After Jeremy gets cleaned up, I start showing him around the bar. It’s not a huge establishment but this place has definitely seen some great times. Opening a bar had been a lifelong dream of mine, so when this space became available back when I was in my mid-twenties, I jumped on it. It was a rough start but after a much-needed makeover and much-appreciated word of mouth, Come Again began to thrive.
“Now, back here is the stock room. It’s where we keep supplies, kegs, and the extra bottles of booze. When Paulie or one of the other guys need something, this is where you’ll find it. It’s imperative we keep this room neat and organized so that when there’s a rush and we run out of something, it can be replaced quickly. Believe me, you don’t want to make customers wait too long for their drinks. When the natives get restless, things get ugly.”
Jeremy quirks a small smile, the first I’ve seen from him, and nods his head. “Will do...I can do that.” His words are quiet, just like his demeanor, and I’m afraid he might get eaten alive if he doesn’t show some moxie. I know guys like him, though. Most have been beaten down by society until they can’t think further than putting one foot in front of the other.
I slap a hand down on his shoulder, sparing no expense. His whole body shakes but I get his attention. “Listen, all I ask is that you stay clean and show up on time, just like I mentioned earlier, but if you want to thrive, you’ll need to dig deep and find your balls.” I pause for a second, letting my words sink in and give him a chance to catch my drift. “They’re there. I promise, yeah?”
He nods.
“Don’t let people walk all over you or make you feel like you’re less than them, because you’re not. We all put our pants on the same way. So, for anyone who’s put you down or made you feel like they’re better than you, fuck them.”
He swallows before giving me another slight nod. I quirk an eyebrow at him, my face probably looking menacing under the dim light of the storage room. Finally, he tilts his chin up and mutters, “fuck them.”
“That’s right.” I nod my approval, giving him another slap on the shoulder, but not as hard this time, following it up with a squeeze of reassurance.
I’m not the touchy-feely type. I don’t hug. I don’t have flowery words of motivation. I have real talk and tough love, and it’s worked so far. Not for everyone, but those that can be saved, I’ve saved them.
“Shift starts in an hour.” Turning on my heel, I depart the storage room and leave Jeremy behind. My day really hasn’t even started yet and I’m already ready for it to be over. Not that I don’t love this place. I do. If it weren’t for the bar, I’d spend my days doing nothing and that would never work, so I appreciate it for what it is—employment, an outlet, a resource for the less fortunate, and some days, it’s the only thing I have to look forward to.
When I approach the front of the bar, I hear the telltale creak of the front door and check my watch. It’s early. We always leave the door unlocked once we’re all here for the day, even though we don’t technically open until later. Every once in a while, we’ll get an early straggler—someone having a bad day at work or someone searching for the hair of the dog. We’ve got remedies for both.
Glancing up, I expect to see a regular, a familiar face, but instead my eyes meet those of a young girl. She barely looks old enough to be in here, legally. “Can I help you?” I bark out, my voice sounding a little rougher than I anticipated.
The way she straightens her back lets me know she heard that too and I inwardly cringe. It’s not like I’m intentionally trying to be an asshole. For a second, I think my greeting was enough to scare her off, which would’ve been fine by me, but then she squares her shoulders and clears her throat.
“I’m looking for a job,” she says. Her words come out quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid or taking a dive before she chickens out. “I spoke with Wyatt at The Crescent Moon and he mentioned that you might be looking for some help.” The more she talks the braver she gets.
“Well, Wyatt was wrong. I’m not looking for anyone.”
I’m actually impressed when she takes a couple steps toward me.
Now, there’s some moxie.
“He said you help people who are down on their luck,” she challenges with a tilt of her head, like she’s inspecting me—testing me to see if any of the things she’s heard about me are true.
“Are you even old enough to work in a bar?” I ask, squinting my eyes in her direction, but not giving her much of my attention. However, I do look close enough to see the fire in her eyes spark and burn a little brighter, and I have to admit, I like it. But there’s no way in hell I’m hiring her. I’ve never had a female employee...at least, not since...
“I can mix drinks, wait tables, wash dishes—” She starts trying to sell herself and her skills, but I cut her off.
“We don’t cook. The only dishes we have are glasses and it’s every man for himself,” I retort, emphasizing the word man.
Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare a little before she huffs, “That’s very sexist of you.” I watch as her chest rises and falls with deep breaths and she bites down on her bottom lip, as if to keep herself from spewing out any more words of rebuttal.
“Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t Bourbon Street. We keep our clothes on here and we don’t do body shots,” I practically growl out, because she’s getting under my skin. How dare she come into my establishment on a Tuesday and challenge me. “If I only want to hire men, then I’ll do as I damn well please. Go find yourself a club to work at. That’s where the tips are, anyway.”
“I’m not a stripper or a...hoochie mama,” she says with her arms in the air. I’ve officially riled this girl up and I don’t even know her name. Her hoochie mama comment forces me to fight back a smile. But I can’t crack, not now.
When I take a step closer, the sun creeping in the window illuminates her, bringing her pale pink hair into view. It’s different. She’s different. And so are her eyes. They’re dark, coming off nearly black in the dim light, such a contrast from her hair and pale skin. And her accent. She’s definitely from the south, but she’s not from around here.
She also has a nice shiner and a split lip. Girl fight? Drunken bar fight? Boyfriend? Regardless, she looks like trouble and I definitely don’t need any of that here.
“Where’re you from?” I ask.
She sticks her chin out in defiance, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do you care?”
I stand there, stoic, staring at her like she’s lost her damn mind. No one ever contests me or contradicts me, except my sister, and on a rare occasion Paulie, but other than that, my word is the end all, be all.
“Oklahoma,” she reluctantly mutters after an elongated pause.
“Go back to Oklahoma,” I reply, turning around and walking out of the bar, past the storage room, past my office, and out the door at the end of the dark hallway. When the door slams behind me, I let out a few expletives, trying to relieve the sudden buildup of stress.
It doesn’t work. Growling, I kick the metal banister, but that does nothing but make me wince in pain. My steel-toed boots took the brunt of it, but it still didn’t feel good.