“Rowdy.”
“Yeah,” Walt said, “and he earned his name, so you best get that mug of beer to him before he trashes the place.”
“I’m working on it,” Pete promised, but Rowdy’s order was third or fourth down the line. Pete was overwhelmed, and panic was starting to settle in.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the pitcher was filled to the brim. Pete scurried around the bar to deliver it to the table of lumberjacks. They were a motley crew, dressed in overalls and steel-toed boots. Clumps of mud were spread across the wooden floor.
A group of men at the dartboard glared at him and one said, “Isn’t that our pitcher? We asked first.”
“Sorry, sorry. Coming right up.” Pete raced back and grabbed a second pitcher.
“Hey, what about me?” Rowdy asked, sounding unhappy.
In his work as a pastor, the one thing Pete knew how to do was enlist volunteers. “How about you pour your own.”
Rowdy’s eyes lit up before he hopped down from the barstool and joined Pete on the other side of the bar. “You ain’t no good at this, boy.”
Rowdy wasn’t telling Pete something he didn’t already know. “Thanks, I appreciate the help.”
“Hey, I’m no barmaid,” Rowdy said with a huff. “I’ll get my own beer, but I’m not getting anyone else’s.”
So much for a reprieve or a helping hand.
The football game ended at close to ten o’clock, and thankfully, tabs paid, the tavern settled down to a manageable level. Pete remained busy. His heart slowed to a normal rate and some of the more verbal discontent died down as those at the tables slowly headed home.
What surprised Pete was how physically draining this gig had turned out to be. His back ached, his feet hurt. It felt as if he’d put in a full day of baling hay, a job he’d taken after high school to pay for his college expenses. Hardest physical labor he’d ever done. He hadn’t anticipated that tending bar would be equal to that summer’s exhausting work.
The roar of motorcycles screaming was loud enough to shake the tavern’s windows. Everyone looked up as the clamor suddenly went silent. A few minutes later, the door opened, and six of the biggest tattooed men Pete had ever seen swaggered in through the door as if they owned the place. They wore black leather vests, with chains hanging from their back pockets attached to their wallets.
Walt turned to Rowdy and chuckled. “This should be good.”
Pete forced a welcoming smile. The last thing he wanted was to give the impression he was intimidated. He was, but he refused to show it.
Wiping his hands on the white cloth wrapped around his waist, Pete asked, “What can I get you boys?”
“Boys?” the leader of the group asked with a fierce glare. “Do I look like a boy to you?”
“Nope, not at all,” Pete said, and while his knees were practically knocking, he didn’t let his discomfort show. “A slip of the tongue.”
“Don’t let it happen again.” The threat was there, clear as vodka.
“Sure thing,” Pete said, as casually as he could modulate his voice. He leaned forward, and automatically reached for six mugs.
“Where’s Hank?”
“Vacationing,” Walt supplied. “Hired this yahoo to take his place.”
“What’s your name?” the biker asked Pete.
“Pete…Pete Armstrong.”
All six men sat down at the bar and ordered beers. Working as fast as he could, Pete poured beer from the tap, and hoped they didn’t notice the way his hand shook as he set the first glass along the top of the bar.
“He ain’t much of a bartender,” Rowdy informed them, which only added to Pete’s discomfort.
“You got that right,” biker number two said, staring Pete down.
“What’re you riding?” Pete asked, thinking to involve the bikers in friendly conversation. If he could keep them engaged, they might not mind how long it took him to deliver the brews.
“What do you want to know for?”
“Just curious.”
“Anyone who knows anything about us knows we ride Harleys.”
“Right,” Pete said.
“What about you, boy? You ride?”
Boy! The challenge was there, one Pete chose to ignore. “Nope, can’t say that I do. I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Like Walt here says, you ain’t no bartender.”
“No, I’ll admit this is my first gig; I’m still learning the ropes. Appreciate the patience.” As he spoke, he filled each mug and set them on the counter, avoiding eye contact.
“What do you do?”
“Do?” Pete hesitated. If he admitted he was the pastor at Light of Life church in Bridgeport, he could see the conversation taking a turn in a direction he wanted to avoid. As soon as the patrons learned he was a man of the cloth, everything would change. He’d seen it happen far too often. It was like people put up a wall, blocking him out, as if afraid he would judge them. Then there were the ones who pretended their lives were perfect in every way. They hid behind their righteousness, afraid that if Pete really knew what was going on in their lives he would take it upon himself to preach them into God’s kingdom.
“Seeing as you don’t usually tend bars, what’s your job?”
“Bet he sits behind a desk all day, Pres,” one of the bikers said, snickering.
“Looks real soft to me. Probably hasn’t done a day’s work in his life.”
“Baled hay,” Pete told them.
“No one’s baling hay now.”
“True, and admittedly that was a few years back.” Pete didn’t know why these rough-and-tough men were interested in him. He was happy to serve them beer and make casual conversation. It was as if they were looking for something…or someone.
“So, what’s up?” he asked, placing the last of the filled mugs on the counter.
“What’s up is: You aren’t Hank. We’re curious why he would choose you. Doesn’t look to me like you belong here.”
“Actually, I do,” he said, remaining as amicable as he could manage, given the circumstances. “Hank asked me to fill in for him while he’s…away for a few days.”
“And I’ll ask again, what is it you normally do?”
Pete couldn’t understand why they continued to press him on this.
“Answer the question!” The words were sharp and demanding.