Laura Drake - The Reasons to Stay

A bird-crap missile passed within an inch of her face and plopped at her feet.

“Okay, then. You don’t have to be rude about it.” Abandoning any hope of reprieve she straightened her skirt and crossed the sidewalk.

Odds are he’s not looking for a daytime bartender, anyway. And there’s no way I’m leaving Nacho alone nights.

She opened the front door and refrigerated air pebbled her skin, bringing with it the smell of spilled beer, old fryer grease and the ghosts of cigarettes smoked back when it was legal. It stirred memories of more than her bartending days—this scent was her mother’s signature perfume. Priss took in the smells again—mostly bitter with very little sweet.

A jukebox she couldn’t see through the gloom blared a “welcome home” tune. Booths commandeered the wall to her right; tables filled the floor space. On her left, a long bar took up the rest of the room. A television high in a corner broadcast a baseball game to patrons parked on every stool.

Priss unclenched her fists, her jaw, and her attitude. She put on her friendly bartender face and strode to the bar like she owned it.

The little man who stood behind the long dark wood barrier looked like Tweedledee. Or maybe it was Tweedledum—she always got them confused. His gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail was at serious odds with the bald dome rising above it. He was short and round, but sure didn’t look jolly. Jowls and thick features didn’t cover the pugnacious thrust of his chin. Even the butt-end unlit stogie in his mouth tilted up—like it was giving everyone the bird.

He swiped a wet rag over the bar. “You’re full of crap, Barney. The Giants are gonna wipe the floor with those losers. I got your Tigers hangin’—” His hand headed south to demonstrate but he looked up, saw Priss and froze. “The Antique Emporium is on Hollister, missy.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Fernandez has a 2.1 ERA, two saves, two quality starts and it’s only April. I’d say the Tigers have it hanging this season.”

The lunch crowd’s heads swiveled.

The man behind the counter made a growling sound—a predator’s warning. “You came in here to talk baseball?”

Only one way to handle a bully.

She laid a hand on the bar and leaned on it. “I came here to be your new bartender.”

The cigar bounced with his chuckle. “Come back when you’re twenty-one, little girl.”

She opened her wallet, pulled out her Colorado driver’s license and flipped it onto the bar.

He picked it up and squinted at it. “Humph.”

A patron spoke up. “Floyd, you should hire her. A lady would be a welcome change from seeing your ugly mug every day.”

Barney, the Tigers fan, pointed at Priss. “Yeah, we want her!”

Floyd stared them down. “You don’t even know if she can pour a beer.”

Priss waited until he turned and glared at her. “So? Try me.”

He harrumphed again, leaned against the back counter, and crossed his arms over his considerable chest. “Have at it, missy.”

She lifted the opening in the bar at the waitress station and stepped in. Glancing around the setup to get oriented, she smiled at the pale faces bathed in the light above the mirror at her back. They didn’t look quite as excited to see her on this side of the bar. A few looked like they wanted to play—like a cat plays with a cricket.

She dusted her hands. “Okay, gentlemen. Help me out and tell me your name when you order. That way I’ll get to know you faster. Now, what’ll it be?”

“A pint of Guinness,” a thin man with a slight Scottish burr said. “I’m Ian.”

She checked the beer taps—not there. She squeezed past Floyd and found a flat of mixed-brand stout bottles at the other end of the bar. She snagged a bottle, opened it, then upended a clean glass. Tilting it, she poured about half a glass, then set it down so the head wouldn’t get out of control.

She grabbed Ian’s empty glass and set it in the sink. “Who’s next?”

A bald guy with a half-empty beer, said, “I’m Porter. I’ll have a martini.”

Priss wiped the bar in front of Ian, and laid a new napkin. “Neat or dirty?”

“Always dirty, hon. It’s how I roll.”

Looking at his wrinkled shirt and fingernails, she had no doubt he spoke the truth.

She poured the rest of the Guinness and placed it in front of Ian, with a perfect thumbs-width head. “Floyd will have to collect from you all—I don’t know the prices yet.” She glanced around to locate the ingredients. “Vodka or gin, Porter?”

The man reared back on the stool as if she’d slapped him. “What kind of bartender would pollute good vermouth with strained potato offal?”

She raised her hands. “I come in peace.” She snatched the shaker from where it sat drying on a towel. “I had to ask. Some groundlings drink it that way.” She found the ice, scooped some into the shaker, then gathered the ingredients. Grasping the gin bottle by the neck, she silently counted the measurement and did the same with the vermouth; martini drinkers were notoriously picky. While she shook it, she collected a martini glass and speared two olives on the plastic sword she found next to them. She poured the drink, the last drops filling it to the rim, and set it in front of Porter.

He sipped, then sighed in bliss as his eyes rolled up.

Yes!

“I’m Barney, and I want a mojito.” The Tigers fan moved his half-full beer aside.

Another patron hooted from the other end of the bar. “Who you trying to kid? I’ve never seen you drink anything but Bud.”

Barney stuck out a two-day-whiskered chin. “Well, I saw it on a TV show and I want to try it.” His rheumy eyes held challenge as he straightened the collar of a shirt that looked dingy, even in dim light. “With two olives.”

She hid a smile and turned to Floyd. “Do you have mint leaves?”

“What the hell would I need those for? This ain’t the Holiday Inn—this is a workingman’s bar.”

“Never mind.” It was not like Barney would know the difference, anyway. She mixed the lime juice and sugar in a highball glass, stirring until it dissolved. Then she added rum and club soda and split a lime wedge on the rim. She placed it on a clean napkin in front of Barney, leaned over to whisper, “I’ll just put the olives on the side, okay?” No way she was putting olives in that supersweet drink.

He nodded, frowning at the glass.

“Well, you gonna drink it or stare at it all day?” Floyd was enjoying this too much. He’d probably sold more high-priced drinks in the last few minutes than he had in a month.

Barney took a sip. His lips twisted and his eyes got big. His Adam’s apple quivered—then he swallowed. His lips turned down and his tongue protruded, just a bit. “It’s good!” He choked out.

Floyd chuckled. “Glad you think so. That’ll be seven bucks.”

“Seven bucks!” Barney’s eyes bugged. He moved his Bud back, front and center.

A couple wandered in off the street, arm in arm. Summer people, by the looks.

A gray-haired woman in a black rayon waitress uniform with a dowager’s hump and wearing orthopedic shoes emerged from a doorway in the back to lead the pair to a table.

“Hey, we don’t even know your name.” A comparatively younger man halfway down the bar spoke up. Of course “younger” was a relative term. He appeared to be in his forties.

“I’m Priss.”

“A bartender named Priss? That’s funny!”

Barney had caught his breath from the drink and the price. “Is that like Priscilla?”

She winced. “Yeah, my mom had a crush on Elvis.”

“I had a crush on Priscilla!” Porter said.

“She was beautiful, and so sweet,” Ian said. “Didn’t deserve the crap The King dished out, messing around.”