"Last Rounds" - short story

When I invite my customers to ordertheir last drinks, several raise their fingers, sure I’ll remember what theypreviously ordered. One more beer, one more vodka. Another Gin & Tonic. Inthe darkened room, several night owls linger at their tables, heads low, engagedin whispered conversation. One man sits alone on a stool at the far end of thebar. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt and sports a thin gray goatee and wiseeyes. My age, maybe a few years younger. He's been sitting there for aboutthirty minutes or so. He calls me over.

“It’s been busy tonight, hasn’t it?”It’s more a statement than a question. “Do you always get such late-nightcrowds?”

“It can get noisy,” I tell him,waiting patiently for his order.

“It must be difficult to handle allthis on your own,” the man notes.

“What can I get you?” I point at hisempty shot glass. “Another?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just sit herefor a while, if you don’t mind.”

“We’ll be closing soon.” I turn to attendto the other customers.

It’s not my bar, but I work so manyshifts, you’d think I owned the place. I’ve been working here since my collegedays. At first it was to finance my studies, but now it just helps pay thebills. The steady employment at nights leaves my days free to pursue my writingcareer. Freelance, mostly, but nothing steady. I make do on what I earn as abartender. Which is not all that much. Luckily, the tips are good.

We get all kinds at the bar. Thecollege gangs, loud and boisterous. The businessmen, drinking away thepressures of their dead-end jobs. Couples on romantic interludes. Men andwomen. Men trying to pick up women. Men and men. Women and women. Divorcees,deadbeats. All kinds.

Everyone’s welcome—that’s what thesign in our window says.

They share their frustrations, theirtroubles, and their worries, as if I’m their therapist. I nod when appropriate,but I have few words of advice to offer. They don’t seem to mind. Afterspilling their life stories, they pay their bills and head out into the night.Sometimes so drunk I need to call them a taxi.

Tonight’s shift has been nothing outof the ordinary. The early hours were busy with beer and wine orders. Fancycocktails and spritzers. Whisky—on the rocks or straight. Casual drinking atfirst, followed by more serious alcohol consumption. Nothing I can’t handle,especially with Melanie at my side.

Melanie’s a good worker. She servesthe drinks and the salty accompaniments that keep everyone drinking. Pretzels,peanuts, potato chips. Melanie cleans counters, wipes tables, washes glasses,and pours draft beer. All of this Melanie does with a dimpled tip-encouragingsmile.

“How would I get along without you?”I say, as I have on many occasions.

“We’re a good team,” she admits.

“You’re good at your job, completelytrustworthy, and the customers appreciate you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” shesays, dismissing my compliments with a wink of her eye.

Melanie’s good looking, and I’mattracted to her, but if I considered something more than our companionship inthe bar, nothing would ever come of it. She has a steady boyfriend.

“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie complains.“And he doesn’t trust me. He can get jealous over nothing. If he saw how the guysogle me, reach for my ass, he’d go berserk. You don’t know what he’s capableof!”

Melanie and me—we’re coworkers. We'veshare tidbits about our personal lives, but nothing more. Still, I’d doanything for her. We’re a team. An inseparable team.

An hour before closing, I sendMelanie home. She has a dentist appointment in the morning and I assure her I canhandle things on my own. Now, an hour later, I'm serving the night's finalorders.

“You been working here long? How’sthat going for you?”

It’s the single man, the one withthe gray goatee. He gazes at me while he fingers his empty shot glass. I had assumedhe’d already left.

“It’s okay.” There’s something abouthim, something that makes me suspicious, but I can’t determine what it is. “Isthere anything else I can get you? I told you we’re closing.”

“No, I’m good. Very good, in fact.”

That statement invites a reply on mypart. “What’s so good?”

“This bar. It’s an OK place,wouldn’t you say?” He looks around the place, at the remaining customers,finishing their drinks. “I wondered what you thought about it.”

It’s a strange thing for him to say,not anything I’m expecting. How am I supposed to respond? Should I tell him I’msatisfied working the night shift? That the pay is sufficient and the hoursconducive to my morning writing sessions?

“I guess you could say that,” I replyat last.

“It’s in a good neighborhood, Ithink. That’s why I bought the place down the street last week.”

“Frank’s?” I hadn’t known thatFrank’s bar was up for sale.

“Yeah, I got it cheap. Old man Frankwants to retire, head to Florida, I guess. He needed someone like me to takeover, to build it up. I think Frank’s has a lot of potential, probably morethan this place,” he says, indicating my bar with a dismissive wave of hishand. “No offense, of course, but a bit of competition never hurt. Two bars onthe same street. It might even attract more business; wouldn’t you say?”

I nod and continue to rinse off theglasses and put them into the dishwasher. I expect the man to be gone when Iturn around, but he’s still there, perched on his stool and staring at me.

“You're good at your job. I’ve seenhow you work and I’m impressed. That’s why I have an offer for you.”

“An offer?”

“I’d like you to come work for me.At Frank’s. In fact, I want you to manage the place. I need someone withexperience, and you have no shortage of that. You could run Frank’s, I think.So, what do you say?”

“Are you for real?” Then I stepback, realizing I’d said these words aloud.

“I guess you didn’t expect to get ajob offer at this hour of the night. But, let me tell you, my offer’s real andI think you’ll manage Frank’s just fine.”

I look around, wondering if any ofthe customers are overhearing our conversation. One couple gets up to leave,the man putting his arm around the woman’s shoulder so suggestively that I suspectthey’re not married. At the back, three college students raise their beer mugs,laughing at a raunchy joke. No one’s paying attention to me and the man sittingat the counter.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are oranything about you.” I’m trying to sound diplomatic in my response. If hisoffer’s real, and there’s an opening at Frank’s with better pay and moreresponsibility, maybe it’d be something to consider. Do I have any loyalty tothis place? Despite the many years I've put in, not really. I never said I’dwork here forever. Changing jobs? Maybe, if the conditions are right.

Managing Frank’s, with moreresponsibility, will mean more hours, I tell myself. What about the mornings Idevote to freelance writing? If I had to spend more time at the bar overseeingthings, I wouldn’t have as much time for that. But on the other hand, if thepay at Frank’s is good, maybe I could give up most of the writing gigs.

“What sort of salary are we talkingabout?” I ask.

The man throws out a number, and it’ssignificantly higher than what I’m currently being paid. “And, of course, thereare tips,” he adds. “I see your customers here are very generous, so there’s nodoubt you’d make a pretty penny managing Frank’s. You’d share them with yourcoworkers, of course, but I’m sure there’d be enough to go around.”

My coworkers! Melanie!

“I can’t imagine handling the nightshifts without you.” I had saidthose very words to Melanie earlier in the evening. “We’re a good team,”she’d said to me, and she was right. We are a team. An inseparable team.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Itell the man. “But there is one thing,” I add.

“What’s that?”

I weigh my words, as I don’t want himto withdraw his offer. “If I would come work for you, you'd have to also hire mycoworker.”

“Your coworker?” he asks, raisinghis eyebrows.

“Melanie. She’s great at what she does.You’d have to give her a job.”

“Is that your condition?” he asks.

Have I screwed up his unexpectedoffer? No matter what the salary, I couldn’t do that to her.

“Yes. Me and Melanie, or no deal.”

“Well, then.” He stands up and reachesout to shake my hand. But then, he doesn’t. He sits back down.

Confused, I stop drying the beer mugI’m holding and step back.

“My name is Gus,” he says.“Melanie’s told me about you, but I had to check for myself.”

“What?”

“She’s said only good things, I canassure you,” he says. A mischievous smile appears on his face.

“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie said to me earlier that evening. “You don’t know whathe’s capable of!”

“You’re Melanie’s boyfriend,” I say,realizing he’s been testing me. Playing me for a fool.

“Yeah, we’ve been together for awhile.”

“Are you buying Frank’s?”

“Of course not! Why would I buy thatplace when your bar here is doing such good business? Besides, I don’t have thefunds.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing for you to say.You’re good. You stuck up for Melanie, and that’s what counts. She can continueworking with you. I should be going. I don’t want to get back too late and wakeher. She’s got a dentist appointment in the morning.”

Gus walks out. All the othercustomers have already left and I’m alone in the bar, still confused by whatjust happened. Strange things can happen in the middle of the night, I guess.An over-jealous boyfriend. And I had fallen for his trap!

I put the last of the whisky glasseson the shelf, wipe off the counter, and hang up my apron. I shut the lights andlock the door. Time to go home and get some sleep. I have that writingassignment I need to finish.

# # #

Originally published in POSTBOX, Scotland's International Short Story Magazine.

Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash