Page 3 of The Bar Next Door
“Superb,” he answers with a grin.
That’s one of his adorable Zach-isms: coming up with a different synonym for ‘good’ every time someone asks him how he’s doing.
“I let DeeDee know that I need you guys to close at ten if things don’t pick up. Sorry to cut your shift.”
He shrugs. “I understand. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Not like I’m making much money off this crowd, anyway.”
He nods toward the single occupied table.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Zach nods at me, and I continue. “Was Kayla...okay when she left? I had to tell her we’re letting her go. It just seemed like the fairest thing to do, since she’s the newest hire and her schedule was pretty limited anyway.”
“Makes sense. She seemed fine. Maybe a little less...peppy, now that you mention it, but I wouldn’t have even thought anything about it if you hadn’t mentioned it.”
I shift my bag up on my shoulder. “Okay, good.”
Zach smiles again. I swear this kid’s eyes actually twinkle when he grins. “You’re very sweet, Monroe, to think of her. I’m sure she understands.”
“Apparentlyyou’rethe sweetheart around here, Zach,” I tell him. “I’ve been meaning to let you know, but our latest Google review mentioned you by name and said you were a very attentive and caring server. It’s really impressive to make a strong enough impression on a customer that they remember your nameandtake the time to write a review about you. Great work.”
He mockingly puts a hand on his chest. “Anything for Taverne Toulouse. Oh by the way, did you see that the place next door got sold?”
My interest kicks up like I’ve just caught a whiff of something in the kitchen and can’t tell if it’s burning or not.
“I didn’t see that. Does it say anything about what’s going in there?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Theà vendresign just saysvenduon it now.”
“Let’s hope it’s something good for business,” I muse. “God help us all if it’s another bar.”
The property next door used to be a bakery with a cute little seating area, but it’s been empty for months, sitting there like a gloomymomento morito remind me of what Taverne Toulouse might be headed for every time I walk by.
“They’d be crazy to put a bar in there,” Zach assures me. “This area is oversaturated enough as it is. My guess is that’s why the place got sold instead of rented out again. I’m thinking the buyer might actually be someone looking to convert it for retail.”
“Maybe it will be a store that makes people really thirsty.”
Zach indulges me with a laugh before heading to the back again, but I don’t move after he’s disappeared. Instead, I stare out the room in front of me.
Maybe I’m setting my sights too small. Maybe this is more than a twenty-seven-year-old should want out of life. Maybe I really am limiting myself like I know my parents secretly think, but this view—this one right here, behind the counter of this grimy dive bar that’s held together by prayers, duct tape, and the residue from way too many spilt beers—this is my favourite view in the world.
Sometimes I let myself imagine it really ismyview. I get swept up in plans and possibilities, and I wonder if all the worries and doubts about my path would go away once I put my hands on this bar and called itmine. I could really make this place into something special—not just to me, but to everyone who walks in the door. Once my brain starts heading down that road, I can get sucked into a daydream that last hours.
That’s all it is, though: a daydream. It’s wishful thinking. It’s vanity. There are people here who depend on me, and that’s more important than some totally implausible scheme. I don’t need to rule over everything in sight to be happy with my life, and ninety percent of the time, I’m perfectly happy with my life just the way it is.
People who meet me as bartender never believe I have a Masters in English literature or that I minored in classical studies during my undergrad, and people who knew me in school never believe I run Taverne Toulouse, but I don’t see the two as conflicting versions of myself. I’ve always thought of bartending as natural habitat for any enthusiast of the written word. Standing behind a bar is kind of like speed reading a dozen books a day; you watch each customer walk up and try to guess their story. You get hooked by the pull of those first few pages until you just have to know more. You pour their drink, chat a little, try to piece their personal history together bit by fascinating bit.
The oddballs are my favourite. I’ve consoled a lot of heartbroken sorority sisters and stressed out students juggling exams, but when I see some old guy in a suit jacket with a feather tucked into his pocket saunter in at noon, or when a lady wearing mismatched shoes sits down with a sigh and asks if I can make a decent Bloody Mary, that’s what really makes me love my job. Bars are like a library for all the stories that never found an author to write them.
I run a hand over the dark wood in front of me before rapping on it twice with my knuckles—an old superstition I picked up from a former boss of mine who told me it brings the bar good luck. I tell our one table of customers to have a good night as I walk past them and out onto the street.
“Damn, it’s cold,” I mutter, digging through my purse to pull out a pair of gloves. We’re halfway through March, and winter is still going strong.
Not many souls are venturing out on the street tonight, and I take solace in the fact that we can’t be the only establishment who’s hurting. I pause in front of the empty building beside Taverne Toulouse. The windows are all papered over, and just like Zach said, the sign saying it’s for sale now announces they’ve found a buyer.
Please don’t be another bar,I think as I start walking the few blocks to my apartment.Please be anything except another bar.
Two
Monroe
