Où est le bar le plus proche?”

The trouble with practicing your French in the corner of the bar you own is that you can’t get the pronunciation right. Because to get the pronunciation right, you’d have to actually be speaking the words. But right now, I am just kind of imagining them in my head.

It’s not ideal.

“Whose dick do I have to suck to get a drink around here?”

A girl who looks like someone I went to high school with prances up to the bar, and I can already tell she doesn’t need a drink. From the way she’s talking and swaying and has a guy on either of side of her, I can tell she’s already had a few.

The guys laugh. I know what they’re thinking, and I shut my book quietly, inhale slowly and put a smile on my face because I have to.

“She’ll have a Long Island iced tea,” one of the guys says as I walk over.

He’s not bad looking. Actually, you might say he is good looking. Really good looking, if you’re into his type.

Backwards cap. I don’t even need to see the front of it. Every time I see a blue backwards cap, I know the guy wearing it is a Yankees fan. He takes the cap off and rubs the top of his head, cropped close and short. Light blue eyes. Sort of a round-ish face, and young looking. But cute.

“How about just a regular iced tea instead?” I offer, taking a tall glass from a shelf below the bar. I’m supposed to card anyone who looks younger than thirty, and from the looks of these three in front of me, even though they’re certainly over twenty-one, I’m going to have to card. I don’t want to look like a complete geek and a total narc, but I kind of have to be.

It’s too bad. No one wanted to drink with me in high school. These three probably went to plenty of house parties. Now everyone wants to drink with me, because I’ve got the party supplies.

And not just the drinks. I’ve got the balls, too.

Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

In case you were wondering, I’ve got those too.

Gutters, that is.

I hold up the glass and point to it. I don’t want to know how dorky I look right now.

“Iced tea?” I try again cheerfully, but by now the three in front of me aren’t paying any attention. They’ve only got their attention on each other.

I clear my throat and look away. I don’t know if I should intervene. The girl looks drunk, but happy drunk, not falling down drunk. She definitely knows exactly what she is doing. And she’s got the attention of two guys, and - oh, there goes Yankee cap’s hand around her tiny little waist, and he’s gently squeezing her flesh.

She giggles.

I’m annoyed and a little envious.

“Long Island iced tea, please,” the girl says to me, plopping her arms down on the bar in front of her.

I am too tired to argue. I just want this trio to leave for my own immediate peace of mind, but they seem like they might want to do shots at some point during the night, and that shit can get expensive. For the long-term success of this place, keeping them here with some free chips and salsa and hoping these two guys open their wallets to try to impress this girl is the rational thing to do.

I swallow thickly and exhale, bemoaning the fact that working around alcohol might sound like fun, but it’s really just a whole lot of moderating, policing, babysitting and mothering.

“ID?” I say, feeling my smile melt a little.

Sometimes I ask for ID when the girls are a bit older, in their thirties, and they’re flattered when I do it. For someone in their twenties like this girl across the bar from me, it really can go either way.

“ID?” she says, a bemused expression crossing her face, then replaced with a smile, “I don’t know if I have it. I don’t even know where my purse is! Make an exception for me,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Please?”

“Oh,” I say, “I am really sorry, but it’s the state law. I know you’re over twenty-one, but the state troopers are really cracking down on this kind of thing.”

“It’s okay,” the hatless guy says, “we were going to leave soon anyway. Isn’t that right?”

He leans down and puts his lips on the girl’s neck, and she giggles, her eyelids slipping down, biting her lip. Yankees cap puts his arm around her and slips his fingers into the waistband of her jeans.

I swallow hard and look away. I shouldn’t be looking at this private moment. I shouldn’t be letting myself peek.

Even though this is my bar and my bowling alley. My place of business.

My baby.

They’re acting like I’m not even here. They’ve already forgotten all about their drinks, about the fact that I offered a regular, American-as-apple-pie, refreshingly cold non-alcoholic iced tea in place of a liquor-filled concoction.

They’re acting like I’m invisible.

All I know is that I can’t even get one guy to look at me, let alone two.

And yeah, they’ve already forgotten about me.

I walk back over to my corner at the bar and flip my French book open.

“Où est le bar le plus proche?” I say under my breath.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl being bounced softly back and forth between the guys. They’re all so close to each other, and I know I shouldn’t be looking, so I force myself to look away.

I want them to leave, but I don’t. I want them to go far away, but part of me wants one of the guys to grab me instead and hold me close and put his lips on my neck. And it’s crazy because I don’t know either of those guys. I feel like I do, though. I feel like I could have gone to high school with them, and maybe I’m just a few years older than them, but maybe in another life, one where I didn’t have to be an un-fun narc, I could have actually been friends with them.

And I could have had one of those guys for myself, even if it was only for one night.

Because honestly, I don’t know if these three really know each other at all.

Maybe it’s better that way.

I look up as I see them begin to turn away from me, and the girl walks steadily between both of them. I quickly determine that she knows exactly what she’s doing, and that she’s good at it, too.

She’s got her pick of either of them.

As my eyes follow them out of the bar area and past a few old-school arcade games just outside in the lobby, I see a small purse on one of the old wooden tables in the corner.

“Hey,” I shout, scooting out of my seat. I duck under the bar because the latch to swing it open is rusted and won’t budge, and as I quickly walk over to grab the purse, the girl turns around, steady in her skinny jeans and black pumps.

“Oh!” she says, rushing over to me. “Thank you!”

“You almost forgot your purse,” I say, handing it over to her.

“Thanks!”

She grab the purse from me and smiles. She has a sweet, pretty smile, and in this moment I wish I could be more like her.

We have something in common, don’t we? We are both at this bar right now. But that’s where the similarities end.

The trio stumbles out of the bar and the girl flips her hair behind her as they leave. Yankees cap squeezes her ass and the other guy puts his arm around her shoulder.

Exasperated, I let out a heavy sigh and go back to the bar. It’s starting to fill up, and I’m lucky to have a staff I can usually rely on, but one of my best guys, Carlo, isn’t at the bar right now for some reason. He’s good enough that I can trust him to cover the bar when I have to go deal with something out in the lanes or in the arcade, but I’m not sure where he is right now.

Honestly, it can get a little crazy around here from time to time. The most crazy thing that’s happened recently was a mini fist-fight that broke out between two middle-aged men over a teddy bear from the claw machine.

Still, even though I shouldn’t leave the bar unattended, I want to know where Carlo has escaped to. The bar is becoming busier by the moment, so I get behind the bar again to turn up the music, then slip out to go look for him.

I move through the crowd and wave at one of my busboys, pointing over to the bar to let him know I’ll be gone for a few moments.

This could take a while, or it might not. Carlo could just be outside for a smoke, or he could be cleaning up puke from one of the lanes.

“Scarlett!” I hear him shout as I make my way out of the bar area.

I glance behind me and see him hovering over one of the lanes with a mop and bucket.

It’s puke again.

“Oh jeez,” I say, quickly walking over to him. “Of all the bodily fluids, I guess this is the one we’re most used to dealing with at least.”

“That’s why I like working for you,” he jokes, dropping the mop into the bucket and swishing it around a few times.

Carlo has been by my side for the absolute longest time. We were friends in high school, and when we were seniors, there was a big senior dance - not prom, that was separate - that was held in the auditorium at our little high school. We decided not to go because the administration wouldn’t allow him to bring his boyfriend, who went to another school the next town over. A few of our other classmates told us that they wanted to join us in not attending, but when it came down to it, we were the only two people in our class who didn’t attend for that explicit reason.

Or maybe there were more people who didn’t go because of that, but they were silent about their reason, or they just decided they were too cool to attend. Me and Carlo, we were definitely too uncool to attend, but that’s not why we opted to hang out at my family’s bowling alley instead.

“Why do you like working for me, Carlo?” I ask, putting a hand on my hip. “Is it because I don’t make a big deal out of things that would normally make anyone else cringe?”

“We do see our share of gross-out stuff,” he replies, smiling down at me, “but no. It’s because you’re an optimist. You see something in need of mopping up, and you see the good in it.”

It’s getting busy in the lanes, and I smile up at Carlo as I hear someone near us.

“You guys almost done?” the guys behind us asks. “You’re charging us by the hour here.”

I look over to where the voice came from. In the little seating area behind the lane, a few people are impatiently waiting to take their turn.

“Sir,” I say, “I’m very sorry. My colleague and I are just cleaning up, and you can resume your game in a moment.”

“It’s taking a little long, isn’t it?” another guy says.

“If you’re concerned with the amount of time it’s taking,” I say, becoming slightly annoyed as I walk over, but putting on my best customer service smile, “next time may I suggest trying unlimited play? Instead of reserving the lane for a certain amount of time, as you guys did, maybe you can just block out the entire evening. It actually comes out to be cheaper, because you guys will get a free pizza and unlimited beer.”

“She doesn’t need anymore beer,” the first guy says, pointing to a girl slouched down, looking embarrassed, on one of the benches. She takes a sip of her water and scratches her forehead as though she’s trying to cover her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m the one who made the mess. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, please,” I say, walking over to her as I squeeze past the two guys, “it happens. Don’t mention it. And when you need to get home, just tell me and I will call you a cab. I’ll get you extra-good service.”

I sit down next to her and put my hand on her back. For a moment it feels like I am actually connecting with one of my customers, and I am - it just so happens that this is also my job.

“Thank you,” she says, “I am going to need a ride. The guy I was with left when I got sick.”

“Then be glad to be rid of him,” I say, “and don’t worry about it. First date?”

“Yeah,” she says in a small voice, taking another sip of her water, “and there isn’t enough room in anyone else’s car.”

I stand, noticing that Carlo has done his janitorial duty, just one of many hats he wears around here. I owe him a drink for this one.

“You know what,” I say to the two guys, “when you’re done with your game, come find me at the bar. I’ll give you a voucher for a free night of bowling, and I’ll throw in that pizza and beer too.”

“Okay, thanks!” the second guy says.

“And you come find me when you are ready to go home, young lady,” I say to the girl sitting, even though she is a bit older than me.

“Thank you,” she says again.

I touch her shoulder gently as I walk back over to Carlo, watching me with a raised eyebrow and leaning on the end of his mop.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.

“I’m not looking at you any type of way,” he replies.

“Just say it,” I say.

We make our way off the hardwood of the lane and walk slowly through the small arcade. The classic hard rock is bouncing off the wide walls and floors of the bar as we approach it, and we go resume our post.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, scout’s honor.”

“Well then what is it that you were thinking, Car? I can handle it.”

Carlo takes an order for two draught beers, filling the chilled glasses up and finishing them off with a nice head from one of the local beers we keep on tap.

“You’re too good Scarlett,” he says, sliding the beers across the bar. “You treat the customers too good. If this were my place, I’d have told those guys to get the hell out of here with their unwelcome criticism. We were cleaning up their mess, and they had the audacity to complain that we weren’t working fast enough. And then on top of it, you gave them a free game!”

I close my half-forgotten French book and take an order from two middle-aged women for two vodka tonics.

My studies are going to have to wait.

“You have to keep the customers happy,” I say, “and customers who are here on the house are definitely happy.”

“But if they aren’t paying, they aren’t customers. They’re just bodies in the room, eating our pizza and drinking our beer. Excuse me, your pizza and beer. That stuff is coming out of your pocket, lady.”

He’s right. I really do need more business, and we are on the verge of having three consecutive months in the red. Still, I don’t want possible customers coming through the door and seeing a silent bowling alley, with no one playing and no one having fun. That would be even worse than packing the place with people here for the free stuff.

“Every person who comes through the door is a potential sale,” I say, adding lime wedges to the vodkas. “It’s not like those guys I gave the free game to are taking a lane away from someone who’s paying, anyway.”

“You can say that again,” Carlo says, rolling his eyes.

“And every person who comes in might come back. They might leave a positive review online. They might tell their friends about it.”

“Or they might just stand around complaining of the smell in here,” Carlo says.

“What,” I say, smiling, “you don’t like the smell of burned popcorn?”

“Burned popcorn is the least of your worries,” he says, putting a hand on his hip.

“Don’t I pay you to be here?” I say, ribbing him. “You can always go find another place to work.”

“You know I would never leave you,” he says, grabbing a beer from the big tub of ice beneath the bar. “You want a beer?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

He pops the tops off and we both take a sip and the cold, calming liquid hits my lips.

This is a hard job sometimes, but it’s fun.

He is right, though. We need more money.

We desperately need more money.

I’ve been approached by developers who are interested in the land, but they just want to turn it into a supermarket or one of those big discount retailers where you can buy literally anything and everything.

That would be a massive payday for me. But what I need more than money is this place.

It’s why I have a meeting with some investors who are actually interested in maintaining the property as it is. I just want to hear what they have to say. I just want to hear their pitch.

We can joke about the place smelling like fifty years’ worth of burned popcorn, or roll our eyes at the drunk people, and I can become annoyed when I have to be a witness for the cops - yeah, that actually happened, turns out when you work in a bar there can be altercations sometimes that you’re a witness to - but this place is my blood, my DNA.

It’s the family business.

Carlo and I each take another sip of our beer, and a melancholy cloud comes down around us.

There’s also the whole staff I have to think about. Some of the people who work here were employees of my parents’ back when they opened the place up.

“What are we drinking to?” Carlo says, catching my eye.

“Who says we have to be drinking to anything?”

“We don’t have to, but you have that look in your eye. That ponderous look. I know you, and I know that look.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. The truth is that Carlo doesn’t really know how bad it is.

Anyone who comes in can see that we don’t have many customers, especially compared to how it was when I was a kid. But he doesn’t know how much it costs to run this place. It’s not that I don’t want him to know, it’s just - no, it’s that I don’t want him to know.

I don’t want to let on how bad it really is, how bad it really might become if I can’t turn it around, and fast.

“Let’s drink to us, then,” Carlo says. “Not just the two of us. To the alley.”

“To the alley,” I say as we clank our beers together.

I just hope we aren’t drinking to its farewell.