into the parking lot. I had to circle the lot three times before a space opened up.
That was a switch.
Inside, I could barely move beyond the front door. To get to the bar, I had to squeeze through a group of girls in short skirts and halter tops sipping cosmopolitans. One of them smiled at me. I was pretty sure my tongue hung out, maybe with a little drool. When I tried to say something suave, I walked into a guy on his way toward the stage.
The girls laughed.
I moved on, cheeks burning.
I didn’t find Sheila behind the bar like I expected. Instead, my old bartender, Paul Dimico, poured two separate shots at the same time, then flipped the bottles in the air and caught them behind his back.
On stage, a man sang “Chances Are” with most the notes actually on key.
I glanced around, dazed.
Had I stepped into the wrong karaoke bar?
Paul whizzed right by me on his way to a customer. I tried to flag him, shouted his name. My voice blended with the dozens of others around me, all buried under the music.
When he zoomed my way again, I reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait your turn,” he snapped without looking.
“Paul! It’s Ridley.”
Paul jerked back, studied me for a second, and frowned.
“What do you want?”
Not the reaction I’d expected. “What do I want? Where the hell have you been?”
“Sheila says you gave up this place.”
I sputtered. “That’s still being decided.”
“Well you let me know if you’re coming back so I can start looking for another job.”
“What the hell did I do?”
Paul wrenched a rag between his hands like a gooseneck, his muscles flexing. “Sheila told me what you said about me. That you thought I was stealing booze.”
I gaped at him, speechless.
“I don’t drink on the job. I never have. And I may not be the most law-abiding citizen in Hawthorne, but I never stole from you. Ever.” He dropped the rag behind the bar. “You really hurt my feelings. I thought I did good work for you.”
Paul always seemed the tough guy to me. Hearing someone like him talk about how I hurt his feelings made it sting all the more.
“I never said anything like that. I don’t know why …” I grabbed my head and leaned my elbows on the bar as it all came together. The cinnamon gum. The bloodshot eyes. The half-empty bottle of wine at her house. “Where’s Sheila?”
“In the office.”
I glanced in the direction of the office, but couldn’t see the door through the crowd. Pushing my way over there proved twice as hard as getting to the bar, and this time I didn’t get any smiles from sexy women. I threw the door open.
Sheila sat at the small desk. She jumped as if startled and knocked a glass over. The glass hit the floor without shattering, but spilled its contents. We both stared at the puddle of brownish liquid as if waiting for it to spell something.
The cheery voice of the man on stage singing about being in love poured into the room from behind me.
I swung the door shut.
The music cut to a throbbing hum.
Sheila dropped to her knees and moved her hands as if she meant to wipe the floor, stopping with her hands hovering over the puddle when she realized she had nothing to wipe with.
I scanned the desk, found the fifth of Jack Daniels, and shook my head.
“I spoke with Paul,” I said.
Sheila didn’t look up, didn’t answer.
“I’ve been so caught up in everything else, I guess I missed the signs.”
She did not even move her hands, holding them like she was warming them over a flame.
“Still, I don’t think I would have noticed. When I saw you with the wine the other day, it hit me I’d never seen you drink alcohol before. Ever. Not growing up. Not since I’d come back.”
Finally, Sheila clasped her hands together prayer-like. But she stayed on her knees, kept her head bent.
“How long were you on the wagon?”
She lifted her chin, looked at me.
“Almost thirty-one years.”
I closed my eyes a second. “Almost my entire
That was a switch.
Inside, I could barely move beyond the front door. To get to the bar, I had to squeeze through a group of girls in short skirts and halter tops sipping cosmopolitans. One of them smiled at me. I was pretty sure my tongue hung out, maybe with a little drool. When I tried to say something suave, I walked into a guy on his way toward the stage.
The girls laughed.
I moved on, cheeks burning.
I didn’t find Sheila behind the bar like I expected. Instead, my old bartender, Paul Dimico, poured two separate shots at the same time, then flipped the bottles in the air and caught them behind his back.
On stage, a man sang “Chances Are” with most the notes actually on key.
I glanced around, dazed.
Had I stepped into the wrong karaoke bar?
Paul whizzed right by me on his way to a customer. I tried to flag him, shouted his name. My voice blended with the dozens of others around me, all buried under the music.
When he zoomed my way again, I reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait your turn,” he snapped without looking.
“Paul! It’s Ridley.”
Paul jerked back, studied me for a second, and frowned.
“What do you want?”
Not the reaction I’d expected. “What do I want? Where the hell have you been?”
“Sheila says you gave up this place.”
I sputtered. “That’s still being decided.”
“Well you let me know if you’re coming back so I can start looking for another job.”
“What the hell did I do?”
Paul wrenched a rag between his hands like a gooseneck, his muscles flexing. “Sheila told me what you said about me. That you thought I was stealing booze.”
I gaped at him, speechless.
“I don’t drink on the job. I never have. And I may not be the most law-abiding citizen in Hawthorne, but I never stole from you. Ever.” He dropped the rag behind the bar. “You really hurt my feelings. I thought I did good work for you.”
Paul always seemed the tough guy to me. Hearing someone like him talk about how I hurt his feelings made it sting all the more.
“I never said anything like that. I don’t know why …” I grabbed my head and leaned my elbows on the bar as it all came together. The cinnamon gum. The bloodshot eyes. The half-empty bottle of wine at her house. “Where’s Sheila?”
“In the office.”
I glanced in the direction of the office, but couldn’t see the door through the crowd. Pushing my way over there proved twice as hard as getting to the bar, and this time I didn’t get any smiles from sexy women. I threw the door open.
Sheila sat at the small desk. She jumped as if startled and knocked a glass over. The glass hit the floor without shattering, but spilled its contents. We both stared at the puddle of brownish liquid as if waiting for it to spell something.
The cheery voice of the man on stage singing about being in love poured into the room from behind me.
I swung the door shut.
The music cut to a throbbing hum.
Sheila dropped to her knees and moved her hands as if she meant to wipe the floor, stopping with her hands hovering over the puddle when she realized she had nothing to wipe with.
I scanned the desk, found the fifth of Jack Daniels, and shook my head.
“I spoke with Paul,” I said.
Sheila didn’t look up, didn’t answer.
“I’ve been so caught up in everything else, I guess I missed the signs.”
She did not even move her hands, holding them like she was warming them over a flame.
“Still, I don’t think I would have noticed. When I saw you with the wine the other day, it hit me I’d never seen you drink alcohol before. Ever. Not growing up. Not since I’d come back.”
Finally, Sheila clasped her hands together prayer-like. But she stayed on her knees, kept her head bent.
“How long were you on the wagon?”
She lifted her chin, looked at me.
“Almost thirty-one years.”
I closed my eyes a second. “Almost my entire
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