Page 4 of Baby, It's You
Tripp started trying to make changes instantly at the bar. He said that it needed to have a “cleaner” and “refined” aesthetic to attract new customers.
To him, this means changing the charm and grit that created the bar. First, he told me there will be uniforms, which would have Jane in afitif she saw them. Jane has always been about self-expression and always told staff to “come as they are” to work.
One time I showed up for a shift in a puffy, metallic blue ’80s style prom dress that I found thrift shopping to play a prank on her. When Jane saw my outfit, she just shouted, “Hey! When did you raid my closet?! Now go over there and start marrying the ketchups.” She didn’t acknowledge my outfit again for the rest of my shift. The joke ended up on me because I had to work the rest of my shift looking like a clown threw up on me. I must say, though, my tips were great that night.
Now Tripp has mentioned he wants to paint the bar and change up the interior, too. Whiskey Jane’s has always had a tradition that you can draw and write on any wall in the bar. That means every inch is covered in things like scribbleddrunken names, funny inside jokes from our regulars, and young hopeful couples marking their initials accompanied by the year in Sharpie hearts. The interior may be dated and lack beauty to someone like him, but to the locals that have come here for years and years, it feels like home.
Even as a child, Tripp hated spending time at the bar, Jane always mentioned to me. She said he resented it and hated having to spend time in a place that looked “poor” and run down growing up. He was always embarrassed by his parents’ business. The day Tripp finished high school, he moved to New York, saying he needed to get out of this dump.
I could always hear the hurt in Jane’s voice when she would talk to me about this. She always made excuses for Tripp, though, saying he was meant for bigger and better things than her and Seymour. Which is why I was extra shocked hearing that he had a sudden interest to move back and run the bar, now that Jane isn’t able to. I have always been able to read people’s intentions well, I think, and I know there must be an ulterior motive to his sudden interest in the well-being of the bar.
Pulling up in the bar parking lot with the mountain view I love so much, I see that Tripp’s car is already here. I mutter, “Shit,” to myself and quickly turn off my car. I am about to get a lecture for being late.
Checking myself in the mirror quickly, I realize that my mascara has smeared under my eyes from my battery jumping excursion, so I quickly wipe under them with my pointer fingers. Then I rush out of my car and give myself a pep talk. There is a bitter taste in my mouth, knowing I’m about to get chewed out by someone who just showed up here randomly and now acts like he knows what he’s doing.
Opening the back door to the bar, I’m at once overtaken by the scent I’ve grown to love through the years. Real wood floors,French fries fresh out of the fryer, and a little bit of stale beer that lingers.
I see Rob, our cook, standing at the flat top getting ready to start some burgers. Rob is a six-foot-four beast of a man who started here as a bouncer back in the ’90s, but quickly realized he was a teddy bear who couldn’t handle sending people away. So, he trained to work in the kitchen and has been here ever since.
He turns to me in greeting, and I quickly put my finger over my lips in a “shhh” motion. He glances up at the clock and nods, then motions his eyes to the left indicating that Tripp is in the office. I thank him with an overdramatic sweeping bow and run past him to the right as he chuckles to himself.
Blasting through the kitchen door to the front of the bar, I see a few of our regulars are already munching on their sandwiches and burgers. I know then I’m in the clear. Rob must have taken their orders for me. I will have to run to The Mart across the street later to grab him a giant pack of Nerds Clusters as thanks.
Our locals would never complain to Tripp if their orders hadn’t been taken. They would just sit at the bar, chat, and help themselves to the soda gun until I arrived. If he came out front and saw anyone empty-handed in the bar, he would only see dollar signs down the drain. The last thing I want is to get chewed out by Tripp and his never-disappearing coffee breath.
Thinking of coffee, I head to the pot on the burner behind the bar and pour myself a giant cup. After two big gulps of what I realize is probably last night's stale coffee, I gag a little and set the cup down. I turn and grab my black half apron and tie it around my waist. Two of our regulars, Johnny and Rick, sit at the bar and give me a knowing glance.
“Rough night?” Rick asks. If you took Danny Devito and stretched him about six inches taller, that would be Rick. He has the compassion and warm smile that you would expect out of a Hallmark card, and I can always count on him to read me well.
“Probably partying after her shift like always. You know how crazy Olive gets. I heard the police were on the lookout for a streaker last night matching her description,” Johnny teases, leaning in closer to me across the bar. “Where were you at four A.M., Missy?”
Where I can expect a sentimental moment and hug from Rick, I can also expect a dad joke and goof from Johnny. Just looking at Johnny, he’s a character. Every single day he wears a black top hat. Seriously, every day since he started coming to this bar back in the ’80s, a top hat has been on his head. I have no idea what's going on underneath that hat. It could be hair, no hair, or maybe even a rat controlling his arm movements. I asked him to see once, and Johnny’s response was, “I am nothing without this hat and you can pry it off my dead body before I show you.Buteven then, you won’t be able to see because I will super glue it to my head right before I die.”
Today he’s wearing a piano key tie, along with the top hat. A bold choice.
“HA-HA-HA, I’ve never heard that one from you before,” I deadpan as I turn around and start stacking glasses. After a few minutes, I continue talking. “I had another rough night after a certain toxic boyfriend decided to sleep around again.”
Rick shakes his head and tsks. “I will never understand why someone like Ivy, who has everything going for her, chooses to date someone like Dennis.”
“Women enjoy a-holes. That’s why I had so many girlfriends back in the day,” Johnny says. “Still do.”
“Oh, please. You haven’t had a girlfriend since 2006. What was her name? Debbie?” Rick asks.
“Doobie, and since I’m a distinguished gentleman,” Johnny replies, while he motions to his top hat, “I don’t kiss and tell, which is why you know nothing about my nightly encounters with my lady friends.”
I turn around and look at Johnny. “Wait, what did you just say her name was?”
“Doobie.” He responds with a blink like it's the most normal name in the world. “She owned a secret marijuana farm a couple miles up in the mountains.”
“Wow,” I say, trying to hold in my smile. “And whatever happened to Doobie?”
Johnny scratches his mustache. “She got arrested for embezzling checks and went to jail for a year. Asked me to take care of the farm while she was in the slammer and I accidentally burned it down one night when I had a bonfire next to her plants. She never spoke to me again after that.”
Rick looks over at him, shocked. “Why would you have a bonfire right next to her plants?”
“I thought they were cold and needed some heat,” Johnny responds, looking down full of sorrow. “I didn’t even get to smoke them. Those poor little buds.”
Rick and I share the look we do many times a shift hearing these stories. I never know what to expect from Johnny, but I always know his stories will make me snort or cause my jaw to drop. Rick and his wife separated years ago, so he spends most his time at the bar, and Johnny has never married but does have a daughter in her thirties now. I can expect to see these two almost every single time I come to work and that always makes me feel better.
