18
Josh
Or at least hosted one hell of a party.
After a long shower, I change into another set of Fletcher’s clothes and start cleaning up last night’s mess. The familiar rhythm of righting chairs and wiping tables is so automatic that it takes me a good three attempts to realize someone is calling my name.
“Fletch.
“Fletch.
“Fletcher.”
The sound is coming from the front door.
I abandon my current project—doubling the size of The Bronze’s existing dance floor—and wipe my hands on my jeans, wondering when I’ll ever automatically respond when someone calls me Fletch—I hope never.
“One sec. I’m coming,” I call to whoever is on the other side as I flip the lock and pull.
But as the door swings open, there isn’t a whoever on the other side.
It’s more like a whatever.
“Hey there…horse.”
The animal stares back at me, its brown ears twitching.
I stick my head out just enough to see onto Main Street, but no one else is around. It’s just a horse, with no saddle or owner, standing in the middle of the street.
“Were you the one calling me?”
I fully acknowledge that I’m talking to an animal but I’m also not entirely sure it won’t answer back.
It has been one fucked-up week.
“What the heck are you doing, Fletcher?”
This voice is not from the horse.
I turn in the complete opposite direction to see Sherry at the back door of the bar, propping it open with a keg on a dolly, staring at me like…well, like I’m talking to a horse.
“I’m talking to this big guy.” I step aside to show her the beast, but the doorway is empty and the horse is now nowhere to be found.
Sherry eyes me, rightfully suspicious. “Well, if you’re done with whatever you think you’re doing there, I could really use your help.”
I let the front door swing shut as I walk-jog to the back of the bar to take the keg off Sherry’s hands. As I wheel it in the rest of the way, Sherry disappears and then reappears a few minutes later with a large cardboard box clanking with what I presume to be liquor bottles.
“You had quite the night last night.” She sets the box down on the bar, pulling out a full bottle of Jim Beam, replacing the one I ran out of halfway through last evening.
“It appears this town likes to dance.” I nod at the new and improved dance floor.
Sherry unloads the rest of the box and then breaks down the empty container, folding it flat. “And apparently they work up quite the thirst doing it.” She hitches her head in the direction of the keg she brought in. “Make yourself useful and hook up the new one, would ya?”
I grab the dolly and wheel the new keg to the end of the bar, next to the old one. I turn off the CO2, release the pressure in the lines, and then grab a wrench to disconnect them. It’s a process I’ve done easily a hundred times. My dad made me do it as soon as I was strong enough to lift a keg. Definitely before I was legally allowed to. The practiced movements of cleaning and rinsing the lines are oddly soothing. I think I’d even go as far as to say that I missed them, or at least missed the way they give me a few moments to clear my head and think. Today, I find myself thinking about Brynn. About that kiss and about how I’ve been thinking about it far more than I should.
“Hey, Sherry. What’s the deal with the whole lobster queen thing?”
Brynn wasn’t super clear on what exactly she had to do.
Sherry’s response to my question is a loud snort. “When you say ‘deal’ do you mean: Why are they still running the thing, seeing as it’s an antiquated, fabricated farce?” She holds up her hands. “Who the hell knows? Who the hell knows why the town does half the things it does? Your friend Red, she’s the one calling all the shots now.”
My brain files through Brynn’s flash-card explanations. “Do you mean Poppy?”
Sherry shrugs as if she couldn’t care less. “That sounds right. The whole deal is happening next weekend. As you may have deduced, I will not be in attendance. But if you care to go, we can probably shut this place down for the night. Even if last night wasn’t a fluke, no one is showing up here the night of the pageant, even if it’s a Friday.”
Friday. That’s right. If time presses on back home, the way it does here, which presumably it does, next Friday is also the night of my dad’s auction.
I don’t know what’s going on in my head—if I’m still running on the adrenaline high of last night’s success or what—but I’m getting this itch to try and see what else I can do with this place.
My thoughts break enough to notice Sherry staring at me. Her mouth is pressed into its usual unimpressed line, but there’s a slight lift to her left eyebrow, as if she finds something about me slightly amusing.
“Think you’ll be back at it tonight?” she asks.
I knew the answer to that question the moment the first customer walked in here yesterday. “Yes. Definitely.” She gives a curt nod and taps the bar twice before turning toward the door. “I just hope the power holds out this time.”
Sherry turns back around, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. “What do you mean ‘holds out’? I’ve never once had issues with the electricity. And we had some wild parties here back in the day.” She squints, her expression turning momentarily dreamy. “Good ole Axle. I wonder what he’s up to these days?”
I let that question remain rhetorical. “Yeah, it’s the weirdest thing, then. We blew a fuse last night. The whole place went out.”
Sherry squints like she’s not fully believing my story. “You can’t trip the whole place at once. It’s all on multiple breakers. You might blow one, but never all of them at the same time. It must have been something you did?”
I open my mouth to argue but instead pause, a funny feeling swelling below my ribs.
What if it was something I did?
“Weird. I’ll keep an eye on it. And maybe I’ll start locking the storeroom.”