Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

I don’t give him a chance to argue, hip-bumping him toward the beer and taking my new place by the bottles and glasses. I get started, filling orders as fast as Olivia brings them in. I know Unc is watching me out of the corner of his eye, seeing if I can put my money where my mouth is. I’m not worried. I can. I even make a tray full of Long Island Iced Teas—gag—for a table of women who don’t want to drink cheap beer for their buzz.

We stay steady until about midnight, when it slows down considerably as if all these people are Cinderellas who need to get home before they turn into pumpkins.

I load the big industrial dishwasher again, the third time in an hour, and wipe down my station.

“You done pretty good.”

Unc’s praise is kind but delivered a bit begrudgingly, so I compliment him right back. “You do this by yourself all the time, six days a week? You must be a machine!”

His lips purse as he fights a smile.

“C’mon, you can tell me. You’re a robot, right?”

He lifts his elbow, his arm dangling down and wiggling right and left. I realize it’s his really crappy attempt at the robot dance. “Oh, my God, please don’t do that again. Rule number four, no bar dancing.” Really, I wish I had my camera so I could’ve captured that, especially the boyish grin on his wrinkled face.

“What’s one through three?” Those bushy brows rise, looking like snowy caterpillars, and he takes a small sip of the beer he poured for himself. Not the cheap draft stuff but a craft ale I was surprised to see on his beer list.

What a man drinks says something about him, and Unc’s got layers and depth.

“Uhm . . .” I was just kidding, but I’m not going to lose this battle of wits. No way, no how. It’s a matter of honor among bartenders now.

“Rule one, no free drinks. I don’t care who you are. Pay or go thirsty.” Unc tilts his head, and I wonder how many of his friends drink for free.

“Rule two, heavy till ten, we’ll see you again. Light after midnight because they’re too drunk to give a fuck.” Crass maybe, and not language I typically use, but it’s one of the staples of tending bar I learned working in college bars. Those early drinkers are the ones you want to come back again and again, so you pour just a little extra drop in their glass, toss them a wink like they’re getting special privileges, and they’ll be your best customers. The folks who come in late at night are already half-tipsy, can’t tell if a drink is strong or weak, and skinny pours are a way to keep costs down. Unc gives me a nod this time, which I take as agreement.

“Rule three, drinks first. I’m friendly, sociable, and I’ll be your free therapist on a slow night and listen to all the ways your day sucked and your wife did you wrong. But if it’s busy, I’m slinging drinks first and chatting second.”

That one was the hardest for me to learn. I’m a reluctant people person by nature. I don’t want to talk to them, I’m too quiet for that, but I love to hear stories. I’m the random stranger people open up to in the grocery line, at the bank, and yep, at the bar. I enjoy hearing about people’s days, their lives. Even if I can’t take a picture, it’s like a snapshot into who they are. But a bit too long at one end of the bar with one customer means you’re neglecting others, and that affects the bottom dollar, for me and the bar. Sad but true.

“Which leads to rule four, I guess.” He’s smiling, and I know he’s well aware that I just made those rules up on the fly. I’m decently quick on my feet, though, so I think they’re pretty on point.

“Right. No bar dancing. This ain’t Coyote Ugly. It’s Hank’s, the best honkytonk in town.” I add in the slogan I read on the paper placemats as an extra sparkle of so there.

“I think you’re gonna fit in just fine, Miss Willow. Welcome to the team, officially.” He sticks his hand out, and I shake it, but then he pulls me in for a hug and I wonder if he remembers Mom’s saying too.

Two weeks pass by in a blur.

I get to know Olivia and Ilene better, and yes, they both tell me their life stories, which are full of obligatory small-town drama.

Ilene’s been married to her high school boyfriend for thirty-eight years, she proclaimed proudly, and they have five kids who are all grown and on their own.

We weren’t sure our middle boy was gonna make it. Cops brought that punk home more times than I could count, and he worked his butt off to make reparations for that tractor he messed up on his field trip.