“Want me to make the Long Islands? It’s just the two.”
“I got it, Colleen.” Just. Colleen couldn’t mix a gin and juice without a recipe. “Be useful,” Lena told her. “Go deliver my drinks. And see if someone can come in.”
“You don’t think Marna’s coming back? I’m sure she’s coming back. I know it for a fact, Lena. It’s her divorce night and she and Lily have plans later—”
“I don’t care if Marna’s coming back, I don’t care what your daughter’s plans are. I just want some fucking help.”
“Hey, Lena,” someone yelled, “we need to discuss the beer situation.”
“Yeah, Lena, give us beer!”
“Grandma.”
“Hold your goddamn panties, I’m catching up.” She scooped ice, poured, scooped ice, poured.
“I left messages,” Colleen said when she returned. She dropped cherries into a cherry Coke and licked her fingers. “What about Denny? Shouldn’t I call him back in?”
“Well, let’s see. He worked all day—and a double yesterday and a double Friday. And he’s the only one of us who cares about the god-damn game. So, hmmm . . .”
“I know, but it would probably only be for a little while, right? Through the big rush or until Marna—”
“No.” Lena topped off a Guinness with one hand and plunged a plastic sword into an olive with the other. It wasn’t that she hadn’t considered it. But right after she considered it, she pictured Denny now, this instant, in his living room—in Stephanie’s living room, though that was beside the point—bent into the screen, eating fast-food burgers and fries and drinking a tallboy. She could see everything: his one-dimpled grin, the way he’d punch a fist into his open palm and mutter at the bad plays. He would have flattened the paper bag into a plate and squirted ketchup in a careful mound, not too close to the edge. That’s what was so funny about Denny: within his messiness he was somehow tidy. He had these small pockets of order.
What did they expect her to do—call him and beg? Please save us? We can’t function without you?
Fuck no.
She stared down at the muck of drink tickets. Hopeless. The ink had bled into furry blots. She grabbed empty pitchers and began pouring. Bud, Bud Light, Coors. “Here,” she called to Keith and Colleen, slopping down the pitchers, foam everywhere. She shook it off her wrists. “Give these out for now. I got the bar to deal with.”
“Great,” they each said. But they didn’t move. They stood there looking at her, their faces like open coconuts.
Keith: “But I also need a daiquiri and a perfect Manhattan straight up extra bitters and seven butter Crowns. Oh, and sixteen lemon drops.”
And Colleen: “I’m really slammed. Can I get four more Long Islands?”
JJ overheard the last of this and caught up with Colleen. She offered, “I’ll help.” Colleen was like an aunt, she decided. Not her aunt—who was older than this woman and certainly wouldn’t have plucked out then drawn back in her eyebrows—but an aunt sort of person: quick-smiling and warm.
“With taking orders?” They’d stopped at a computer and Colleen began poking at squares on the face of the monitor. Fast. Menu items and modifiers. Burgers. Fries. On the side. Bourbon, Makers, rocks.
“Sure.”
“Oh god, JJ, I wish you could.” Colleen’s voice was up an octave. She kept poking the screen. “I know you’re trying. I wish Denny was still here to show you what to do. I don’t have time. Crap, I can never find the untoasted bun key, it’s not where you’d expect it. It doesn’t make any sense! And it’s a ridiculous thing to ask for anyway!”
“Denny? The daytime bartender?”
“Denny. Yeah. He’s good at explaining. Wait. No mayo or extra mayo? Crap. I have no idea. Extra mayo. I’m deciding. Mayo tastes good.”
“Isn’t that him over there?”
“Who.”
“Denny.”
Colleen looked up, confused. “Denny? Where?”
JJ pointed toward the far end of the bar, by the restrooms. “I just saw him. Kinda slouchy, choppy dark hair—”
Colleen stood on her tiptoes and scanned the crowd. “No kidding?”
“Just two seconds ago. He was right there, he must be in the bathroom. He was kinda behind the video game. . . .”
“Hiding! He does that! He stayed to watch the game. Perfect. Okay. When he comes out, have him find you a book and an order pad and make him show you real fast how to write up tickets. Just the basics. I’ll tell you one thing, don’t even let him complain because, you know what, he’s lucky we don’t call him back on. Seriously. I am this close to calling him back on. And you can tell him I said that. Actually, wait, no.” Colleen sighed. “Don’t tell him I said that.” With that, she turned back to the monitor.
“No worries,” JJ said. “I’m on it.”
. . .
“Grandma.”
“All right, all right.” Lena poured Grand Marnier into a shot glass and slid it down to Fran—who used to work here and was now the most regular of the regulars.
At every bar Lena had ever worked, the regulars were the same. Like from one sitcom to another. Fran with her Grandmas—and her barnacle husband, James. India the fake gypsy. All of them. Hammer the bookie; Spencer, who sold cheap weed and supposedly played for the Raiders for about five minutes in the ’80s—which was why no one would sit next to him, you had to hear the same stories over and over. And then there was Old Barney, who left his big mangy dog outside in the way of customers. Just left it standing there, not even tied up, its nose pointed in.
It was five minutes to halftime. Most of these guys had been here since open, Lena knew, though she hadn’t been around to see it. The reason they showed up so early on game days was to squeeze out the frat boys who would stream in from local colleges, who would elbow in to drink ridiculous vodka drinks and shout at the TVs. You really couldn’t blame them, the regulars. The frat boys even smelled young, like lemon cookies and mouthwash.
She opened tallboys, set them down with a clunk, ignored requests for fresh frosty mugs.
“Hey, Lena,” Colleen said. “Denny—”
“No.”
“Lena, you’re not listening,” Colleen whined.
“That’s right. I’m not.” Lena handed Keith a mind-eraser and a rum and Diet and began shaking a margarita.
“Denny’s still here, Lena. He never left. He stayed to watch the game.”
Lena
