It’s ten a.m. when I get into town. Arnie is behind the bar wiping down bottles and checking inventory. I knock on the window. He yells, “Closed!” but then he sees that it’s me and lets me in.
“It’s April in March!” he says. “What gives? We never see you in the cold weather.”
“I missed you,” I tell him. I grab a rag and help him wipe bottles. He pours me a coffee in a pint glass, loading it with milk and sugar until it’s light and cloudy like his.
“You’re the craziest girl I know,” he says. “Who has the freedom to travel anywhere and ends up in the Southern Tier in March?”
“Only the cool kids,” I say, snapping my rag at his arm.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah,” I say, “you too.”
I like Arnie. He’s got salt and pepper hair and a salt and pepper beard. He spends his life dealing with drunk college kids, but he has more laugh lines than frown marks. Wears worn out jeans and threadbare concert t-shirts like a uniform. Today’s is a yellow Wings Over America shirt with a bunch of little holes across the back like it got chewed by a zipper in the washing machine.
“Good timing,” Arnie says as I climb on the back bar to reach the top shelf bottles. “Spring break’s next week. We all have cabin fever.”
“I always have good timing,” I say.
“It’s always a good time when you’re here,” Arnie says.
I needed this. To show up and clean bottles and chat with Arnie like I just saw him last week, like I belong. It’s the thing I love about bar people. We have to put on a show all the time for everyone else, and when the crowd isn’t around, we don’t ask too many questions or expect big answers. It’s just good chatter. People like Arnie are the best kind of break.
* * *
We clean bottles for an hour or so. I stand on the back bar and call off levels to him. “Tuaca, three-quarters,” I say. “Tia Maria, almost empty.”
“Tuaca!” He laughs. “That bottle came with the bar. I don’t think anyone’s ordered it.”
“Triple dog dare you,” I say, jumping down with the bottle to pour us shots. “Cheers.” I slide his shot across the bar.
We clink glasses.
“One, two, three,” he calls, and we down them.
“Not as weird as I thought it would be,” I say, breathing hard through my nose to try to figure out the aftertaste.
“You’re a bad influence. Got me drinking before noon.”
“It’s like one thirty,” I tell him, laughing, even though I don’t really know what time it is.
“Lunch,” Arnie says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. His limp is worse than it was last time I was here. He has bad knees from being on his feet so much. Needs surgery but can’t take the downtime. I get the polish from the cabinet under the sink and shine the bar for him.
He comes back with two fat burgers and a big plate of well-done fries. We sit next to each other at the bar, studying the wall of clean bottles while we eat.
“Thanks for the burger,” I say.
“You look anemic.”
“Sure know how to charm a girl,” I say, taking a huge bite of my burger.
“You okay?” he asks. He’s looking at my wrist. The bruises.
My sleeve rode up when I held my burger to my mouth. I should be more careful.
“Other guy looks worse,” I say, staring at the now-shiny bottle of Tuaca on the top shelf.
Arnie pats me on the back. Just one pat, his hand resting lightly between my shoulders for a split second.
“Thanks,” I say.
We finish our burgers and share the plate of fries in silence. It’s a nice quiet. It’s a good burger. Arnie remembered that I like my fries crispy.
* * *
“Need a shower,” he says, throwing me his keys when we’re done eating. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Do I smell?” I ask, sniffing my pits.
“Like roses,” he says, gathering up our lunch plates. “But you have twigs in your hair.”
“You could have told me that like an hour ago.” I comb my fingers through my hair and pull out one leaf. It was probably in my car. But I’ll take the hot water and the quiet.
“Wouldn’t have been as much fun.”
“Butthead.” I grin. “I’m totally going to mess with the settings on your beard trimmer while I’m up there.”
“Do it,” he says, tugging at one of my curls. “I could use a new look.”