Page 51 of The Barkeep and the Bro

“What’s gotten into you? I never had to pull you back to a party, especially one for a friend.” Skeeter’s words cut at me like the knives used to cut limes for tequila shots last night. “Did you have some kind of super early mid-life crisis? You lost your job, then all of a sudden left the city and shacked up in that small town serving drinks. The dust has settled on Demeter. Have you even been looking for a new job? Sent your resume to any places?”

I shook my head no.

Skeeter jabbed at his eggs like he wanted them dead. Causing drama was not in my playbook, but I had to stand up for myself, for Stone’s Throw, for Sourwood.

“Who are you?” His eyes squinted into a glare.

“We’re not in the frat house anymore. Things change.”

“That they do. You used to be fun, Charlie.”

I came to a conclusion I realized I’d been avoiding all weekend. Did we have anything binding us together besides college memories and getting drunk?

“I guess I used to be.” I left my pancakes half-eaten. I threw a twenty on the table, wished Asa a happy birthday, and definitively ended this chapter of my life.

17

MITCH

Ispent my Sunday morning being a good friend and helping Cal stage his house for buyers. No longer could a person sell their house because it was a house. Solid foundation, good craftsmanship? Nobody cared. It had to be staged to look pretty on real estate sites. New furniture had to be brought in, and walls had to be repainted to better help buyers imagine themselves in the house.

If I ever sold my house, I would never deal with that shit.

Cal had lived in his parents’ old house that he inherited when they passed. Emphasis on the old part, and he wasn’t the neatest person. So there was a lot of outdated shit—wallpaper, old light fixtures—which would make the house a tougher sell. At least, this was all according to Cary, his realtor, who had the attention span of a pixie stick. He suggested they bring in new furniture to make the house look “sexier and modern.”

But we were in charge of lugging it inside.

“This is going to transform your house. It’s going to sell, sell, sell!” Cary buzzed around the house, alternating between texting on his phone and scrolling on his iPad. He was a gay man with a slim waist, pink tie, and espresso pumping through his veins.

Cal and I hauled a taupe couch through the doorway. “And then what happens once it does sell?” I asked. “Who moves all this shit out?”

“Well, all homeowners are responsible for moving their own furniture out, as per the agreement.” Cary let out a patronizing chuckle.

“Great,” I said with a strained breath. Cal and I lowered the couch against the far wall of the living room. “Hey Cal, am I getting a cut of the sale?”

“Oh, Mitch. You should have your own stand-up set because you are too funny.” Cal pushed the couch against the wall. I helped him so he didn’t give himself a hernia. “You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart because that’s what friends do.”

He had me there. Cal had helped me throughout the years, recording ads for the tavern for free, driving Ellie before she had her license. But all that seemed like peanuts compared to all the furniture hauling I was doing.

I hated moving. Absolutely hated it.

The one saving grace was that all of the staged furniture was light (because it was cheaply made!).

Russ carried in an oversized end table, maneuvering so it didn’t bang against the door.

“Love that. Love it, love it, love it,” Cary said, making another note on his iPad while taking a call on his Bluetooth.

“I’m taking bets on whether Cary sleeps or just takes a series of power naps,” Russ said.

I let out a laugh. I liked Russ. He was like me, serious and no-nonsense but perhaps a little more uptight. Somehow, he and Cal made it work.

We moved the rest of the living room and kitchen furniture, then took a break before bringing in the beds and nightstands for the upstairs bedrooms. Between moving Cal and Josh in with Russ, moving his furniture to storage, and moving this staged shit in, I felt like I’ve been moving furniture in this house for months. Cal was going to put me in an early grave all for the sake of escrow.

Russ ran out for sandwiches and brought them back. Cary said we couldn’t sit on the couch, but I gave him a look daring him to fuck with me, and he backed off.

“Thanks again for helping with this, Mitch,” Russ said. “Leo had a bunch of city council meetings.”

“Leo hates doing manual labor, so I’d take his excuse with a grain of salt. He was the only kid I knew who could consistently get out of gym class.” I tore into my sandwich, ravenously hungry.

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