Page 14 of The Barkeep and the Bro

“Mr. Dekker.” Natasha snorted.

“You can call me Mitch here,” he said. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing massive, hairy forearms. I didn’t know why my throat went dry for a moment.

“Charlie,” he said.

“What?” I shook my head, silently telling my brain to get it the fuck under control.

“I asked if you filled out all the new hire paperwork and brought two forms of ID.”

“Right. Yeah.” I pulled the required documents and ID from my coat pocket. I wanted to make sure they didn’t fall out, so I folded them into a tight square.

“This looks like a note being passed in class.” Mitch unfolded the paperwork and looked them over. “Everything seems in order. I’ll process these later. Today, we’ll be training at the bar.”

“Perfecto.” I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the front door.

Natasha whistled like she was a construction worker on the street.

Mitch’s eyes stayed on me for an extra second. Maybe there was a dress code? He and Natasha both wore casual, baggier clothes.

“Is this okay?” I pulled at my henley.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It seems tight. Is that comfortable to work in for an eight-hour shift?”

“We’ll find out.”

“Do you have a permit for those guns?” Natasha asked, popping her gum.

I looked down at my arms and chest, feeling a bit self-conscious but going with the flow. Women have been objectified throughout history; I suppose I could handle one co-worker noticing. Or was it two?

“I like to be healthy,” I said.

“Yeah. Healthy.” Her eyebrows jumped in unison to the top of her forehead.

Our conversation came to a halt when Mitch slammed a book against my chest. I took it from his hands.

“Guide to Mixology,” I read from the cover.

“Read that. Study that. Commit every drink in there to memory,” Mitch said.

I flipped through the pages filled with cocktail recipes. “Do customers order shit like this?”

“You never know. You have to be prepared.” Mitch walked behind the bar. I followed, thinking I should shadow him.

“Have you made all of these drinks?”

“Probably.” He checked the amount left in each liquor bottle and the number of glasses on the shelves above. He left no detail unturned. I started to get nervous. How the hell was I going to replicate this?

“Should I be taking notes?”

“We’ll cover this later. There’s a checklist for opening up and closing the bar. It’s in my head, so I’ll get it down on paper.”

“Man, you’re good at this.”

“I’ve been working here for thirty years, so it’d be odd if I weren’t.”

Mitch retreated to the supply closet behind the bar. I followed behind, my eyes looking at a wall of flannel. He groaned when he opened the door. “One of these days…”

I glanced around his arms at the mess of a supply closet. Wasn’t it law at this point that all supply closets be a mess? Humans were not meant to be so organized. Mitch found his way through and came out with a box of empty colored bottles.

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