“I lost track.”
Denny flipped on the radio. Found the money show where they told you the end of the world was coming in a few months. People called in about bomb shelters and stocks and gold. They gave you a number where you could turn all your savings into coins.
And what would he say if Steph finally picked up? One day, waking up, he had made the decision. I can be single again. I can be alone. You feel a certain way, then get it in your head that there’s an answer. That one big change will lead to another. And of course it does—that’s the surprise. How a bill becomes a law. How a thought becomes your life.
Denny snapped off the radio and turned to the new girl. “Well,” he said, “well, Miss Poli-science-fiction, well, JJ.”
She stared back at him, all watery-eyed, her hair in her face, like she was imagining she was beside a pool somewhere.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Time’s up.”
“Up? How?”
Denny paused. He tried to think of something to ask her, something she would know the answer to. He couldn’t think of what it was.
3.
“Pitcher of Coors,” Lena called out again.
Denny poured a pitcher of Bass, started a round for the regulars.
Thanks a fucking lot. As if it was her fault he was back there. Meanwhile, the new girl came up and took the Bass pitcher from the mat in both hands, like it was a flower pot. Christ. Lena ducked behind the bar and got her own pitcher. As it poured, she waited until Denny glanced her way, then reached above the register and tore down a page of newspaper tacked there—the article about Keith’s award. She balled it up and whipped it at Denny, hard. “Prick.”
“The bartender is a prick,” she told 19 when she gave them the pitcher. She tended to her section, falling into the mindlessness of it, taking orders, serving food. She gave wet-naps to 32 for their wings. Freshened their Sprites.
What really made her sick was this: when everything was said and done, Marna would return and it would be like nothing happened. She was down the street doing shots or toking with the alley freaks—it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. Her divorce was official—she’d made sure everyone knew it was coming by marking it on the office calendar and crossing off the days, one by one. And, sure, why should something little like a Super Bowl get in the way of Marna’s fun? She’d be back, if not in the next hour, then for her next shift, a Lucky hanging from her mouth, her hair unwashed. She’d be buzzed on something, her eyes artificially bright. Hey guys what’s up? And the regulars would be talking about it to no end—and Colleen behind Marna’s back and Keith as a joke, like it was cute. And Denny’d most likely let her have it for making him miss his goddamn game. But that would be it. Another entry for Lily’s journal. Marna wouldn’t be fired. She could torch the place and everyone would say, Oh well, it’s Marna. Business as usual.
Lena didn’t hate her. Everyone thought she did, but she didn’t. At least not before tonight she didn’t. There was a big thing for a while, when they worked Tuesday nights alone together, where people would come in just to see them argue. Later Lena found out that a couple of the regulars were making bets on who would start something first. And yeah, sure, they bickered—Lena didn’t let Marna get away with her usual lazy shit—but it was blown way out of proportion. In fact, Lena had gone over to Marna’s a few times for drinks and even had a copy of her apartment key—though that was because Marna kept locking herself out. Her space-cadet husband—ex-husband—slept through anything, and before they made the key, Marna kept crashing at Lena’s. Would get up in the middle of the night and eat all of Lena’s good food.
When Keith came to the bar for drinks, Lena said, “You should know where she snuck off to, wanna clue the rest of us in?” He didn’t react, just kept moving. You could tease Keith about almost anything, but not about his crush on Marna. Frankly, it was getting hard to take. Like that cartoon where one character is starving and imagines the other as a juicy pork chop. Get a grip, Lena thought, lighting a cigarette.
Touchdown.
“Wipeout!” someone yelled.
Lena watched Denny work, watched the tendons shift in his neck.
He looked up. “Don’t you have tables?”
“Yeah, I do, but the funny thing is, it’s a little hard for me to take care of my tables without my drinks. Is that asking too much? Let me know if it is, really, please do. I’d be happy to take off and pull a Marna on all your asses.” She blew out smoke. “Our rookie can take my tables. She seems to be getting her drinks.” Sure enough, there she was—in the middle of the room holding what was probably that same Bass pitcher, standing still. “Freakin’ lost kid at the mall,” Lena muttered.
Denny smiled at that. She was pretty sure she caught a smile.
Thirty-four left her an excellent tip. Thirty on an eighty-dollar tab. And they were girls. And they hadn’t been drunk. That could mean only one thing: restaurant workers. Lena wished she’d figured it out earlier. She would’ve comped them a round or two. The Almost Home usually got the staff from the Congo Cafe down the street, known for their big pastel drinks with plastic animals floating inside—and even more for the time a customer choked on a rhino. And there was the gang from Michael’s, where you could pay ten bucks, easy, for a crummy martini. Michael’s staff was okay, though. Lena had dated one of the bartenders for a while. He was arrogant and had bad breath, but she missed him for a long time after they broke up, maybe still missed him a little, on slow Wednesday nights, when he used to come in.
Tables were no less packed and the kitchen was still hopelessly behind—what else was new—but people weren’t ordering much anymore. Check totals were low. The Broncos were killing the Falcons and people were bored. Even Denny, Lena could tell, was bored, though he would never admit it. Well, he wouldn’t be bored soon. A group of thirty was coming in. On top of all this. And not even for the game. Singles. They took over the place, table-hopped, and then expected you to remember who they were. Lena hated waiting on them even on slow nights. Lousy tips and loud cologne. Ugly sweaters. It all gave her the feeling of a damp Sunday. Which, actually, it was.
At least the Singles only came in once every couple months—at least they weren’t regular regulars, who were more than enough as is—who were the reason Lena’d quit taking bar shifts in the first place. On tables, you weren’t trapped, forced to take the same blather day in and day out. And the questions. Hey, Lena, how’s Denny and that cute little girlfriend of his?—right in front of him, just to see if she would rattle. Whoever said that a bartender was like a psychiatrist had it all wrong. Customers didn’t want to come in and talk about their problems. They wanted to talk about your problems.
When she wasn’t delivering food to tables, JJ followed Colleen and tried to catch what she was saying. “Those are tables 1 through 10,” Colleen instructed, pointing, “and 11 through 20—that one’s 88, no reason, just is. . . .” She showed JJ little tricks, like how to calm people down when they got the wrong order and how to clean off the tops of the steak sauces with one twist of a cocktail napkin.
“Right. Oh, I see. That makes sense.” Every so often it occurred to JJ that she wasn’t actually absorbing anything. Each new fact engulfed and swept away the
