Page 7 of Kings of Decay
I jumped in my seat, nearly throwing my laptop across our tiny living room. “Ah! Fuck, Dad, you scared me!”
“Language, missy,” my Dad wagged a finger at me.
I took a few deep breaths to calm my hammering heart.
Dad sat down on the wooden rocking chair across from me. “Guess what?”
“What?” His sudden enthusiasm blows me away. He was practically glowing.
“I got you a part-time job!”
I grimace. Surely, I misheard him. “What?”
“I pulled some strings and got you a job at the bar across from Rose’s store.”
My forced smile faltered further. “What?”
“Rose introduced me to the owner, and he needs someone to help out at night. So I said you used to work at the coffee place back in the city. He says he’d love to have you for a few hours during the week.”
I forced myself to take a sip of tea before replying. My hands are shaking. “Being a barista is different from bartending, Dad.”
“Yeah, but you’ll get the hang of it. Besides, it would do you some good to get out of the house now and then.”
“I’m not twenty-one,” I argue.
My Dad scoffs, waving his hand. “Like they care about ID up here? Besides, it’s cash.”
I can’t believe how he’s acting so nonchalantly about a, quite frankly, illegal cash job. I shook my head and set my shoulders. “I need to focus on school, Dad.” I motioned to my laptop for emphasis.
Dad’s smile slowly faded. “Oh, I thought you’d be happy, Willow. Don’t you miss working?”
I MISS MOM
The pain comes out of nowhere.
I bit back the words I really wanted to say. He’s so happy. It killed me to argue with him about this. Maybe he was right. Maybe a job would help me get out of my head and meet people.
“I guess it would be good to get out of the house,” I said hesitantly after a long pause.
“That’s my girl!” Dad cheered, slapping his knees. “It’s a nice place, and the boss is a cool guy. I promise it will be a great experience for you.”
***
A great experience, right?
I sucked in a breath as my dad drove away, leaving me in front of the bar.
Of course, it's the dive bar and not the nice one. That would have been too good to be true. The neon sign flickers.
PAYDIRT
Well, that was a fitting name for a bar if I’ve ever heard one. The bar was made of wood, with a tall facade that was probably the original from the gold rush days, or at least inspired by it. The wooden porch sagged under the weight of snow and slush.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door. A blast of warmth and the mingled scents of stale beer, fried food, and stale cigarette smoke hit me. Only seven pm on a Thursday, and the Paydirt is already buzzing.
I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The interior is a mishmash of rough-hewn wood, exposed brick, and faded mining memorabilia. A long, scarred bar dominated one side, lined with patrons nursing beers. The booths along the opposite wall are filled with groups of friends and the occasional solitary drinker lost in their thoughts.
The jukebox in the corner blasted classic rock, competing with the din of conversation and laughter. A pool table occupied the back, and it's green looks felt worn and stained. The whole place had a lived-in, well-loved feel to it. Shabby, but loved.
