Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “You have a jukebox?” I ask, amused. “Please tell me there’s no ’N Sync or One Direction on your jukebox.”

  “I’m gay, not a thirteen-year-old girl. Actually, the box has a theme—come see.” He takes my hand again and leads me back into the bar.

  On one side of the wall is the jukebox, lit up with colored neon lights, and decorated with thatched reeds and tiny, carved tiki gods. Jeff shows me the music choices. “I burned all of the CDs it plays from my computer, and I only give people three choices: romantic first-dance songs to remind them of their wedding; Hawaiian music, because, really, there’s no way around that; and every song ever recorded by the Beatles.”

  “Huh. I never knew the Beatles were known for weddings.”

  “They’re not—they’re just awesome.”

  I look at some of the selections, which include everything from “What a Wonderful World” to Shania Twain’s “You’re Still the One.” I notice song D-4. “Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ cannot be a first-dance song.”

  “Actually, it was. I only have songs customers danced their first dance to. But I must admit, several of those songs also fall into a secret last category, which I like to call ‘Get the drunk couple to start slow-dancing in my bar while I sell them two more twenty-dollar drinks, then call them a cab.”

  I flip the pages of the songbook and continue perusing. C-1 is a classic. “The acoustic version of ‘Layla’ by Clapton. Nice…” Beneath that, I am surprised by selection C-2. “You have ‘Wonderful Tonight’ on here?”

  “Of course. Classic first dance. But mostly it’s a tribute to you. Don’t you remember? It was playing during the first slow dance we ever had back in college.”

  I feel horrible. After everything that had happened with Jay in the past few weeks, I had completely forgotten about that dance with Jeff. We had been dating about a month. He’s the reason I didn’t make out with Jay that weekend in college—I didn’t have time for a fantasy, I was too busy being happy in a real relationship. “That’s very sweet of you to remember. Thank you,” I say, touched. “Hey, you wanna dance?”

  “Aw, sweetie, I can’t right now. We open in less than an hour, one of my bartenders just quit so I’m down a guy, and I have to start prepping. But we can later tonight.”

  “I would be honored.” I clap my hands once. “So what can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. You’d be bored out of your mind. I’m just going to be cutting up fruit, loading up ice, restocking wine bottles—nothing exciting.”

  “Remember how we always had the rule that if either of us ever came to a party early, we’d put each other to work getting ready?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’m here early, aren’t I?” I say excitedly.

  Jeff considers my point. He shrugs. “If you want to help me, I will always take the help.”

  And I am excited—this will be fun. I follow Jeff behind the bar. I have not been behind a bar since I was a little sister at Jeff’s fraternity in college, helping them serve drinks at their annual Pirate Party.

  “Okay, we’ll start with the fruit. See these trays?” Jeff asks, pointing to three plastic fruit trays. “They need to be filled throughout the night with lemons, limes, cherries, and twists of orange. So we need to cut them up and have them ready for opening.”

  “Cool.”

  Jeff hands me a sharp eight-inch knife, and I begin slicing limes while he starts working on lemons.

  Cut, cut, cut … I sure like the sound the knife makes when it hits the plastic cutting board, and the scent of the fresh lime juice smells like a bubble bath. Who knew something as simple as slicing limes could be so relaxing and good for the soul? As I continue to slice, I realize that it’s been a long time since I worked with my hands. I normally go from teaching math and grading papers all day to a home of television and microwave dinners at night. I don’t cook, I zap. I pretty much stopped cooking after I broke up with my boyfriend. Without an audience to appreciate my efforts, there was no point.

  But clearly there was a point. It’s a welcome change to be doing something that’s brainless, yet gives me immediate, visible results. It’s a cheap road to instant happiness. Yay. Maybe when I get home, I’ll sign up for a cooking class.

  Imagine having to go halfway around the world to figure out that something as simple as cutting fruit could give me so much pleasure.

  My zen is interrupted as an exotically beautiful Hawaiian girl in a bright red tropical shirt and short, white miniskirt that shows off her perfect legs bursts through the door and heads right to Jeff.

  She’s a woman on a mission. “Jeff, I need you to explain men to me. Again,” she commands, her tone a combination of anger and frustration. (Been there.)

  Jeff, unfazed and clearly used to her outbursts, continues to calmly cut up lemons. “Honey, if I knew anything about men, do you think I’d still be single at my age?”

  Pretty girl gets to the bar and sticks her iPhone inches from Jeff’s face. “Read this. This is fucked, right?”

  Jeff calmly pulls his head back a bit to read the screen. After a moment he surrenders. “I give up. What am I looking at?”

  “Remember that guy Billy I told you about?” she asks Jeff, her energy level so high I think she might ping around the room like an old-fashioned silver pinball.

  “Not really. You talk about so many men, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Volleyball guy with the ears.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She shakes her phone quickly back and forth in front of Jeff, then says angrily, “He just asked me out.”

  Jeff reads the screen again, then concludes dryly, “Bastard.”

  “On Twitter.”

  Jeff winces. “Oooh.”

  Leggy-model type notices me for the first time. “Sorry. Hi, I’m Leilani. You must be Melissa.”

  “Mel. Hi,” I say, smiling and wiping my lime-soaked hands on a towel so that I can shake her hand.

  Leilani shakes my hand, then wastes no time getting my opinion. “Mel, do you think it’s bad if a guy asks you out on Twitter?”

  “Depends. Did you meet him in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes.”

  “Damn,” she exclaims, grabbing a flower-patterned, green-and-white apron from the bar, wrapping it around her waist, and tying it in the front. “Men are so confusing. I’ll bet it was so much easier to date at the turn of the century.”

  “Probably,” I say, dreaming of the romance of the good old days. “No phones to wait by, no stupid romantic movies with their unattainable happy endings to watch. A young gentleman coming to your house to court you…” I look over at them wistfully.

  Leilani stares at me blankly.

  Jeff smirks.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Leilani was born in the nineties,” Jeff tells me. “To her the ‘turn of the century’ was 2000.”

  “Ah…,” I say. Shit. To me, people who were born in the nineties shouldn’t even be in high school yet, much less drinking and working at a bar.

  Leilani shows me her iPhone screen. “What should I write back?”

  I read the screen: M4C.

  I purse my lips. “Yeah … I’m gonna need more. M4C?”

  “Meet for coffee,” Jeff and Leilani say in unison.

  “Oh, never meet a guy for coffee,” I advise her with complete authority. “If he’s asking you to coffee, he’s not all that interested. You might as well have picked him up on OkCupid.”

  “You’re right.” Leilani breaks into a naughty smile as she types back, M4V.

  “M4V?” I ask.

  “‘Meet for vodka.’” She looks up from her phone to ask Jeff, “Where’s Ashley?”

  “Who’s Ashley?” I ask.

  “Our bar back,” Jeff tells me. “She’s a musician and a part-time student. Plus, she’s on Hawaiian time. So, you know, sometimes she oversleeps.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “It’s four o’clock in the a
fternoon.”

  Jeff shrugs, seems resigned to the situation. “Like I said, she’s a musician.”

  “What’s a bar back?”

  “The bar back is the person who helps me set up the bar, then they restock everything all night, wash glasses, take out trash. You know, scut work.”

  My face perks up. “I can do that! I’m already helping you set up the bar. And I’m great at scut work.”

  Jeff shakes his head. “Wrong. You’re on vacation. Your job is to be on that side of the bar, drinking Lava Flows until closing, at which time I will drive you home and pour you into the guest room. Besides, Ashley usually—”

  Before he can finish his sentence, a beautiful blonde charges through the bar, racing straight to the back room. “I’m sorry I’m late. I totally got stuck in traffic,” the blonde says to Jeff as she rushes through the bar. “Hey, Mel.”

  Hey, Mel? As Ashley disappears into the back room, I wonder why she thinks she knows me.

  Leilani follows Ashley toward the back room. “We have no rush hour on this island, and no freeways. How could you possibly get stuck in traffic?”

  Ashley quickly emerges from the room, carrying a box of cabernet sauvignon bottles. “There were chickens on the road. I had to stop.”

  “What is it with you and chickens?” Leilani asks, shaking her head. “They’re infesting the island. I say run ’em over, fry ’em up.”

  “That is so mean,” Ashley responds as she carries the wine behind the bar. “How can you live on this beautiful island and not want to coexist peacefully with its inhabitants?”

  “Because some of its inhabitants taste finger-lickin’ good with a little barbecue sauce and a side of fries.”

  Ashley shakes her head. “You know, you should really think about going vegetarian.”

  Leilani glares at Ashley, then makes a show of moving her hands from her shoulders down to her hips. “Look at this body. Would you do anything differently?”

  Touché. First point, Leilani.

  “Uncle Jeff,” Ashley begins, “would you please tell Leilani that if she cares at all about heart disease—”

  “Wait. Uncle Jeff?” I interrupt. “You’re not Ashley as in Ashley his niece, are you?”

  Ashley looks at me blankly. “Yeah.”

  “Shouldn’t you be nine?” I ask her accusingly.

  Jeff laughs. “Ashley is twenty-two now. Time flies.”

  Jeff’s little niece Ashley, whom I used to buy ice cream, is now a beautiful, busty blonde who has grown up to be my dating competition. How depressing.

  Leilani’s phone buzzes. She picks it up and reads, “M4D?” She looks up. “Anyone know what D is supposed to mean?”

  “‘Dinner,’” I answer.

  “‘Drinks’?” Jeff guesses.

  Ashley doesn’t say anything aloud. Instead, she walks over to Leilani and whispers in her ear. Leilani’s jaw drops, and she grabs her phone and types. “That better not be right.”

  Ashley turns to Jeff. “I see you have the fruit under control. I’ll get started on the restocking and the ice.”

  “Good plan,” Jeff tells her as she disappears into the back room. Then he turns to me and smiles. “Which means you’re officially off the clock. Let me get that Lava Flow started for you.”

  “Or you could make me a money tree,” I say hopefully.

  “That’s not the way it works. Besides, don’t I get credit for the charm cupcakes?”

  “Wait—there are cupcakes?” Leilani asks, putting her phone in her apron pocket.

  “There are cupcakes?” we hear Ashley yell from the back.

  “No! There are no cupcakes,” Jeff says loudly to both of them. Then he looks at me pointedly. “And there are no money-tree drinks either. That’s cheating.”

  “Eeww … Don’t make drinks out of the money trees. That sounds nasty,” Leilani says to Jeff.

  “I’m not going to,” Jeff assures her.

  “Good. Because that would be like when everyone was doing edible flowers at the five-star restaurants. Why the hell would I want pikake with my ono? You eat your fish, you look at the pretty flowers. You drink your Lava Flow, you look at the pretty money trees.”

  “Right,” Jeff agrees, nodding wholeheartedly and gesturing toward Leilani while he looks at me. “You drink your Lava…” He turns to Leilani, confused. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  Leilani continues to make a face. “Money trees are all fibrous. Why would you want to mix them in a drink?” A thought startles her. “Wait. Please don’t tell me you’re infusing vodka with them, because that is gonna be worse than when you tried infusing vodka with bacon.”

  I try to quell my urge to get too excited as I ask Jeff, “Is she talking about actual trees?” I snap my head over to her. “You’re talking about real trees, aren’t you? As in the green things with branches and sap and bark and all that?”

  “Kind of, as in the green things. Although some of them are pink and green, and some of them don’t exactly have bark. I mean, I guess it’s bark. What exactly is bark?”

  I smack Jeff on the arm triumphantly. Then I turn to Leilani. “Oh my God, I love you! Where can I find one of these pink-and-green things?”

  “Um … outside.”

  “Outside where? Like at an arboretum? Or somewhere in Honolulu?”

  “Like outside on the lanai. Jeff has them scattered around the patio.”

  As I race out to the lanai, I can hear Jeff ask her, “I do?” I look around at all of the flora and fauna. Ready, eager …

  And having no idea what I’m looking at. There are some tiny trees with spiky, green leaves, and a ton of flowers with greenery around them. But nothing that looks like a Christmas tree, or even a palm tree. I turn to Leilani, who has followed me out. “Show me the money tree!”

  “You’re standing right in front of one,” Leilani says, walking up to me and pointing down at a small bush with long, thin, glossy green leaves that look as if they’ve been outlined in red.

  I smile. “Oh, it looks more like a bush.”

  “That one does, but we have ones that look like trees too. These things can grow pretty high actually. If you want to go outside, there are some big ones across the street that I can show you.” She points again, this time to a taller plant with pinker leaves. “That’s one too.” She continues to point. “And that one, and that one.”

  “Those are all money trees?” I hear Jeff say from the doorway.

  “Seriously, dude, how long have you been here? They’re all over the island.”

  Mystery solved! The charm wasn’t telling me I’d make a lot of money, it was telling me to come here.

  But why? Do they need teachers here? Is there a man here? Was it just telling me that I needed to go on vacation to clear my head?

  What was the secret message?

  And, speaking of messages, Leilani’s phone buzzes. She pulls her cell from her apron, reads, and grimaces. “Crap! Ashley was right. And there is no way I’m meeting a guy for D on a first date.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Gotta love the Internet! I’m fascinated by all I’ve learned about this plant in only half an hour. When I googled money tree the night after Seema’s bridal shower, all I found were ads for financial services, articles about saving for retirement, and a few strange personal ads. But tonight, when I added the word Maui to money tree, I got thousands of hits, including nurseries from all over the island that sell all sorts of different versions and sizes of the shrub.

  “‘Dracaena marginata,’” I read excitedly to Seema from my computer while sipping a Lava Flow in Jeff’s back office. “‘Also known as the Madagascar dragon tree, the red-edge Dracaena, and here in Maui, the money tree. Grows best at temperatures between sixty-five and ninety degrees Fahrenheit in plant hardiness zones ten through eleven.’”

  “I can’t believe you just moved all of your stuff out without telling me!” Seema exclaims. She just got home from Africa (like, less than an hour ago) and has
just skyped me to discuss my surprise wedding gift. Seema continues to fume. “When I got home, I was afraid we had been robbed.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I say, still reading. “If you had been robbed, they would have taken the headdress. What do you think a ‘plant hardiness zone’ is?”

  “I can assure you, no one will ever take the headdress,” Seema snaps. “Then I call my brother and he says you left weeks ago. What the hell is going on with you lately? You are not acting like yourself.”

  “Good,” I say proudly. “That’s the whole idea.” I look up and think aloud, “Wouldn’t it be great if we knew which dating hardiness zones men did best in? You know, like, ‘This thirty-five-year-old male has some past dating damage and will wither outdoors: dating hardiness five. However, the specimen thrives indoors with proper watering and a steady diet of sex and watching sports on television.’”

  Seema furrows her brow and shakes her head. “What? What are you babbling about?”

  “Dating hardiness zones. Then some men could come with a warning: this thirty-three-year-old is a toxic weed, best dealt with by spraying repellent directly in his face.”

  Seema ignores my joke. Through my computer, I can see her pacing around our living room back home like a caged cheetah. She prefers it when she can control my life, and when I don’t do things such as go halfway around the world for part two of a booty call, then go back around the world the other way to buy a plant. (Go figure.)

  Or put all my stuff in storage without leaving her a key. Seema inhales a deep breath, then exhales. Calmer now she asks, “Okay. So, where did you move?”

  “I haven’t yet. All of my stuff is in storage.”

  Even from three thousand miles away, I can see her suppress a conniption. Another deep breath, then she asks, “Less than a month before your job starts, but I suppose you know what you’re doing. So when’s your flight back? I’ll come pick you up.”

  “I don’t know yet,” I say, wondering how long I can evade that question. “Did you know only one week of fifty-five-degree temperatures will damage the plant? Well, that explains why the trees like Maui so much: so far the only thing I’ve encountered here that’s under fifty-five degrees has rum in it.”