I remember walking into the bar that would change my life as if it were just yesterday. It was dark and musty, and the outside noise of the street was immediately silenced as the heavy door shut behind me. I remember catching my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, my face illuminated by the neon signs that hung behind the barkeep.
I made my way across the red, carpeted stairs and onto the concrete floor, my heels clicking loudly and drawing unwanted attention my way. A waiter with a tray of drinks hurried past me without a second glance, though his felt like the only eyes that weren’t on me. I took refuge at the bar, sinking onto a bar stool and laying my phone down on the wood. The bartender approached me, his thick eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Well, you aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked with a half-laugh.
He smirked. “I haven’t seen anyone wearing a suit come through those doors since the day it opened. What can I get ya?”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist, please,” I said, staring at my phone as the notifications began to roll in. An email from my boss one minute, then two replies from others CC’d on said email. A text from a coworker. A text from a client. I turned the phone over. One minute. Just one minute—I just needed a minute to breathe.
“Long day?” he asked as he slid the drink across the counter and rested on his elbow in front of me.
“They’re all long,” I admitted, taking a sip and welcoming the warmth that flooded my chest. It had been a long day, if I were being honest. Longer than most. Starting with a flight that included a six-hour layover and ending with two client meetings with one of the toughest hospital CEOs I’d ever met, I was getting ready to board a plane and sleep for the next few hours when I was notified that I wouldn’t be able to get home that night.
Home. It was a strange concept to me, I guess. The place I lived, the address where my mail was sent, was a tiny studio apartment in Seattle with very little to make it feel like an actual home. I slept in hotel beds more often than my own, and I had to think really hard to be able to tell you the color of my walls. I was in my home just a few short weeks a year, and it cost more than I’d like to admit to maintain it, but it was nice to have a place to go during the limited free time I was given. So, not being able to go home that night had been the very large bow on my already shitty day.
“So,” he asked, interrupting my thoughts, “are you new to the area or in town for vacation?”
“Neither,” I said in between sips. The drink was already almost gone. I took the last gulp and slid it back to him. “I’m in Atlanta for work. I head out in the morning.”
“Hopefully not too early in the morning,” he said, wiggling the empty glass in the air before he refilled it.
“I’ll be okay,” I said, taking the drink from him. It was true. Years of schmoozing alcoholic CEOs had trained me well. I knew my limits, and I knew how to avoid a hangover like the plague. With scotch, I could have four with plenty of water before even the slightest morning headache would affect me.
My phone buzzed again, and I let out a sigh before flipping it over. Another email. Four more meetings over the next two days. I guess I wasn’t going home tomorrow after all. I scrolled through the email. New Orleans tomorrow, then Houston, and two in Tokyo on the second day. I pinched the bridge of my nose with stress.
“Not good news, I’m guessing,” the bartender said, staring at my troubled expression with concern. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I’d forgotten he was there.
“It’s fine,” I said with a forced smile. “Just part of the job.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a pharmaceutical rep.” His blank stare of confusion was entirely too familiar. “I sell medical devices and products to leading hospitals.”
“Is it hard?” he asked.
“It’s not…hard, I guess. It’s, well, there are long hours and quite a bit of travel.”
“But you get to see the world?” he asked.
“The hospitals of the world, at least,” I joked. “There isn’t much time for exploring the cities I visit. It’s usually in one hospital and straight onto the next flight to the next city and the next hospital.”
“If you hate it so much, why do it?” he challenged.
“I don’t hate it,” I argued.
“Well, you don’t seem to like it all that much.”
Fair enough. I squinted my eyes at him. Truth was, I didn’t hate my job. Most days, I loved it. It was excellent money, I did get to travel, and the team I worked with made the trips we took together enjoyable. But, like most jobs, it came with its share of challenges. “Do you like your job?”
“I do,” he said, picking up a glass from the rack behind him and wiping it dry before placing it on the shelf underneath the bar. “It’s decent money, and I get to meet a ton of interesting people.”
“Don’t you get tired of dealing with drunk people?”
“Don’t you?”
“Drunk people are more likely to buy my products,” I said with a wink.
“Funny you should say that. Mine, too,” he said. “Case in point.” He stepped away from me quickly as a pair of men dressed in all leather approached the bar, their scraggly white beards shaking as they laughed loudly.
“’Nother round, Marky Mark. ’Nother round,” the larger one shouted joyfully. I watched his spit fly into the air as he spoke, but the bartender didn’t flinch. It was obvious he had a rapport with this particular customer.
“You got it, Tony,” he said. The bartender, who I was just learning was named Mark, laid out four glasses and poured whiskey into them. The customer slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. “Keep the change.” He laughed loudly—at God knows what—and the two took their drinks, walking away and back to their table as half their drinks sloshed out onto the floor.
When they’d moved out of earshot, Mark walked back to me. “See,” he said, holding up the cash as he slid it into the register and began to pull out change for his tip.
“That was like,” I tried to do the mental math, “at least a twenty-dollar tip.” I was shocked, I had to admit. This was not the type of place I’d expect to see tips that size.
“More like sixty,” he said, holding out three twenties and sliding them into his pocket. “Tony and his guys come in a few nights a week and get plastered on our cheapest whiskey. Four or five rounds like that a night and with tips that just get bigger as they go—the way I see it, Tony practically pays for my tuition.”
“You’re in school?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. He had a rough look to him with dark clothes and messy, chestnut hair that made me think college was the last place he would be. “What for?”
“I’m third year law,” he said, breaking eye contact modestly.
“Seriously?”
He nodded, leaning forward on the bar in front of me. He was close enough I could smell his warmly scented cologne. “Yep, seriously. Why?”
“That’s…impressive,” I admitted, taking another drink of my scotch. I’d come into the conversation feeling superior, but as my cheeks lit on fire, I realized how quickly the tables had turned.