“Alder,” he replies as his eyes move from my rather inappropriate stick gesture and then back up to my face. Heat banks in his honey depths, and a little thrill shoots through me.
“Well, you have a nice evenin’, Mr. Alder,” I say demurely as I walk out the door of his office. It’s not his fault I was fired, even if he does have a long name and his bar did leave this stick outside, just ready to trip up passersby. Besides, he’s hot. I don’t burn my bridges with the hot ones. My mama didn’t raise a fool.
The further I get from the man’s office, the further my mood sinks. I’m gonna get fired. Sure enough, like she’s got some kind of radar, I feel the phone in my pocket vibrate.
I pull it out and balance on one foot as I stop to see Work Calling blink on my screen. That’ll be Patricia ready to fire my ass. She’ll probably do it with a smile in her voice, too.
I purse my lips as I send the call to voicemail. The reality of my new situation settles on my shoulders like a heavy weight. With a sigh, I start to head out, but I only take about five more steps toward the exit when I stop.
Where am I goin’?
I’m gonna hobble out to my truck, return it to the warehouse, get fired, and then what? Go home to cry in my pillow? Maybe go try to drown my sorrows somewhere? I look around at the strange bar I’m standin’ in sans one shoe.
Maybe a cold one and a little more time in this nicely air-conditioned establishment is exactly what I need to face the oncomin’ crap that I have waitin’ for me as soon as I walk out the door of this place.
So instead of hobblin’ out to face the world and its shit, I turn on my uninjured heel and limp right up to the bar. I plop my butt down on the only open stool before I raise a finger to the bartender. “Gimme a mint julep, my man.” I pause for a moment. “You know what? And keep ’em comin’.”
Screw Patricia. She can come get the truck if she wants it. I’m done, and I’m ready for lots and lots of alcohol to wash the taste of this day right out of my mouth.
3
The bartender, a sallow, lanky man, looks at me funny for a beat and then lifts one shoulder in a shrug before he moves down the bar to make my drink. I check around discreetly to see who else is judgin’ me in my work uniform, poppin’ a squat at the bar with one shoe and a stick.
For a run-down swamp bar, this place is actually more populated than I would have expected. There’s a couple sittin’ at the other end of the bar, overtly watchin’ me like I’m gonna do somethin’ more excitin’ than simply sit here, ready to enjoy a refreshin’, and much deserved, libation.
As I set my newly claimed stick against the bar, I notice a table of three older men watching the move warily. Maybe this little shit stick made a move for them too.
I take in the scuffed up tables and the lack of any bar paraphernalia on the walls. This place is mostly contrived of old wine barrels, and...yep, those are teeth on the ceiling. Gator teeth, if I had to guess. A shiver runs up my spine, and I make a mental note to watch where I walk when I leave this place. The last thing I need is to slice open my foot on somethin’ else.
This place looks like the drinkin’ hole for a bunch of good ol’ boys, and yet the older men at the table and the couple at the bar look more clean-cut and city slicker than they should if my assumptions are true.
Maybe Hairy Dog Tavern is a tourist spot? A swamp adjacent, country lookin’ stop for visitors who want the feel of a backwoods bar without havin’ to actually deal with backwoods kinds of people. I suppose who can blame ’em? If I could avoid the more bumpkin side of my extended family, I would.
The bartender slides my drink in front of me, and I look around for a coaster before chucklin’ at myself. Tourist trap or not, this is not a coaster under your drink kind of place. I take a sip and let the cool liquid wash my worries away one sip at a time as the A/C cools my stress and blows the anxiety right off my shoulders.
Damn. I needed this. I exhale a deep breath and hope the last of my bad luck goes with it. Maybe it’s time to accept that a life in Sweetgreen isn’t in my destiny. I don’t know why that thought bothers me so much or why this place has such a claim on my soul, but I’m drawn here in a way I can’t quite explain.
I was happy when Mama and Daddy chose to move back to be closer to family when Daddy retired. After my college plans went to hell in a handbasket, the plan was to live with them and save up some money.
I needed just enough to live off until I could get into a trade school and acquire some kind of certification that gets me closer to stable adult status and further from the almost thirty years old and still a hot mess title I’ve been the runnin’ champion of for way too much of my late twenties. But it’s like this place has a hold on me somehow and no matter what, I can’t leave, because all these years later, I’m still here and still no closer to movin’ out or havin’ my shit together.
Maybe I’m depressed or somethin’. Although, I don’t feel sad. More like I’m missin’ somethin’, but I just can’t seem to grasp what it is.
I
