At the Bar

Evie

I made it to the bar, parking in back next to Nelle’s car. I went around the front. The bar was in one of the better neighborhoods of the city, tucked in between several other bars. It was where the college kids came to do their pub crawls. Nelle’s bar was more of a sports bar by day and a millennial hangout by night. It was where the young people with man buns and skinny jeans liked to hang out. A lot of rich kids hung out in the place as well, which was really how Nelle paid the bills.

“Hey.” I greeted her with a small wave as I walked through the doors. The place was plenty bright in the late afternoon hours. At night, the lights were down, and the music was up.

“Uh oh, you got a new job,” she said with a bright smile. She knew me very well.

Her long, shiny, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The woman could have been a model. She was gorgeous. I admired her beauty and the perfect figure she had but it was the beauty on the inside that made her special. She was kind and ferocious enough to run a bar and deal with stupid, sometimes mean, drunks.

“I did,” I said with a grin.

“You are happy, so it must be especially challenging,” she commented. She quickly filled a glass with my usual diet soda and put it down in front of me with a little square napkin underneath.

I took a sip of the soda. “I am. It’s for a big party this weekend.”

Her perfectly sculpted brows, darkened with the skilled hand of a makeup expert, arched up. “This weekend? How big?”

“About two-hundred guests,” I answered. I was excited and couldn’t hide it.

“Wow. That’s not a small gathering.”

“Nope.”

“You will, of course, pull it off,” she said with a bright smile.

“You bet your ass I will. It does mean I’m going to be working around the clock for the next six days.”

I pulled out my yellow pad, ready to jot down ideas as they came to me. I took another drink and looked around the bar. The usual suspects were gathered around their table talking about football. I didn’t even think it was football season, but what did I know? It was the middle of July, hot as hell, and shaping up to be even hotter next week.

“What kind of party?” she asked as she filled a glass with foamy beer before handing it to one of the regulars.

“Shipping.”

“Shipping? Like the post office?”

“No. Cargo ships. I have to do a little homework, but they ship things all around the world on their really big boats.”

She didn’t look very excited. “How boring. What kind of theme?”

“No theme. I’m thinking I’m just going to have some big ropes, anchors, and stuff like that around the room.”

“Where is it being held at?”

“One of the local hotels down at the waterfront. I’ve worked with the rooms so many times before, I already know what I’m going for. It’s going to be tight quarters, but I’ll make it work.”

“Of course, you will.”

I put my pen down and focused on her. “How have you been?”

“Good, busy. You know how the weekends are.”

“I know. You work yourself to the bone. I was going to ask you to go shopping with me yesterday, but I figured you would be sleeping most of the day.”

She laughed. “I was. I got home just after four on Saturday—I guess that would technically be Sunday—and slept until about two. Got up, ate, showered, and went right back to bed. There were back-to-back concerts Friday and Saturday. You know how they flock in here, all hyped up on music and alcohol.”

“Did you have to kick any ass?”

She winked. “Just once. Two young bucks thought they were going to fight in my bar. They now know better.”

“I bet they do,” I said with a giggle. “Being attacked by all one-hundred-twenty pounds of you must have terrified them.”

“I think it might have been Martha that really scared them,” she said with a grin. Martha was her bat. It was her lucky bat. She’d played softball in school and kept it behind the bar. Her Louisville Slugger was not to be messed with.

“Martha is an intimidating gal,” I agreed. “I want a beach day. I’ll be busy this week, but what about next week?”

“I’m off Tuesday,” she answered.

“Then a week from now, we have a date. I have a feeling I’m going to be running my ass off this week and probably won’t see you.”

“Don’t work too hard,” she cautioned. “You know how very Type A you can get. I don’t want you having a breakdown or something.”

“I won’t have a breakdown. I promise.”

“Famous last words.”

I took another drink. “I’ve learned. I’ve gotten more organized. I’ve gotten better at scheduling. Now, there is no need to panic. Everything will be done on time. It will be last minute, but it will be done.”

She nodded. “Good girl. I don’t want you having a stroke at the ripe age of twenty-eight.”

“I won’t.”

“Speaking of Type A, how is your dad?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I have been busy. He’s been busy. I have barely talked to him at all. I really wish he would relax a little more.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You two are both wound very tight.”

“He made me this way,” I protested.

“Yes, he did.”

“Now that you mention it though, I probably should check in on him. He works way too much. When he isn’t working, he is doing something else that is far from relaxing.”

She gave me a knowing look. “Yeah, weird. It’s like I know someone just like him.”

“Ha. Ha.”

An idea popped into my head. I quickly jotted it down. When I looked up, she had her arms folded over her chest. She was right. I did work hard. I worked a lot. I liked working.