I cringe slightly as I stuff my notepad in the back pocket of my jean shorts. They’re faded and a centimeter shy from showing cheek. They’re paired with knee high baseball socks and a T-shirt that’s supposed to resemble a jersey, but it’s so old now that most of the number one on the back has peeled off. This beat up old jersey matches the rest of this place, though.
“This is my last night, Vick. I don’t want any shit from him,” I tell her honestly. “I just want to keep my head down, earn my tips and my last check, and leave.”
“I know, I’m sorry to even ask,” she tells me, before worrying her bottom lip. “But he told me he doesn’t want to talk to me again for the rest of the night.”
God, Sean is such a horrible boss. Vicky is pretty meek, so I feel bad that she even has to deal with a guy like him. I don’t like dealing with the prick either, but for the most part, I’ve just learned to shut up and take it. I’ve needed every damn penny from this job, and I couldn’t afford to lose it. “Alright, I got it. Just cover Home Base for me, okay?”
Vicky lets out a puff of relieved air. “Thanks, Delta,” she says before darting over to the table full of middle-aged men sitting at the back to take their orders. Her uniform is just as tight, short, and faded as mine, but we’re used to it by now. It’s not like Sean would actually order us new uniforms or do any kind of updates to this place. It’s not in his nature to give a fuck about anything other than himself.
Taking a breath, I try to mentally and emotionally prepare for having to deal with Sean. I already had to give him my abrupt notice, and he wasn’t happy about it. Didn’t matter to him that he put all of us out of work by closing the bar in the first place. Any inconvenience is like a personal affront to him.
I walk through the section of high top tables, half of them missing stools and looking more like kindling than a place anyone would want to sit for a fun night out of games and drinking. The floor is sticky under my sneakers, and I spy a spot on the wall where a signed picture of A-Rod used to be. Now there’s just a clear view of peeling paint and an empty, stained wall. Sean the Shithole probably pawned the photo, like he has most everything else in this place.
Back in this bar’s glory days, our uniforms were much more authentic and cute, rather than rundown and sleazy. The baseball bases on all the tabletops were shiny and unstained, and the bar shelves were decorated with pristine and protected signed baseballs between high-end liquor bottles. There was always a game on the flat screens, and we even had a cook who served epic ballpark food. But ever since Sean took over after his Uncle Ollie retired, he’s run this place into the ground. I hate that he ruined Ollie’s legacy.
Ollie was a damn good boss and an even better man. Smart, kind, and he treated this place with respect, including his employees and customers. I loved working for him, but as soon as Sean took over two years ago, I knew that everything that made this bar great was as good as done.
I used to like working here because it reminded me of my dad. He loved baseball. He took me to games when I was a kid, and we always gorged on hot dogs and soda while cheering from the nosebleeds. He worked in construction, so when he had a slow year and couldn’t afford tickets, he made sure we watched all the games at home together during the season. It was our thing. I still make sure I watch them every year on my own, and despite the fact that Sean has ruined Ballpark Brew, he damn well won’t ruin baseball for me.
With the rotten beer in hand, I weave past the tables and head straight for the bar. Ollie’s two pride and joys, his brewery machine and his signed baseball by Joe DiMaggio are both shoved into the corner carelessly like forgotten relics. I’m honestly surprised either is still here. I’m sure they have to be worth a pretty penny. Everything else that’s fit that criteria has up and disappeared from this place.
I go over to the end, careful to stop before I cross the barrier. Sean gets his dick in a knot if anyone goes behind the bar without his express permission while he’s back there. That’s made nights bartending here interesting to say the least.
He’s talking to a few of his prick posse, but I know he sees me, even though he ignores me completely. He’s average looking, not hard on the eyes with his ashy brown hair and brown eyes, but he’d be a hell of a lot more attractive if he weren’t such a bastard.
I do my best to put a polite smile on my face. He’s easier to deal with this way. If I ever so much as sigh or approach him with anything less than a smile, he’ll chew me up and spit me out like tobacco on a baseball field. “Hey, Sean?” I call in the friendliest tone I can manage.
He continues to talk for several seconds before deigning to turn his head to look at me. “Yeah?”
I wiggle the beer bottle in my hand. “Customer sent it back. Can I have a
