Make You Mine

I need a drink.

It’s still early, so I walk up to the Red Cat pub, and push through the ancient glass door. Mack used to come to this place after work when he was having trouble sleeping. I had to come here and wake him up once, walk him home. I was only about sixteen, but even Mack had dark days.

It’s dusty and old inside, and I know this place’s reputation. The drinks are stiff and cheap, and the company is decent. A jukebox with actual vinyl records is placed against the back wall. It’s usually spinning Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett, but tonight it’s Elton John’s, “Mamma Can’t Buy You Love.”

I look around, and sure enough, Steve “Dagwood” Magee is at the bar, one of the biggest Elton John fans I know. We weren’t as close as I was with Danny in high school, but we were good enough friends. Hell, I wasn’t as close to anyone as I was with Danny. The thought is a kick to the gut.

The minute Steve sees me, he straightens up, smiling broadly. “I’ll be damned, it’s our hero. Mose, I’m buying Gray here a drink. Anything he wants. Have a seat, friend.”

I wince at him calling me hero. “Hey man, you don’t have to buy me a drink—”

“Stop!” He holds up a hand. “It’s my first chance to welcome you home properly. That dinner was nice, but I was all the way at the other end of the fucking table.”

It’s possible my friend is a little buzzed.

Mose stops in front of me. He’s been the bartender at the Red Cat since the stone ages, and he looks as old and dusty as everything in here.

“Okay, hero. Pick your poison.”

“Whisky up.” I give him a thumbs up.

“A man’s drink.” Steve slaps my back. “You’re a good man, Gray. I’m damn proud I know you. Have I told you that?”

Mose slides a tumbler of whiskey in front of me, and I lift it, taking a sip. “Why are you telling me now?”

“Look at all you’ve done.” Steve waves his arm around. “First, you went to college and kicked textbook ass. Then you went to Africa and kicked terrorist ass. Then you came home and opened the garage. You hired that little Mexican kid—”

“You’re proud of that?” I cut him off before he has a chance to get offensive. He’s a good guy. “Some people might say opening a garage is wasting my education.”

“Bastard people, Gray. Assholes.” He leans forward. “We need a good garage in this town. Mack had vision.”

“It’s honest work.” I look at my stained hands. “I don’t know that I’ll do it forever.”

“Did that fucker Ralph Stern say something to you? I swear to shit I’m going to shove a bag of almonds up his ass next time I see him.”

That makes me chuckle. “It’s okay. He actually offered me a job.”

“Don’t do it, bro. That guy’s a weirdo. He’s obsessed if you ask me.”

I can’t argue with him, so I don’t. I don’t get a chance.

“Say, you any good at fixing up old cars?” He grips my shoulder.

“I don’t do body work, but I helped Mack restore a few engines, mechanical s

hit. Why?”

“My friend Taylor Dawes has an old Chevy Bel Air he wants to restore. I could send him your way if you’re interested. Make you a little bank.”

“Tell him to stop by.” I don’t need the money, but I want to work.

When I was in Dover, my therapist said working with my hands or creative work would distract my mind from the thoughts, from spiraling into depression. So far, it seems to be working.

Drew helps.

I take another pull off my whiskey as “Flyin High” by Marvin Gaye comes on.

Steve leans back, nodding. “This is your kind of music. Right?”