And this is where my life currently stands.
Tending bar at The Last Call because I can’t afford to continue living on my own with what I make as a real estate agent.
About three weeks ago, I plucked up the courage, swallowed my pride, and begged Hunter for a job. Now, don’t get me wrong… there is nothing shameful about working in a bar. Not only does Hunter cover frequent shifts here, but Brody also worked here for a while when he first got out of prison.
No, the part that has me swallowing my pride is in having to beg a family member for help.
Turns out… no begging was needed. Hunter gladly gave me the work, offered to loan me money if I needed it, and then proceeded to grill me on the state of my finances to see how much trouble I was really in. After an hour of assuring him that I wasn’t starving to death, but just needed a little extra to make up for losing Savannah as a roommate, he finally left it alone.
My mom, on the other hand, is not happy I’m working here. While both my parents love my brothers and me unconditionally, I know that I am the “disappointment” in the family. And that’s saying a lot, seeing as how Brody spent five years in prison. In fairness, however, his transgressions are forgiven by all of us because he didn’t actually do the crime.
I, on the other hand, have not measured up in any way. My senior year in high school was very difficult for me, and I sucked at college. I barely lasted a year there, partying my ass off and having the time of my life. I don’t think I really caught on to the concept of needing to buckle down and study. How could I when it was just so much damn fun to be free and young with no one to make me do anything?
“Casey, baby,” my mom had said with obvious affection but a little bit of annoyance one night at a family dinner. “It’s time to figure out what you want to be when you grow up.”
I’m almost twenty-six years old, and my mom doesn’t think I’ve grown up yet.
She may be right.
I pour the beer from the tap, keeping the glass tilted at an angle to keep the foam head minimal. When it’s full, I set it down before Roy and reach out to grab the appropriate amount of money he has laying in front of him on the bar.
“Keep a couple dollars for yourself, honey,” he says in a gruff voice.
I take two extra dollars and stick them in my tip jar. “You’re a sweetie, Roy.”
“So you gonna marry me then?” he asks with a toothless grin. Roy has to be in his eighties. He’s a retired shrimper and used to hang out at this bar before Hunter bought it. He was displaced for a bit during the remodeling but once it was re-opened for business, Roy’s butt has pretty much been parked on that same stool at the corner of the bar.
“I’m not marrying any man,” I tell him with a wink. “No way am I going to be pinned down.”
Roy cackles and holds his beer up to me in salute. “You remind me of my sweet Georgia Mae. Did I ever tell you about the time she left me at the altar and I had to hunt her down and drag her back kicking and screaming? She was a pistol that woman, but after the honeymoon, she was smiling big.”
I shake my head and smile at Roy, and even though I’ve heard this story twice, I put my elbows on the bar and lean toward him. “I haven’t heard that one.”
Roy drones on and on. Sweet old man really, which is why I listen to his repetitive stories. This is his life… just as it’s mine… sitting in a bar and whiling the time away.
Continuing from one story to the next, Roy tells me about his wife, Georgia. She died long before I was born so I didn’t know her, but she sounded like a hoot. A few more customers start to straggle in, mostly fisherman at this time of the early afternoon, telling me the shrimp aren’t running anymore.
I call out greetings and serve up beers as well as some harder liquor for the more salty men. Periodically, I shoot the shit with Roy or some of the other locals.
I’ve found the key to enjoying this job is to stay busy, so I like it when people start coming in. It makes the time fly by. While the afternoon shifts that I work are generally slow, I still can get in a good hour or so of busy traffic, which means better tips.
Right at six PM, Kent comes in to relieve me. He started working at The Last Call about a year ago and is one of Hunter’s more seasoned workers. He’s also really hot with sandy blond hair that he wears long and shaggy, with a beard of about four days’ growth. It never gets any longer or shorter, so I know he must be in to grooming. On top of that, he’s a generally nice guy. I mean, really nice.
I’ve often thought about going out with him. He’s asked me a few times, and I always turn him down with a bit of levity. He’s a little younger than I would like—I think twenty-three—but ultimately, I can’t do it.
He’s a bartender. Blue collar, working class. Definitely not rich.
Which means definitely not my type.
Some would think that makes me shallow, and I would have to agree with them if I went out with these men for their money. But that’s not why I go out with them. I couldn’t care less about their fancy cars and expensive gifts. It amuses me to get them because I know just how little that stuff really means to these men. It’s a way to impress and seduce. It’s classic and dull, but I accept it.
It also means they are the shallow ones, and shallow people are easy to keep at arm’s length.
The reason I don’t go out with people like Kent is because he’s too nice. Too stable. Too dependable. Wouldn’t want to hurt a woman intentionally. Knows the meaning of honest work. He has character.