by Erin Hahn
He nods for me to continue.
“Well, you should give me a closing shift. As a manager. To, you know, manage.”
He leans back, resting his hands across his well-earned belly. He’s wearing his favorite gas station shirt today. The one that reads Phil’s 550 and has Bud Light and Marlboro patches on the pocket. “Go on.”
I exhale. “Okay, so I was thinking. I’ve been at every show for the last year, but you’re always here, too. Which is great because I’ve learned so much from you. Obviously. Like, everything. But what if you took a night off?”
Phil tilts his head, scratching at his beard. “I’m listening.”
“I mean. I wouldn’t be alone.” I start ticking off on my fingers. “On our average night, there are at least two bartenders, two security (one of them stationed at the door), and one hostess. That’s not even mentioning the front-loaded waitstaff on Saturdays.” He raises his brows, and I rush on, “Not that I would presume to cover a Saturday night, but like, what about Sunday?”
“Sunday?”
“Er, right. Or anytime. I’m wide open. Except when I’m in school, obviously.”
“And why should I give you, a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year-old, a management shift? The whole weight of my club resting on your shoulders. The day-to-day operations of managing a bar and concert venue?”
I blink. “Why the fuck not me?”
He laughs, full-bellied, and presses his hands to the desk. “Thank Christ, you had me nervous there for a second. There she is. Where did you get that shirt?”
“My mom,” I mutter.
“Right,” Phil says, his eyes lifting to the ceiling. “I thought it looked familiar.” As my mom tells it, she was a bit on the nerdy side, and Phil was this extra cool metalhead back in high school. They haven’t changed much.
“So…”
“Yes, you can have the job,” he says gruffly. “I’ve been thinking about taking a night off. Or at least leaving early. Sunday is a good trial.”
“Okay.” I’m not disappointed in his cautious tone. I’m not. I have to earn my opportunities.
“That’s not to say you couldn’t handle more,” he says, no doubt taking in my expression. “But Mary,” he emphasizes my mom’s name, “might kill me if I let you close any other night. You still have to graduate, kid.”
I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’ve more than earned it.”
“I won’t let you down. I’ll even help you find someone to replace me as second bartender on Sundays.”
He laughs. “Vada. Easy, girl. I trust you. You, uh, know this comes with a pay raise.”
I press my lips together. “I wondered, but I’d take it either way. I want the experience.”
Phil’s expression is stern. “What have I told you?”
“Never work for free. But I’m not! The experience is invalu—”
“Never. Work. For. Free,” he says, tapping his desk with two fingers to accentuate each syllable. “If you don’t value your time, no one else will. I’m hiring you for your ridiculous brain and enthusiasm. I am the one winning out here. Now ask me for a raise.”
He leans back, and I cave in around my stomach, feeling stupid. “Can I have a raise?”
“No.”
“What? But you just said—”
“Ask again.”
I roll my eyes with a huff. “Mr. Josephs, my time is valuable, and I know my shit. I’ve worked at this club for two years. I’ve paid my dues. I would like a five-dollar-an-hour raise.”
Phil’s brows jump, and I almost waver. But I don’t.
“The raise is two dollars.”
“Four fifty.”
“Three, and that’s my final offer. I’m not made of money. Fucking Bee-Dubs,” he grumbles before holding out his meaty hand. “Pleasure to have you aboard.” I shake it.
“Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome. Now get out of here and change your shirt. You’re making me want to buy detergent.”
* * *
I lied before. I don’t think Ben and his lumber sexy beard are attractive. Right this minute, the way he’s wheedling his way out of his Sunday-night shift because he has to study for midterms … flannel is overrated, and so is he.
“I can’t believe this. It’s my first night,” I mumble into my hands.
“Look, Vada. I’m sorry. I forgot Phil wouldn’t be here, but it’s not like you need him. Or me. You could run this place in your sleep.”
I glare at Ben, cursing his twisty beard with my eyeballs.
“And who is supposed to pour drinks while I’m running the place, Ben?”
“Kazi?” he offers. “I’m really sorry, Vada. I feel like a dick. But I can’t stay.”
I rub at my temples, feeling a thousand years old. “Kazi, if he shows, won’t be here until nine. The headliner won’t even get onstage until then. And I can’t close alone, Ben. I promised my mom!”
“You’re not alone; you have the security dudes, and you know his girlfriend, Tess, always shows up attached at the hip.”
I glare at Ben. “Again. If Kazi shows up.”
“Call Phil?” he says before hurriedly changing direction to, “I’ll call Phil.”
“Fuck. Hold on.” I say, holding up my hand and thinking fast. I can do this. Can I do this? I need two hands to cover the bar. Sundays are generally light, but local favorite Salvador Retriever is playing. If I push two-dollar drafts, that’ll cut down on mixed drinks. So, two bartenders, but really only one, with another on standby. Security dudes can handle crowd control, and I can assign one of them to the door. This is fine. Don’t panic. “Don’t call Phil. He’s in Ohio with his sick mom.”
I can’t do this. I start to feel dizzy and stupid, and hot tears surge into the corners of my eyes and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“I can stay.”
I whirl around, and Luke is standing there, holding his longboard.
“Sorry. I overheard you were … um, Cull just left, and I wanted to let you know we’re all wrapped up in the sound booth … but, I can stay. Er … I don’t technically work here, but I can help keep an eye on things if you’re pouring drinks. I’m good at following directions.”
I consider half a second. I mean. I literally have no other options. It’s 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night. “Have you ever mixed a drink?”
He grins. “Grew up around pubs, remember?” Right. Famous punk musician. The Greenly boys have been mixing drinks since the womb.
“Are you eighteen?” The Loud Lizard is technically “all ages” unless we specify an over-twenty-one show, and even then, you only have to be eighteen to serve alcohol in Michigan. Trust me, I’ve been studying the loopholes for two years. Nevertheless, I can’t have anyone under eighteen behind the bar.
“Last month.”
“Oh thank God,” I say, impulsively hugging him before stepping back awkwardly. “You’re hired.”
His eyes widen, and I rush to correct myself. “I mean, for tonight. Unless you, um, want the job? Either way, I owe you.”
“I’ll let you know. But tonight, I’m yours. Or whatever. I’m here for you,” he says earnestly, shoving at his glasses before dropping his board with a clatter. “Shite.”
“Here,” I say. “You can lock up your stuff in Phil’s office.”
“So, I can leave?” Ben asks. I seriously forgot he was there.
“I thought you didn’t have a choice?” I remind him acidly.
“I don’t.”
I wave him away, pulling out my keys. “Stay here until we’re back, okay?” As I unlock Phil’s door, I whisper under my breath, “And then you can fuck the fuck off.”
Luke snickers.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is my first night closing the club alone. I practically had to beg Phil for this shift and promised I could handle the extra pressure even though he was leaving town, and now I’m short staffed.”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ll text my mom to
let her know.”
“I can drive you home later,” I offer.
“That would be great.”
“I’m not kidding, Luke,” I say, smiling for real. “I owe you. You’re saving my life here.”
“Happy to help. So, what time do the doors open for the show?”
I glance at my watch. “We have five minutes.” I take a deep, cleansing breath like my mom taught me. In my nose, out my mouth. “Five minutes. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.”
“Vada,” Luke says. I’ve noticed when he says my name, it comes out like Vay-der rather than Vay-duh. I like it.
“Hm?” I say, exhaling again.
“We can do this. It’s like my granddad the car salesman always says—under promise, over deliver. This is a dive bar, not Saint Andrew’s Hall. So, play it cool, and if we happen to remember water bottles in their dressing room, we’ll come off looking extra classy.”
“Water bottles?” I ask, panicking.
“You have any?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Great. You have no idea how magical a couple of water bottles in the mini fridge can be. Have any lemons?”
“Behind the bar,” I say, bemused.
He nods once, his blond hair flopping around his ears. He tucks one side back and moves to the door. “Perfect. A couple of lemons with the water and all of a sudden you’re not only prepared, you’re high class as fuck.”
I snort, following him.
“What?” he asks as I close Phil’s office door and lock it behind me.
“I don’t think I’ve heard you say fuck before. It sounded odd. Like, you’re too posh to say fuck.”
“Well, that’s fucking ridiculous,” he grouses, jumping behind the bar like he owns the place. I wave Ben out as Luke pulls out a handful of water bottles and fills a glass with lemon slices. He considers for a second. “What kind of band are they?”
I tip my head. “New alternative. Sorta electronic.”
He pulls out the Jägermeister and a few shot glasses, arranging it all on a tray. “Dressing room?”
“Well, more like backstage. There are a couple of rooms past Phil’s office. I’m sending them to the one farthest back.”
“I’m on it. You do what you need to do out here to get those doors open, and I’ll make sure the opening act is taken care of next.”
I want to cry out of pure gratitude. I want to know more about this super-capable version of Luke. Fumbling Luke was cute, Secure Luke is … hot? Superhot. Instead, I rush to the doors where there’s already a line and square away security with Dave and Mike before throwing the doors open to the crowd.
A moment later, Kazi rushes in, dreads flapping.
“You’re on bar,” I say. “Two-dollar drafts. There should be a sign under the register.”
He salutes and hops behind the bar, grinning affably. I might not love Kazi, but at least he takes orders well and showed up tonight. Which is more than I can say for Bearded Ben and his, um, beard.
Luke returns and stands alongside me, watching the club as it fills up. The opening band is tuning up, and for now, everything is working out. I join Kazi behind the bar and drag Luke with me.
“How about I show you around back here while it’s still moderately quiet?”
Luke grabs a bottle and tosses it in the air, twirling it.
My eyes widen. “Or not?”
“I’m surprised I caught it. That was a stupid move. I was trying to look cool, but I could have dropped it. Sorry about that,” he mumbles sheepishly.
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh at his chagrinned expression. Fumbling Luke is plenty hot, too, I guess. “Well, good thing you did. But we’re sticking to cheap drafts tonight. On the off chance anyone’s too fancy for beer, you can push it off to Kazi or me. Ever work a register?” I ask.
“No, sorry,” he says, and he sounds so contrite, I have to fight off another smile.
“It’s totally fine. Kazi,” I ask the dirty hippie, “if Luke writes it all—”
“How about he deals in cash? You good at math?” he asks.
Luke shrugs noncommittally, and Kazi says, “Can you count up? You can cash out if you count up.” Kazi pulls out a few bills. “So, like, the total is $5.25, and they give you a ten? First, always hold on to what they gave you and put it right here.” He plops it on the top of the register. “That way, no fucker can be all, ‘Oh, I gave you a fifty.’” He pops open the register and counts singles. “Six, seven, eight, nine twenty-five,” and he moves to quarters, deftly pulling them out. “Fifty, seventy-five, ten dollars. Done.” He flashes his pretend ten. “Give them their change, and then put your money in the register.”
“So no fucker can say I gave them a fifty.”
Kazi lights up. “Exactly. Point for the Brit.”
“Good,” I say, motioning to Kazi to take care of three frat guys flashing their bills. “It shouldn’t be overwhelming tonight, and if it is, I can hop back here as soon as the show starts and help out during intermission.”
11
LUKE
Two hours later and I’m dead on my feet, and I don’t even know how Vada is still standing. We’re hunched behind the bar, and she’s snacking on a cupful of maraschino cherries, her head bobbing along to the music.
The band is decent. They play mostly originals but threw in a few Something Corporate covers that featured their keyboardist. I could really dig that. It gave them an emo sound without delving too far back into the early 2000s. They also pulled out a remix on “Vienna” by Billy Joel that would have made my dad weep into his beer. As it was, I could barely keep myself from singing along.
With my eyes closed.
Correction. I can’t stop myself.
Vada’s head tilts onto my shoulder tiredly, and she says, “You have a pretty voice, Luke.”
Before I can get all embarrassed and dig up an entire childhood’s worth of drama and think too much about her leaning so close, she says, “You know how you know a song is really exceptional? The secret’s in the eyes. If you can’t possibly feel the lyrics with your eyes open—if it’s just too much to contain—that’s when you know it’s good. Really good.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that. Is that how you write your reviews?”
“Oh no,” she says. “I’m veeeery professional and calculated when I blog.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“One eye-closer gets a mention,” she interrupts, grinning and holding up one finger. “Two eye-closers and I’m forever your girl.”
I laugh. “That is awful scientific.”
“Am I wrong, though?” she asks, her brown eyes twinkling in the flashing lights of the stage.
“No,” I admit. “You’re not. That’s accurate.”
“So, I don’t think I’ve ever asked … I’m assuming you play an instrument?”
“Piano since I was little. But once I decided I wouldn’t be pursuing music, I stopped taking lessons. My dad was not thrilled.”
“Ohhhh,” she says, grinning wickedly. “I bet you broke his heart.”
“You’d think,” I say lightly. “Consequently, he sort of hates the podcast.”
“Really?”
I affect my dad’s rough Cockney accent. “If’n yer not gonna use yer gift, don’t be fuckin’ with the podcast jes ter rub it in yer dad’s mug.”
Vada’s eyes widen. “But you’re with Cullen!”
“True, but Cullen can’t carry a tune. Believe me, if he could…”
“Oh, I believe you,” Vada says, her eyes crinkling.
“So”—I hold out a hand and let it fall to my side—“I will always disappoint my father, who is left saying things like, ‘I love both of my sons equally, but Cullen a little more.’”
Vada gasps. “He does not.”
“He does!” I insist. “He’s mostly kidding. I think. If it wasn’t for my mum’s insistence that I’m her best chance at blond grandbabies, I’d be sunk. Saved
by the gonads.”
“Saved by the gonads,” she repeats gleefully. “That should be on a T-shirt.”
“I have one,” I deadpan. “Etsy.”
“You don’t!”
“I don’t.”
“You know, Cullen could always find a blond surrogate one day. Your gonads aren’t as precious as you think.”
“Well,” I consider. “That’s … true. Damn it, Carsewell.”
“Sorry.”
“Such a ballbuster.”
Her eyes widen, and she giggles. I’m not usually very funny. Is it possible someone can make you funny?
The band wraps up their set, and Vada yells for last call before they can return for a three-song encore.
We won’t technically shoo anyone out after the show, but it’s after 11:00 when Vada asks Kazi to raise the house lights to nudge people toward the doors. Kazi’s girlfriend, Tess, shows up to drive him home, and she helps wipe down tables and clean up trash off the floor while Vada and I straighten the bar and run the dishwashers so everything is ready to go in the morning. The band came up afterward, and Vada paid them and thanked them for coming, and I went to clear out the backstage area. The waters and Jägermeister were definitely appreciated.
Not bad for a couple of teenagers.
We leave everything in a reasonable state. Vada says Phil will be in tomorrow before opening with a janitorial crew to mop the floors and clean the bathrooms. She divvies the tips between the three of us and locks everything else in a safe in Phil’s office.
Kazi and Tess take off, and so does a security guard, leaving us with the other. He doesn’t speak, hasn’t all night, but as we’re walking out, Vada says, “Night, Mike! Thanks for the escort.” And he waves. He waits in his car until we pull out, so Vada doesn’t tarry, even though her car is freezing.
“Sorry, Mike’s got little ones at home. I don’t like making him stay out any later than usual. When Phil closes, he leaves at the end of the show. He only stayed for me. Or, well, us.”
“No worries,” I say. “Warmer than boarding.”
Vada huffs into her fingers before reaching into the console. “I think my mom keeps a pair of her driving gloves in here…” She pulls out a pair of skinny pleather gloves and tugs them on, flexing her fingers at the stoplight. “Not much better, to be honest.”