Grace for Drowning

The bar was quiet at first, and just before the trickle of patrons turned into a stream, a man arrived and slipped in behind the bar.

"You must be Grace."

I nodded. "Charlie?"

He made a finger gun and shot it at me with a click of his tongue. "Got it." He looked to be in his late fifties, but still strong. A weathered oak that had stood the test of time. Despite the silver hair and crinkled brown paper skin, the thickness of his arms and the straightness of his back said he could still throw a younger man out of here himself if push came to shove.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," I replied.

"Likewise. You settling in okay?"

"Yeah. Joy has been wonderful."

He nodded. "She's a real sweetheart."

"I know I already said it over the phone, but I really appreciate you taking me on. I know the economy isn't exactly great right now." In truth, 'appreciate' wasn't close to a strong enough word. This job was the only thing between me and eviction, but I didn't want to sound too desperate.

"Don't worry about it. We were looking for someone anyway, so when our mutual friend asked if I had anything available, the timing was perfect. Really, you're the one doing me a favor."

I liked him instantly. He had that stern-with-a-kind-gooey-center vibe that most great dads have. Winding up here was one big lucky coincidence. A friend of a friend who just happened to mention my situation to the right people at the right time. I didn't deserve that sort of good fortune, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "If you say so."

"I do. Anyway, I'll let you get back to it. I'll be in the office if you need anything."

"Thanks."

As night fell, I began to slip into a rhythm. It was mindless work for the most part. Pull, twist, pour, shake, smile, repeat. The air took on a malty heaviness and the volume gradually rose as the booze began to wend its way through veins, loosening tongues. For the most part, I took it in stride. The one problem was vodka. When everything had gone to shit, that had been my drink of choice. There's something cathartic about the burn it leaves behind, like it isn't just numbing, but cleansing too. And tonight, whenever I was asked for a screwdriver or a vodka and Coke, I got a little whiff of that pungent, sterile heat, and I felt a yearning stir in my stomach, an invi

sible hand shooting up to snatch desperately at those precious fumes.

I know, I know, getting work in bar wasn't exactly the smartest decision after I'd managed to drink myself out of my last job, but the truth was, I didn't have much of a choice. Nowhere else was hiring, or at least they weren't hiring me. I must have left resumes at every restaurant, department store and cafe in town. But Vegas is a city that runs on disposable income, so the financial crisis hit it harder than most places. Everyone was tightening the purse strings and hanging onto what they had right now. It had been a little over a month since I'd been let go, and my credit card was already maxed. Another week and I wasn't going to be able to pony up my rent. I had to take what I could get. Besides, that whole drinking thing had just been a temporary lapse. A little grief induced meltdown. I'd been sober a week. Not a drop since I heard I had this job. This was a new beginning for me, and I could handle whatever curve balls it threw my way. I had to.

The evening ground on. At some point, during one of my brief reprieves, I happened to glance up and found a pair of fierce blue eyes looking back at me. I froze. The guy was leaning against the wall next to the front door, about ten feet away. Most of his body was cast in shadow, but I could tell by the bulging darkness that he was huge. Like, bench pressed Buicks in his spare time kind of huge.

I glanced around, figuring maybe that look was for someone else, but the area around me was empty. When he was still staring thirty seconds later, I sidled up to Joy. "Is that something I should be worried about?" I asked, nodding subtly in his direction.

She glanced over and gave a little laugh. "That depends on if you have a weakness for six packs and ink." The way she said that made it abundantly clear how she felt on the matter. "His name is Logan," she continued. "He works the door here most nights. Kind of intense, right?"

I nodded. "That's one way to put it." He'd looked away now, his eyes systematically scanning the room, but the memory of that gaze still lingered in my mind. "He was staring at me."

"Probably just wondering who you are. He's been here a while — longer than me, anyway. He and Charlie go way back. He used to be in the army or something. For all his scary cavemanness though, he seems like a nice guy."

"Seems?"

She shrugged. "He's pretty quiet. Doesn't give much away. We've worked together for over a year, but I wouldn't really say that I know him."

For the next hour, I kept a discreet eye on my new friend. Most of the time he simply surveyed the crowd, but occasionally I caught him watching me. I didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't the look of someone just sizing up a new colleague. It had a weight to it, like a tangible presence against my skin.

The bar was busy for a Thursday night, and the later it got, the more the booze began to take its toll. A couple of guys were ejected before their shoving match could escalate into something more dangerous, with Logan and another man rushing into the crowd and pulling them away from each other and toward the exit. Joy glanced over at me and gave a good-natured roll of her eyes, as if to say "business as usual."

Which probably should have prepared me for what came about ten minutes later.

"Two bourbons and cokes," mumbled the man who'd just staggered up to the bar.

It only took one look to work out that this guy was well past the "good time" part of his night. Glazed eyes, red cheeks, swaying stance, he checked all the boxes. This was one part of the job I'd been dreading. In my previous life I'd been a chef, and when you work in a kitchen, you never have to deal directly with customers. All of that, both the compliments and the nastiness, goes through the diplomatic filter of the wait staff. But working behind a bar, you're the filter, and that wasn't a role I had any experience with.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I think you've had enough." It was bar policy not to serve anyone who was clearly drunk.

He blinked a few times, his eyes slowly focusing on me. "Excuse me?"