Page 9 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“I’ve seen the bar,” I say, handing him his coffee.

“Well, I’m trying to make some changes. I mean, it has a singing trout on the wall and the carpets have been there since the ’70s.”

“I would argue that that’s what people like about it,” Shelby says, butting in.

“Maybe. But in my attempts to remove the smell of stale beer and pee, I need to update a few things at least. You have the vibe here everyone likes. I thought you could offer some ideas—I’d pay you, of course.” He sort of shakes his head like it’s a stupid idea, and I’m about to say no.

“Of course, Billy. Not a problem.” Because of course I can offer him this small kindness even though it comes with a smirk from Shelby.

“Oh, great,” he says, and before he can utter another word, Shelby stands and walks behind the counter.

“Go ahead, I’ll watch the register.”

“Uh, I don’t think he meant now, but thanks,” I say giving her a “what the hell are you doing” look.

“No one’s in this early anyway,” she says, giving the few that are a dismissive hand gesture like they’re the weird exceptions. Billy shrugs.

“I am painting today, so…but I know you have lot on your plate, so no rush, really,” he says, and I wonder what he means by that. Most people think I started working nonstop to keep busy and take my thoughts away from an empty house and my missing husband; they don’t know that I need to work just to pay the staff and my own bills. Does he know more than he’s letting on? He probably meant nothing by it and it’s just a thing people say, but I tend to overanalyze everything these days.

“It’s really no problem,” I say, taking off my apron and pulling on my coat that swallows me in its massive faux fur hood. I ignore whatever look Shelby is trying to throw at me and follow him out. It’s still dark outside and the sharp air is a shock no matter how many times a day you get punched by it. I smile to myself when I think about Leo’s description of the bar—if Applebee’s and a dumpster had a baby, that would be The Angry Trout. I can’t imagine there is much I have to offer, but it can’t hurt to be nice for a few minutes.

We walk into the dim, silent space. All the chairs are piled upside down on tables, and it’s warm and familiar. The red, tacky carpet is disgusting as ever with its dark gum stains and beer spills, but it’s sort of soothing and nostalgic at the same time. The jukebox that’s been there since I was a kid still lights up the corner, the karaoke machine on a tiny stage looks sad and lifeless in daytime hours, and the vinyl bar stools are still torn and ancient, really just the way people like it. This place hasn’t changed in decades, and it’s a nice comfort for folks.

He switches on the light above the pool tables and another behind the bar that illuminates the rows of glass liquor bottles. Then suddenly, I feel my shoulders being grabbed from behind. I scream and whip around, swinging my fist.

“What the fuck!” I yell, my heart in my chest…until I realize that it’s Billy’s father, Lou, and that I’ve hit him. In the face.

“Oh God!” Billy rushes over. Lou holds up his arms defensively and makes a whimpering sound that makes me feel worse than I thought possible.

“I’m sorry. I thought you was Billy. I…I wasn’t trying to…” Lou stutters, cowering.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I say. “Oh my God, you…are you okay? I’m so…”

“It’s okay,” Billy says, helping his dad straighten up. Lou adjusts his glasses and blinks at me.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting anyone in here.”

“Here,” Billy says and helps Lou to his chair in the small office that’s really more of a closet with a desk in it off to the side of the bar. He gets Lou back in front of the computer monitor, the desk piled with dusty files, crumpled paper, and Pepsi cans.

“Everyone’s fine,” he says, but I’m still holding my heart, equal parts terrified I was about to be attacked and mortified that I hit an eighty-seven-year-old man.

I pick up the coffee Billy set on the bar that must be for Lou and bring it to him.

“Here, God, Lou. You sure you’re okay?” I ask, offering another apologetic look to Billy over the top of his head.

“Eh, I got worse from Linda when I walked in on her on the can the other day,” he says, and that’s when I see it.

Hovering over Lou’s shoulder, in this grimy closet office, on an antiquated desktop computer, blinks a handful of file folders labeled “security footage.” One says January to March 2018, April to June 2018…there are three months’ worth in each file, all the way up to the present, January 2024.

“Oh my God!” I blurt.

“He’s really fine,” Billy says. “We can go ahead and…” He starts to move out of the office, until he realizes I’m pointing at the screen with my hand cupped over my mouth.He looks to where I’m looking.

“You have footage of that night,” I say, not as a question but a statement because I know the camera on the front door faces the street and catches my cafe. “How?”

“What night?” Lou says, squinting at the screen through the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen.

“Dad,” Billy says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Lou looks up at Mack and makes the connection.

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