Page 18 of The Barkeep and the Bro

“Neat trick.”

“You’ll obviously want to count in your head when you serve, but that will let you know how much to give someone. When someone orders a mixed drink, that’s one shot. If they ask for a double, that’s two.”

“Got it.”

“And flip the bottle over completely. That’ll make it easier and faster to pour.” I put the second shot glass right in front of him. “You’re up.”

Charlie’s arm wobbled when he flipped the bottle over. It wasn’t natural. Nobody turned a bottle completely upside down to pour. They didn’t realize how heavy it was or how fast the fake booze gushed out. Liquid dribbled over the glass.

“Not as easy as it looks?” I had a cloth handy to wipe down the bar.

“I guess not.”

“And it gets harder when you’re pouring soda and alcohol at the same time. That’s why we practice.”

“I am officially humbled. Bartending looks much easier from the other side of the bar.”

I tossed the shot in the sink and slammed the glass back in front of him. “Do it again.”

Charlie took a breath before he tipped over the bottle. I silently cheered him on as, this time, all the booze made it into the glass. I gave a nod of approval.

“That was a great pour!” he said.

“That was one shot.”

“I think I’m getting the hang of this.” His cocky smirk and glowing eyes were hard to look away from.

“Yeah? Call me when you can do this.” I grabbed a tall collins glass. In a flash, I was pouring two bottles with one hand and operating the soda gun with the other. The old man still had it.

“Dang!” Charlie’s jaw hung open. I wasn’t the type of person who used gobsmacked in casual conversation, but my fratboy bartender was totally fucking gobsmacked.

I wore a gloating grin as I put everything back. “Keep practicing.”

7

CHARLIE

We continued to practice pouring throughout my shift. I had my first customers, who fortunately wanted something easy like beer. Mitch moved throughout the tavern—going over schedules with Natasha, checking in with Rudolpho, the cook in the kitchen, greeting customers. I firmly believed he could run this bar by himself with his eyes closed and one hand behind his back. Not exaggerating.

Yet, despite his busyness, he kept coming back to the bar to see how I was doing. “How’s it going, fratboy?” he’d ask before throwing new challenges at me. Different drink combinations. Faster speed. Two bottles at the same time. He’d pretend to make small talk with me while I poured to break my concentration. Apparently, customers liked to do that to get the bartender to pour more. It was surprisingly hard work, but I felt challenged and tired in a good way. I wanted to get better at this.

There were times when I managed to complete a complicated task, like making a Tequila Sunrise without spilling, and Mitch’s lips would lift into a begrudging smile that lit up the ridges of his face, making all the struggle worth it.

“Soon, I’m going to be a master of the bar,” I said. “You’re going to be like, ‘Did that guy really have no experience when I hired him? Damn, I’m good at my job.’”

I could see Mitch attempt to hold back a smile. “You’re a nut, Charlie.”

I pointed at him. “But I’m not fired yet.”

“True.”

Feeling inspired and confident, I picked up a bottle. “Soon, I’ll be able to do shit like this.”

I spun the bottle in my hand a la Tom Cruise inCocktail. It slipped from my grasp and almost crashed to the floor had my reflexes not been cat-like.

“Hey, I caught it. Right?”

Mitch grumbled.

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