Authors: Meg Muldoon
But between my own love life troubles, and Dale’s poor management skills, I was beginning to wonder whether or not I shouldn’t find something else to do with myself other than tending bar in the middle of nowhere, listening to bad music acts.
And the things that Raymond were saying about me finding a more respectable line of work were starting to sound more and more reasonable.
Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe I didn’t have to necessarily become a hair dresser, but maybe I should find a job in an insurance firm like Beth Lynn, or a law office or something. Come to work wearing a blouse and heels rather than a hip-hugging shirt that made me feel chubby and slutty and old all at the same time.
Maybe I had been clinging onto the past for too long. Maybe it was time to start looking around for another reality.
I drove down Bond Street, passing by the town’s good old
Wagon’s Ho!
mural and pulled into The Cupid parking lot, parking next to a few familiar cars. I got out, and Hank followed close at my cowgirl boot heels.
Dale didn’t usually like me bringing Hank to my shift, even though just about everyone else in the bar went crazy for the St. Bernard. Dale didn’t really like dogs much, but I figured if he wanted me to come in early, then Hank was the price he’d have to pay.
I pulled back the saloon’s heavy door and walked inside. Hank Williams III was playing on the jukebox, singing about getting drunk with all his country heroes. A couple of familiar faces were sitting at the bar.
But for the most part, the place was cleared out. The way it usually was on a Sunday afternoon.
Courtney was standing behind the bar when I came in, and a look of relief swept across her face.
“Bitters, can you help these gentleman?” she said.
Courtney was a lot of things, but a bartender she wasn’t.
She was dressed in one of the bar t-shirts, which somehow looked worse on her than it did on me. Her frazzled orange hair was pushed back into a loose ponytail. Over the years, her hair had gone from a smoky red to a bright orange through a series of progressively bad dye jobs.
I went around the bar, took off my jacket, hung it in the back and came back out, ready to work.
“You ever think about cutting this pooch loose, you let me know,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the counter. “I’d be first in line to take him.”
Dry Hack Jones leaned down and rubbed behind Hank’s large ears. Hank leaned his head back, and a few strands of saliva rolled out from the sides of his mouth.
I’d never known such an attention-loving dog.
“Well, if that day ever does come, you’ll be the first to know,” I said, both of us knowing that it never would. “Now what are you drinkin,’ Dry Hack? The usual?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.
“One gin and tonic coming right up.”
Dry Hack was one of the bar’s most loyal customers, and one of my favorites, partially because of the large tips he left behind. He got his nickname “Dry Hack” from the long bouts of coughing that would sometimes plague him. He served in Operation Desert Storm, and blamed his coughing on having to breathe in all that sandy desert air all those years. He’d been wounded during his time in the army, and walked around with a limp these days.
He lived on disability and spent what little money he had drinking at The Stupid Cupid Saloon and talking with whoever had an ear to lend. He was a Civil War buff, and sometimes would give me a play by play of the battle of Antietam or the Siege of Vicksburg like it was a Monday night NFL game, and I had asked about the score. But I didn’t mind it. He had a way of telling stories that kept your interest.
“So what’s new, Dry Hack?” I asked, placing the gin and tonic in front of him.
“Not a thing, sweetheart, not a thing,” he said. “That’s a nasty shiner you got there. How’d it happen?”
“I got in the middle of something last night that I shouldn’t have,” I said.
“I’m sure the other guy looks a lot worse,” Dry Hack said, taking a swig of his drink.
“I wish,” I said, thinking about Kirby’s sweaty, fat face. “He did leave behind his credit card though.”
“Well, there you go,” Dry Hack said. “You oughta go out and buy yourself a new wardrobe with that.”
“There’s a thought,” I said. “But knowing Kirby, the thing’s probably maxed out already anyway.”
“Kirby Carruthers? He’s the one that lay the hurt on you?”
I shrugged.
“In a roundabout kind of way.”
“Well, next time I see him I’ll be sure to give him hell. Son of a bitch can’t be doing that to my friend.”
Dry Hack finished his drink, and I got him another one, already knowing that he’d be asking for a second round.
“You hungry, Dry Hack? Is there anything we can get you from the food cart?”
He shook his head.
“Not yet, Bitters. I’m gonna sit here and work on my appetite a while. Hey, you seen my true love yet?”
I smiled.
Dry Hack was one of the few people that I had confided in about my, uh,
gift
. Unlike most people, he actually believed that I got visions. Every time I saw him, he asked me the same thing: if I had seen his soulmate.
And the answer was always the same. Sadly, I had yet to have a vision of Dry Hack’s true love.
I shook my head.
“No. I can’t control them all that well,” I said. “Wish I could. Lately I’m getting bombarded with all these ones for Beth Lynn.”
“Aw, that’s okay,” he said, taking another long swig of his drink. “I’m a patient man.”
Just then, I felt Courtney at my elbow.
“Dale wants to see you, hon,” she said quietly, in the same kind of tone that a teacher might use when sending a kid down to the principal’s office.
“About the bar fight last night that he wasn’t here for?” I asked.
“He just wants to see you.”
I threw down the bar rag.
“Dry Hack, you think you can look after Hank for a minute?”
“It’d be my pleasure,” he said, rubbing behind the big dog’s ears.
Hank let out a pleased growl.
I left the front of the house and went around back to Dale’s office.
Ready to give him hell if he was going to scold me for what happened the night before.
Chapter 15
“So you see, Bitters, I’m between a rock and hard place with this one.”
I sat there, feeling like my gut had just been ripped out.
Dale sat behind his messy desk, stacks of disorganized files and papers piled so high it almost blocked my view of him. He ran a hand through his thinning hair.
He looked tired. His skin had a shiny, oily look to it, the way it got when he had a hangover. His eyes were small and swollen.
“This is a joke, right?” I said. “You’re just having some fun with me, aren’t you?”
Dale sighed, his large gut heaving along with his chest. He crossed his arms over his midsection, tucking his balled-up hands underneath his armpits.
“Things just aren’t like how they used to be in the old days, Bitters,’” he said. “I’ve done everything I can think of, but we’re still losing money here on a daily basis. I’m sorry, but we’re in a full May Day tailspin right now, and that means we have to get rid of any excess weight.”
“You’re saying I’m excess weight?” I said, standing up angrily.
“Dammit, no. That was the wrong way to put it. What I’m saying is that while Courtney and I enjoyed having you work here, we
jest
can’t afford you anymore.”
“Who’s gonna tend bar with me gone?” I asked.
“Courtney’s gonna step in.”
I scoffed.
“That woman doesn’t know the difference between
Johnny Walker
and
Patron
.”
I felt like steam was going to start coming out of my ears.
“Be that as it may, there’s not much more I can tell ya,” he said. “You’ve given us a few really good years, and we’re grateful. But if we don’t start bailing out water, the ship is going to go under. You understand?”
Dale and his goddamn cheap metaphors.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I said. “After all I’ve given to this place.”
“Well, maybe you could look at this as an
op-por-tun-ty
instead,” he said. “You know, a chance to find something better.”
I crossed my arms.
“What are you gonna do with the place, huh?” I said. “How else are you bailing out water?”
He rubbed his eyes.
“We’re turning it into a sports bar. No live music. Just games on the TV.”
My mouth fell open a little.
“A sports bar?” I said. “A sports bar?!”
Like saying it twice would convince him what a terrible idea it was.
You didn’t take a place as good as The Cupid and turn into a sports bar.
“It’s a better business model,” he said. “No bands to pay. And that’s what we need right now. A plan of action.”
A better business model would have been him not gambling away all the saloon’s money.
“I’ve been coming to The Cupid before you or Courtney ever moved to Broken Hearts, Dale,” I said.
I wasn’t sure why I needed to say that, but I did.
“And I hope that you do keep coming back,” he said. “But it’ll have to be as a customer.”
That was the last straw.
I thought about throwing something. About picking up that stupid green lamp from his desk and chucking it against the wall.
But I restrained myself.
Breaking glass wasn’t going to do me anyone any good now. Nothing would.
I started heading for the door, walking fast and mean.
“Wait, Bitters,” he said, standing up. “Look, you don’t have to leave now. You can work here a couple days more if you want. Until you find something. But no more than that.”
What on earth was I going to find in a couple days? What good would it do? I wasn’t going to take his pity.
I turned around to look at him.
“Go to hell, Dale.”
I walked out of his office and to the back. I grabbed my coat, and rushed quickly through the saloon, not even so much as looking in Courtney’s direction.
“It’s been nice knowing you, Dry Hack,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll miss hearing you recount all them battles.”
Dry Hack’s big bushy black eyebrows drew together in confusion.
“C’mon, Hank,” I said, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth to grab his attention.
The dog stood up and followed me.
I tried slamming the door on my way out, but in the same way that it hadn’t slammed for Raymond the night before, it didn’t slam for me.
It just closed feebly.
I couldn’t even take that satisfaction with me.
Chapter 16
I sat on the hood of my car, bundled up in my sheep’s fleece jacket, listening to the sound of Dwight’s
BuenasNoches from a Lonely
Room
coming from the car speakers, mixing in with the sound of the river running past.
I was holding a flask in my hand.
You’ve probably got a bad impression of me by now, thinking I’m some sort of lush.
But I’m not.
I only drink when the occasion calls for it. It’s just that it had been calling for it a lot lately.
Hank sat on the hood with me, lying on his side, dozing. Big dog snores coming out of his mouth.
It was cold, but the afternoon sun was out. A bright, clean sky glowed overhead.
The snow had all just about melted, and the dead leaves of the cottonwoods along the river were dancing in the fresh wind coming down the canyon. It was all so pretty that it almost made me feel better.
Almost.
I took another swig of whiskey from the flask.
“Things just don’t come easy, do they Hank? It’s always so hard.”
Hank wasn’t listening, but it didn’t matter. I was listening enough for the both of us.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had lost not only my job, but I’d lost The Stupid Cupid Saloon too.
The place wasn’t going to last three more months the way it was going: whether or not Dale and Courtney decided to go with the sports bar idea and replace me with flat screen TVs. And somehow, the idea that The Cupid was in its death throes hurt even more than losing my monthly pay check.
I knew that it was dumb to be so invested in a little old bar in the middle of nowhere. It was stupid to turn a place like that into your reason for staying in a small town.
I sighed, thought again about that night, standing out on the sidewalk, listening to
The Rusted Spurs
play. Those same feelings rushing up inside of me, the way they always did. But they were fainter, now, getting farther and farther away with each passing year.
I shouldn’t have been at the bar that night. That was what I was thinking when I first walked in nearly 20 years ago, the nerves jumping around inside of me like short circuited wires. I remember my hands were damp with fear, and I was holding onto my fake ID with all my might, scared to death I might run into someone at the bar who would recognize that I was just a junior in high school. Trying to cover up that fact with about two pounds of foundation and mascara.
I was there that night with a group of girls from school, including Beth Lynn. We were young and wanted to do things we weren’t supposed to. Which in a town as small and isolated as Broken Hearts Junction, meant sneaking into The Stupid Cupid Saloon for a show.
Lawrence owned the saloon back then. And he knew how to run a bar, all right. In another lifetime, Lawrence Halliday had been a country guitarist who had played tracks on some Willie Nelson records. He was a real legend in certain, knowledgeable circles. And for some reason, Lawrence had given it all up and returned to his hometown to buy The Stupid Cupid Saloon and turn it into a live music venue.
The night I snuck in, my insides were shaking like Jell-O sitting on the flatbed of a truck going down a gravel road. But the second I walked into The Cupid, I knew I had nothing to worry about.
Because when I walked in that night, it felt like…
To this day, it’s hard to express what I felt when I walked through that old growth pine door, and got a glimpse of the brick walls and the low lights and cozy feeling of warmth inside.