Charlie. Charlie is a mean SOB who makes me scrub and clean his place for him.” I stopped in mock surprise and fluttered my eyelids and hands dramatically like a flaming drama queen. Putting on a teenage girl’s voice, I exclaimed, “Oh, my gosh! You two are like… the same! You’ll have so much to talk about!”
Charlie roared with laughter and grabbed Patrick’s hand on the bar, giving it a couple of firm shakes before saying, “Good to meet you, Patrick. I’ll give you a couple of hints on how to keep this young one in line. Now, what are you drinking?”
I saw Patrick relax slightly at Charlie’s jovial manner. He unobtrusively folded up his cane and placed it on the bar within reach. “Umm…. Beer? Something pale would be good. And in a bottle, please. A bottle makes a lot less mess if I accidently knock it over.”
I leaned in close so my lips were brushing his ear. It was torturing myself, but I wanted it. I whispered, “Good boy. I noticed you managed to put a ‘please’ in there.” Patrick’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh. I turned back to Charlie. “Patrick’s first two beers are on me, okay?”
Charlie nodded his understanding. The man was a great guy. Each of his employees was allowed six free drinks a night—either to consume for themselves, to shout to mates, or to diffuse a tense situation. It was amazing how many people calmed down over mistakes or accidental breakages when you said the words, “The next one’s on me.”
I nudged Patrick and told him loudly, “Sitting on the stool next to you is one of our regulars, Merv. Now, if he tells you anything—anything at all—you have to know it’s a lie. Merv tells big porkies regularly. Why, he once told me he met Muhammad Ali.”
Merv spluttered like I knew he would and said, “Why, you little rat. That’s no lie. I met the man. I even shook his hand. It was twenty years ago now but I was….”
And Merv was off on his favorite story. I patted Patrick on the back, caressing his fine shoulders slightly—hey! Who could blame me?—and softly spoke as to not interrupt Merv’s recitation, “I have to go and do some dishes. I’ll be back in ten to check on you. Don’t run away, now.”
The dishes were waiting for me and seemed to have grown exponentially since I had last seen them. With renewed vigor, I attacked the pots and shoved the plates and cups into the dishwasher. Twice I stuck my head out the door to check on Patrick, but he seemed to be fine, chatting with Charlie and Merv. The second time I checked on him, Charlie caught me and waved me off with a frown.
With the dishwasher full, I emerged from the back and walked around the bar so I could check on things. I placed a hand on Patrick’s back to tell him I was behind him and leaned in. “All okay?”
He turned to me, tilting his head slightly, which had the effect of baring his neck. I had to stifle the urge to bite down on those juicy tendons. “Yes. Don’t worry too much. I’m having a good yarn with Merv here.”
“Good.” I patted his back again, wishing I had the nerve to follow his spine all the way down and caress his butt.
I kept one eye on him while I cleared tables and swept the floor. At one stage, some bozo approached him and said something. In the bar’s mirrored back wall I saw Patrick’s face pale with shock beneath his dark sunnies. The broom I was holding hit the deck as I raced across the room, avoiding patrons and making my way around the remaining tables. The pub was beginning to get crowded, and it was taking me too long to get to Patrick’s side.
“Patrick!” I called in alarm, afraid of what Bozo was planning on doing.
But before I could make it, Sav was there. He gripped Bozo’s upper arm and dragged him away, Bozo protesting every step and struggling to find his feet. It was obvious that the man was stone drunk despite the earlyish hour. I flew to Patrick’s side, my arms encircling his waist, and asked
Charlie roared with laughter and grabbed Patrick’s hand on the bar, giving it a couple of firm shakes before saying, “Good to meet you, Patrick. I’ll give you a couple of hints on how to keep this young one in line. Now, what are you drinking?”
I saw Patrick relax slightly at Charlie’s jovial manner. He unobtrusively folded up his cane and placed it on the bar within reach. “Umm…. Beer? Something pale would be good. And in a bottle, please. A bottle makes a lot less mess if I accidently knock it over.”
I leaned in close so my lips were brushing his ear. It was torturing myself, but I wanted it. I whispered, “Good boy. I noticed you managed to put a ‘please’ in there.” Patrick’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh. I turned back to Charlie. “Patrick’s first two beers are on me, okay?”
Charlie nodded his understanding. The man was a great guy. Each of his employees was allowed six free drinks a night—either to consume for themselves, to shout to mates, or to diffuse a tense situation. It was amazing how many people calmed down over mistakes or accidental breakages when you said the words, “The next one’s on me.”
I nudged Patrick and told him loudly, “Sitting on the stool next to you is one of our regulars, Merv. Now, if he tells you anything—anything at all—you have to know it’s a lie. Merv tells big porkies regularly. Why, he once told me he met Muhammad Ali.”
Merv spluttered like I knew he would and said, “Why, you little rat. That’s no lie. I met the man. I even shook his hand. It was twenty years ago now but I was….”
And Merv was off on his favorite story. I patted Patrick on the back, caressing his fine shoulders slightly—hey! Who could blame me?—and softly spoke as to not interrupt Merv’s recitation, “I have to go and do some dishes. I’ll be back in ten to check on you. Don’t run away, now.”
The dishes were waiting for me and seemed to have grown exponentially since I had last seen them. With renewed vigor, I attacked the pots and shoved the plates and cups into the dishwasher. Twice I stuck my head out the door to check on Patrick, but he seemed to be fine, chatting with Charlie and Merv. The second time I checked on him, Charlie caught me and waved me off with a frown.
With the dishwasher full, I emerged from the back and walked around the bar so I could check on things. I placed a hand on Patrick’s back to tell him I was behind him and leaned in. “All okay?”
He turned to me, tilting his head slightly, which had the effect of baring his neck. I had to stifle the urge to bite down on those juicy tendons. “Yes. Don’t worry too much. I’m having a good yarn with Merv here.”
“Good.” I patted his back again, wishing I had the nerve to follow his spine all the way down and caress his butt.
I kept one eye on him while I cleared tables and swept the floor. At one stage, some bozo approached him and said something. In the bar’s mirrored back wall I saw Patrick’s face pale with shock beneath his dark sunnies. The broom I was holding hit the deck as I raced across the room, avoiding patrons and making my way around the remaining tables. The pub was beginning to get crowded, and it was taking me too long to get to Patrick’s side.
“Patrick!” I called in alarm, afraid of what Bozo was planning on doing.
But before I could make it, Sav was there. He gripped Bozo’s upper arm and dragged him away, Bozo protesting every step and struggling to find his feet. It was obvious that the man was stone drunk despite the earlyish hour. I flew to Patrick’s side, my arms encircling his waist, and asked
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