Page 21 of His Last Shot
“Um … Okay, I guess.” My therapist is currently an hour’s drive away. Even though there are PT facilities in this area, it’s hard to find a physical therapist that specializes in therapy for those with RA.
“I wonder if it would be better for you to just do the exercises at home. I really need you here at the bar.” The intensity of his stare makes it impossible to refuse. My uncle doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever.
“Okay, yeah, sure. I can do that.” To be fair, those long drives twice a week felt like such a chore, especially since my presence was constantly required here at the bar.
“Perfect.” He settles in his big leather chair. “Shut the door on your way out, will ya?”
I know when I’m being dismissed. I walk out of his office and click the door shut behind me.
On heavy legs (both literally and figuratively), I walk down the hallway and out into the bar area. The hurt and burning in my knees reminds me that my uncle is right. This job is hard enough. Nursing? Forget about it.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not heartbreaking all the same.
And therapy? I guess that isn’t happening anymore. It was too far away, anyhow.
Nothing in my life is working.
The Oldies but Goodies are here for their nightly drink together, and as soon as I enter their line of sight, they all light up. I love these three men. They have been a presence in my life since I was a teenager. Countless times they have given me advice, fought off handsy customers, and made me feel like oneof their own.
The three of them started coming in for their evening meet-up about fifteen years ago. Slick was the sole reason I passed math in tenth through twelve grades. One of my favorite things growing up was coming here to the bar after school and hanging out in the office until dinner. It was Micah who gave them the nickname Oldies but Goodies, and they loved it because they loved us. They range in age from sixty-five to seventy.
And since they know me so well, they immediately can sense my sour mood.
“What’s up, Rachel? Everything okay?” Slick asks first as he takes a sip of his beer.
I shrug as I go about my pre-shift ritual. Stocking glasses, making sure the ice maker is full, garnishes, mixers, and syrups are all lined up and ready to go. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Tiny chimes in next. “Dexter giving you a hard time?”
“What did he do now?” Randy joins in as Micah walks out of the kitchen holding clean white plates he stacks neatly behind the bar.
“What did who do?” Micah asks.
“Stop it, guys. It’s nothing. Really,” I retort, needing to put the whole thing behind me.
“Yeah, right!” Slick exclaims. “As soon as you left Dexter’s office, you looked like someone killed your pet puppy. Now spill.”
I meet Micah’s gaze, and his furrowed brow tells me everything I need to know—he’s worried. “Rach? What’s going on?”
I study each of the four men carefully. Men who would move hell or high water to protect me. Men who treat me with respect, dignity, and pride. Why shouldn’t I tell them what I asked Uncle Dexter about? I know they would support me and be understanding of a dream that will never come true. So what’s the harm in telling them? Plus, maybe, if I let more people in, talk about this out loud, it won’t feel like such a long shot anymore. And these guys know how to extract information out of me. It’s an art form at this point.
I let out a long exhale. “I told Uncle Dexter that I want to go to nursing school.”
“Heck ya!—That’s incredible!—Nice going kiddo!” The OBGs all cry out at once.
Micah runs a tired hand over his stubbled face, his eyes heavy-lidded as I regard him. He knows but asks anyway, “How did he take it?”
“As good as to be expected.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tiny asks. “He’s happy for you, right?” Anxiety etches itself on all three of their faces.
“Not necessarily. He just reminded me how hard it would be with my RA and that he needs me here since we are starting the tournaments soon.” I keep my head down, busy filling the sliced limes. “I mean, he’s right. How could I possibly go to school and work in a demanding job like nursing with me being me?”
Tiny’s eyebrows lower and pinch together. “That’s such bull—”
“Language!” Slick and Randy yell out.
The OBGs have been watching their cussing lately. There’s no swear jar. They only yell at each other as a reminder. It’s funny to watch them school each other when one slips. Despite my sour mood, this whole exchange forces me to smile.
