his beer in my direction and drains half the pint in three long swallows. The foam coats his mustache, and he uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe it away. “Might as well pour me another one, the first never lasts long.”
“Of course, I’ll be right back.” I meet Louis at the tap. “They both want the special, and Mike wants another pint.”
“Pour the pint first, then I’ll show you how to put the order in.”
I do as Louis says, and he takes me over to the computer. He swipes his card and taps the buttons faster than I can follow. Today’s special is the burger. It comes with fries or, for an upcharge, a side salad, onion rings, or waffle fries.
He goes back to the beginning and makes me key everything in on separate orders. I’m very glad I have a decent memory, otherwise this would be a lot more overwhelming.
I spend the next several hours pouring beers, serving wine that smells like it’s halfway to vinegar, and placing food orders—mostly people get the special. I mess up a few times along the way, but the customers seem to like me, and when I tell them I’m Van’s sister, it wins me some more points.
At seven thirty things start to wind down, the dinner rush long over. I notice that some of the men who were here when I first came in are still sitting at the bar, nursing pints. I want to ask Louis if they’re safe to drive, but I don’t want to stir up any trouble.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he steps up beside me. “Bob doesn’t drive. He lives in one of the apartments above the pub.”
I glance up at Louis. I want to ask how often Bob is here and if he always sits at the bar all day long, drinking beers, eating the free peanuts and nothing else as I wipe down the outside of the freshly washed pint glasses and set them in the freezer so they’re frosted when I pour a fresh pint. Apart from the Guinness. That’s the only beer that gets an unfrosted glass.
“He was a POW in Kuwait.” Again, he answers the questions I don’t have the courage to ask.
I fumble the glass and he catches it, setting it in the freezer. “Where’s his family?”
“Right here.” Louis motions to the bar. He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re new here. It takes some time to figure it all out.”
I nod, although I feel like he’s saying a lot more than his words imply.
Five minutes later a man settles on the stool at the end of the bar. The spot has been empty all day. I glance over and my breath catches. Even with the brim of his ball cap covering half of his face, I’ve come to recognize that set of shoulders. Which should be concerning since I’ve only seen them a few times. But Aaron Saunders has a presence. Something about him makes the room buzz with new energy. Women sitting at booths cross and uncross their legs. They sip their drinks and whisper to each other.