5:43 p.m.
“You able to come in today?” CK rarely waits for me to say anything when I answer his calls.
“You sure that’s a good idea, boss?” I ask. “I wasn’t planning on it because...” I leave the rest of the sentence for him to fill in and rub at the palms of my hands. They have deep half-moon slices in them, a sign of my annoyance and lack of nail clippings. Precious Adelynn should’ve felt these last night. I should be cutting them because she’d griped about scratches on her delicate skin, not because my hands are starting to bleed.
He pauses. Maybe he hasn’t heard. “You mean ‘causa that girl? Adelynn is just another hysterical woman. No one thinks you did anything wrong.”
“You didn’t even ask what happened.” I don’t know why I push the issue. No one’s mentioned it, so he may be right.
Crinkles and crunches blast in my ear; CK loves his cheesy puffs. “Okay, Luke. What happened?”
“She invited me over for dinner at the cabin she’s renting for the week. I show up, and she’s already acting weird. When I start to come in, she starts screaming like a lunatic.” I clench my fists again and wince.
“Mhmm. It’s what they do.” Crunch.
“—I hadn’t even tried to hug her hello. Then, she starts darting around the room like I’m chasing her. I do for a second but only trying to calm her. CK, I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
Crunch. “Luke, yer a good man. Adelynn’s got baggage.”
Doesn’t she ever. I nearly spit as I say, “She goes by Ada now.” That’s our problem, isn’t it? Adelynn is the girl I fell in love with; Ada means nothing to me. I picture Adelynn blowing out eight candles as curls slip out of her hair. There was an innocence in her that I’d wanted to consume. Last night, that was all gone with her too-tight jeans and lips glossed up like a tween whore. Her usual scent of Dove soap and shampoo was lost to a fragrance reminiscent of Freesia after a visit to Mrs. Ore at the retirement home.
CK laughs. “Adelynn. Ada. What’s the difference? You can put lipstick on a pig, Luke. In the end, it’s still a fuckin’ pig. I’ll see you at six.” The line goes quiet.
Clothes from yesterday are crumpled on the floor in the bathroom, so I’ll wear those. It’s dark enough in Bar no one will notice the wrinkles, or if they do, they’ll blame it on their drunken eyesight.
11:06 p.m.
Lime stings my hand. The raw nail marks fade in the red neon bar signs. Gloves are in the supply closet, but I can’t be bothered to get the key from CK.
“You okay, Luke?” a regular, Polly, asks. She often stinks of bourbon before she gets settled on the second bar stool from the right. “Your face is all screwy, and I’m sure that lime didn’t do nothin’ to you.”
I look at the mangled fruit. Here I thought I was on my sixth or seventh lime; turns out, I hadn’t grabbed but the one.
“This ‘bout a girl?” Polly presses.
She doesn’t know. “In a way.” To get more tips and have women show up night after night, I say less, listen more, and aim for mysterious.
Having pounded five shots and two beers, Polly’s finally slowed to nursing a whiskey sour; a water chaser sits untouched beside it. Her speech is surprisingly clear when she asks, “Wanna talk about it?”
Normally, I’d turn up the music, but it’s the laid-back crowd tonight. “You know, Polly, I don’t. How’s your day been?”
“Weird, Luke, weird. I got a call from an old friend, is all. Said she’ll be seein’ her daughter for the first time in a while tomorrow.” Adelynn.
“Huh,” I try for supportive.
“That’s what I said!” Polly slams the bar and winces, then rubs the outside of her hand. “Guess I’m stronger than I knew. Anyhow, so I ask her why she’s tellin’ me, and she doesn’t have an answer. Says, ‘Jus’ in case she says somethin’,’ then hangs up. What the hell does that mean? So I take a quick sip, you know. It was like hearin’ from a ghost, is all. Work was slow; only one girl came in browsin’ for some dance in January. Don’t remember dances in January. When I was in high school—” I check out. Polly does this from time to time, starts with a story someone may care about before rambling her way into the past. I can only watch someone disappear so many times.
A blast of cold air comes through the entrance door. It doesn’t perturb Polly. I look up to wave, but when they see me, they shake their head and leave. It’s the third shadowy figure to choose an evening of sobriety over being in my presence.
I begin to think people believe I accosted my Adelynn—no, the new, adult Ada.
I cue in to conversations around the sparsely occupied bar.
Kit—real name Joseph Kit—is carrying on about his wife being a nag to the five people who are still willing to listen. It’s the same old, same old. If he’d take out the trash once and again, I bet we’d never see him. “She’s always saying, ‘Kit, if you just did your share.’ I tell her not to start in again! I bring home the money, that should be enough. She mouths off after that. Always telling me she’ll run away with my brother.” Kit throws his head back at the thought, and his neck shows striations of tans and sunburns. He tosses an icy glare towards the back room’s closed door. “But I ain’t got a brother, though, do I?” he asks the same group of friends that have been having the same conversation for years on end. I tune out. Lacey—real name Chelsea—has pulled her shirt down more than it was the last time I scanned the room. The one out-of-towner has an expensive chain around his neck; that’s enough to warrant her attention. His squeaky voice should’ve been a turn-off. But she’s neck-deep in Red-Headed Sluts and already spent half her rent money on cigarettes and nail polish. The group in the back are old vets who come in from time to time. They talk about work, the good old days, and their nagging/wonderful/non-existent wives. For them, I leave my sanctuary every hour or so to bring three pitchers of whatever amber we’ve got on tap.
Someone comes in the front door again; I don’t bother with the pretense of waving. If they stay, I’ll say hello.
After I cut a whopping twelve limes up and tuck them in their plastic home beside the maraschino cherries, I look around to see if the patron stayed. She’s in the back, getting settled by Joe and his posse.
“The nerve of some women.” I turn and see CK grip the sides of the cash register. Hadn’t he left around nine?
“What?”
“That bitch just strolled in my bar actin’ like she didn’t accuse my bartender of assault. A lotta nerve, she got; a lotta nerve.” The rasp of his voice matches dark circles under his eyes and a ten o’clock shadow.
Adelynn? “What are you talking about CK?”
He smacks the register, and it sounds like Vegas. “There. Adelynn, or whatever she’s callin’ herself now. She’s back there with Kit and them.”
“How can you be sure?” It couldn’t be her, could it? How had I not known?
“Looks like her mama.” CK doesn’t slur, but he smells boozy and desperate, like Polly. “I’ve known Wendy for a long time now. We all have.”
I hope he can’t hear my heartbeat. It’s so loud in my ears that everything he says sounds like lousy cell reception. “I’ll keep an eye,” I say.
CK nods. “Yeah, good. I’ll be in the back. Got some work to do.” He chose not to add, “And I need to avoid the empty house waitin’ for me.” Few people know much about CK, like how lonely he is or that CK stands for Chuck Kit. He’s also on a diet.
“Fill’er up,” Polly slurs. Her cheek’s on the sticky bar top.
“I think it’s time we call you a ride home.” Her husband, Stan, is her weekday DD; her boyfriend, Harvey, picks her up on the weekends. “I’ll call Stan.”
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing.”
“Sure am.” I wipe down the spots around her head to see if she’d move.
Instead, she taps her empty glass. “Fill’er up.”
“Nope, cutting you off. Sorry, Pol,” I say, though I’m not. The quicker the bar clears out, the quicker I can see if that brunette is Adelynn. She sits differently; this woman leans a little to the right as if always contemplating what you’re saying in a condescending way.
Polly catches me staring. “Who’s that? Is it her? No! It couldn’t be. Maybe so, though. Her mama did call. It’s been a while since I’ve seen pictures, but she looks about—” She hiccups and holds her hand over her mouth. “I’ll take that ride home now. Stan’ll do.”
Now two people think it’s her.
Anytime now, she’ll order a drink, and I’ll know for sure. As if I’d said that out loud, Kit stumbles my way laughing. “Another round, and a dirty martini for our new lady friend.”
Stay calm. “Who’s that?”
“Pretty, right? She’s visiting.” I hear nothing else he says. Though it’s Kit, so I’m sure he’s still talking.
After I sling their drinks, I offer to take the tray to their table. I’ve never done it before.
“Ha.” Kit winks at me. “Let me take a crack at her first, yeah?”
No one moves for hours. It’s as if they’re posed for a painting to be entitled, “Shitty Bar”. Once, the woman stood. I held my breath, hoping that she needed the bathroom. Then she sat back down. A ponytail holder was in the back pocket of her tacky jean skirt. She offered it to one of the vets, her face ever out of view.
Around 2:30 a.m., the regulars start collecting their duds. It’s been a while since I’ve had to tell this crowd it’s last call.
CK appears from his office around 2:35. “She still here?”
I nod. So are you.
“I’ll make it so she’s the last to leave.”
“Why?” My breathing shallows at the thought of being alone with her again. This time, no one would be near enough to hear her scream.
He chews on his tongue before saying, “Women shouldn’t be spoutin’ off at the mouth.”
I get my closing list—the one I loathe checking off because I’m a goddamned adult who’s worked here for years.
1. Check for people in the bathroom.
2. Check for toilet paper and see what needs cleaning while you’re in there.
3. Take a shit now—it’ll give it more time to air out.
My boss is nothing if not classy.
Re-rolling the toilet paper that’s unwound to the floor, I hear a knock at the door.
“Didn’t want to scare you,” CK says. “She’s headed towards the parkin’ lot. I’ve got her keys, though.”
I halt everything and wash my hands. Breathe, Luke. This is what you wanted before. Maybe it won’t get ugly. How many martinis did she have? Four? Is that enough for my sweet little girl to forgive me for my outburst?
The music gets louder, and CK’s behind the bar.
“Hello?” I hear a woman’s voice shout in an attempt to rise above the beat. She’s here. “I think my keys dropped out of my purse. Do you think you could turn some lights on so I could check?” As if I’m a teenager again, I watch Adelynn. Her head is ducked under the barstools, and her thighs are splayed a little with the bend.
Sandpaper calluses grasp my elbow. CK. Two fingers grip tighter into muscle and fat. “I’m glad we decided to go home without closin’ up, Luke. It was a slow night, and we had no reason to stay after the customers left.” He steps backwards and clicks off the surveillance cameras. Once the screens are black, he sets thin rubber gloves and the supply closet key on the bar. “Lock up on your way out.”