I look around my bar, The Beer and Brood Tavern, and just can’t imagine a wedding here. I mean, c’mon...who the hell gets married in a bar? But I guess when you can afford anything on God’s green earth; you can get married in a bar.
“So, you’re okay with them having their wedding here?” Jenna, my niece asks trying to read my silence. She’s giving me those big blue ‘pretty please’ eyes she’s been giving me since she was three. That look was cuter when it was paired with pigtails, now it’s long unicorn-colored hair. Either way, it’s working. She knows just how to get me to say yes to anything she asks for. “I know you hate weddings with what happened, but life goes on and people fall in love. Please say yes?”
“Personally, I don’t understand why they want to have their wedding here, but I’m okay with it I guess,” I advise her. “Just promise me I won’t have to make too many crazy changes around here for this to happen. I just finished being under construction. I don’t think the locals could handle too much more inconvenience like that. I kinda like the ol’ place just like it is, with the ground in dirt, stains and tobacco stench that accompanies the alcohol smell.”
It’s a comfortable ambiance that I’ve grown accustomed to over the last two decades. The neon signs I hung up on my first day of ownership are still hanging on the walls. I try my best to keep the dust on them to a minimum. The wooden floors are deeply rutted where the mismatched stools slide in and out, especially where I sit every night. It’s perfectly smooth where my stool slides if such a thing can be perfect. This is mostly my home. I don’t sleep here, but I probably should for the amount of time I spend within its walls.
“Things started happening really fast for them when Kyle got traded to the Sacramento Kings,” she explains. “It’s just too much to still have the wedding in Denver, so they are canceling everything there, and bringing it all here in an attempt at a hush-hush wedding with a few notable NBA stars in attendance. Plus they want to hide from the paparazzi all while having their fairytale wedding,” she waves her hands in the air like a fairy godmother would wave her magic wand.”
Oh yes, hide from the paparazzi. I forgot about them. Shit! They’re going to be swarming all over this town for a week or more. I just hope they’re able to keep everything low key, and none of the paparazzi recognizes me in this process.
“Uncle Frank, I’ve got to get band practice started and get back home before Paege and Henry fall asleep,” she says, twirling a strand of her unicorn hair. That’s my niece, living life on the edge until her kids need her— then she’s all mommy business. “Aran and the wedding planner will be here on Thursday to look over the place and come up with a decorating plan and event schedule that you can live with. Okay?”
Fuck. I mentally groan at the thought of a wedding planner. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply, taking a long draw from my beer. I’m going to need a few more of these before Thursday. Maybe even a dozen, to get me in the mood for a wedding planner. “Now get your rear-end over there and sing me some songs.” I kiss her on the cheek and push her towards the stage.
Wedding planner. Fuck me. The last wedding planner I dealt with was rude as hell, bossy as a drill sergeant, and ugly as fuck. I honestly don’t understand why people hire wedding planners. I get that Aran’s busy. She’s got three kids now, all under the age of three and a fiance who is on the road more than he’s home with the NBA season being so damn long, but a wedding planner? You shouldn’t have to pay someone to plan one of the greatest moments of your life.
I have a real aversion to wedding planners. It’s been over two decades since my last run in with one, and I don’t believe they’ve changed much in that time. I guess I’ve got two days to get accustomed to the idea.
I motion Derek over to get me another beer. The drums kick up on “Don’t Break My Heart Again” by Whitesnake. That’s my Jenna girl; she knows me so well to play one of my favorite songs. I sit and listen as JEMFire quickly goes through their set for Friday night before leaving.
And now starts the lonely part of my night. The next five to six hours will drag by since Tuesday nights aren’t all that busy yet. It’ll pick up in a few weeks when the summer season starts.
I’m just glad the renovations are finally done. There is a new, enclosed back deck that extends out into the parking lot, and I put a small bar area out there for the busy summer months when the weather is nice. I finally black-topped the parking lot, so I don’t have to hear about rocks scratching people’s paint on their cars or drunken idiots throwing rocks at windows. I’ve shelled out more money for that kind of stupid shit than anything else throughout the years.
I’m proud of my bar. I try my best to keep it respectable and clean. It’s the only one in the small town of Knightsen. Hell, it’s the only one within twenty-five miles, especially with a live band.
JEMFire is what packs them in. My niece, Jenna, is the lead singer. She grew up with the boys in the band, and they are definitely a hometown crowd favorite. None of them have any desire to make it to the big time, even though they could.
Jenna had her chance, but it wasn’t for her. A few years ago, she married the local football hero, Nick Bailey. He was drafted by the Oakland Raiders, but after an injury, retired and now he’s an ESPN broadcaster. They live just a few towns over near Berkeley with their two children.
Aran, the one who’s getting married, is Nick’s sister. She’s a sports photographer, or she was before she fell in love with one of her assignments. His name is Kyle Daniels. He was drafted by the Denver Nuggets as the highest paid power forward in the history of the NBA. They’ve been planning this wedding through two pregnancies and three babies. According to Aran, it’s happening this time or they’re just going to get hitched in Las Vegas, which seems to me to be a better place to get married than my bar.
They all grew up here in Knightsen. Hell, I used to date Nick and Aran’s mother in junior high school, but I’ve never told them that. That’s a hint about how small Knightsen is.
Shit, that seems like a long-ass time ago. I finish my beer and swivel around on the stool to “people watch” in the bar. It’s better to distract myself with anything than let memory lane creep in.
Yeah, damn...it’s empty in here. There are five couples, four singles, two waitresses, and one bartender. Plus me, but I don’t count.
Tuesday night business hasn’t changed much in the eighteen years that I’ve owned the bar. I can’t go drag them in off the streets and make ‘em drink. I’ve tried running specials and still have a few theme nights. It’s okay for a while and brings in some sales, but family life and schedules take over then I have to come up with new ideas. It’s not that I’m opposed to new ideas, but this is a small town. A very fucking small town. They don’t take too kindly to any type of change around here. And besides, this is a football town, and that season doesn’t start for a few more months.
Uh oh. Here comes Bekah walking straight for me. Something is wrong because her face is twisted like she’s pissed off. Bekah is my head server and has been with me since I bought the place. She loves the bar as much as I do. She also knows my troubled past and protects me and this bar like a ferocious mama bear.
“Frank, the bug zapper is broken out back again,” she harps at me. The little lines that etch the corners of her down-turned lips are showing. “The mosquitoes are coming in through the new door when the people enter, and I’m getting eaten up. The customers are back there slapping themselves to kill them. Please fix it?”
“Yes, Bekah. I’m on it,” I inform her, sliding off my seat and following her to the back deck. I’ll do just about anything to not have to look at how empty my bar is. It’s depressing. I guess it’s time to come up with a new promotion to kick-start the summer months. I’ll add that to my to-do list tomorrow.
I take the bug zapper down and walk it out to the shed. It’s like a mini storage unit that I bought at Home Depot. Most people keep their yard supplies in them, but I keep my tools and other shit out here that used to junk up my office. I unscrew the top and the black light pitches forward. Well, there’s the problem. The screw is rolling around in the bottom of the cage. I grab it and screw the light back in place, clean out the bottom tray that’s littered with bug debris, and shit...it’s fixed already. That only took five minutes.
Like every man does, I fiddle around in the shed, fucking with shit and trying to pass some time. But there’s nothing to do out here that needs my attention anymore. I head back inside to re-hang the zapper and stop suddenly when I walk through the deck door. The door slams into my backside and I jump forward an inch. There’s a brunette at the bar, probably mid-to-late thirties, that glances over at me. Her eyelashes sweep slowly down and back up my body. Apparently, my dick likes being evaluated by the opposite sex because it jumps in my pants towards her.
She’s not from around here. She’s got a high-end business suit on, with cream-colored heels. Damn those things must be four inches, at least. She’s sitting at a high-top table, and all I can see of her legs is the one that’s crossed over the other with the one shoe dangling off her toes, but I can smell her. Honeysuckle fills the room. Damn it. Why does it have to be honeysuckle?
I walk past her and inhale deeply. Fuck. Yep, it’s honeysuckle alright. I’m screwed. I hang the bug zapper back up and get the hell out of there as fast as I can. I’d love to sit and people watch her for a while, but I’d surely be opening up those gates to memory lane, and I don’t need that shit right now. Or ever to be honest.
Memory lane sucks. It’s full of potholes, and can suck you in so deep you drown from exhaustion trying to get out of it. It’s just better for me if I never turn onto that road. I’ll take every route around it, if possible. Sometimes you can’t avoid it, but tonight I have a choice and I’m not making that road trip.
My stool slides in and out of it’s perfectly worn grooves on the floor as I sit. I motion Derek away when he tries to hand me another beer. I have a two beer per night limit during the week. I’m getting older and the beer is starting to show on this body. I still jog daily, but even that is requiring more and more effort the more years I pack on. I am not aging well, I fear.
The women used to eye me all the time, especially when they found out who I was. Yes, who I was— not the bar owner, but the race car driver. I used to do the whole circuit when I was young and in my prime, but I haven’t done that shit in a very long time.
I sigh and take a deep breath. Fuck. I smell honeysuckle and look up. There she is standing next to me, waiting for Derek so she can order a drink.
Now I know she’s tall, about my height actually with those heels on. She’s got long, graceful fingers with perfectly manicured nails. Her brown hair has soft golden edges to it, and it’s pulled back in a long french braid that hangs down her back. What I wouldn’t give right now to pull on that band and see just how long her hair is.
“You’d think the owner would change this music to draw a bigger crowd. It’s dead in here,” she turns her head towards me to speak. Does she know I’m the owner, or is she just making general conversation?
“You think a music change would do that for him?” I ask.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she sighs, “but it’d be a damn good start.”
“You don’t like heavy metal music?” I ask. I whistle for Derek to come take her order. He’s got his head up some local woman’s ass, probably looking for a one-nighter knowing him.
“Not particularly,” she says, finally ordering her White Wine Spritzer. “Nor do most people. You’d think he’d want to cater to the general public— play some country and a little bit of Top 40 pop. And maybe spray some kind of aerosol to cut down on the tobacco and spilled alcohol smell that’s seeped into all the wood. It’s a bar; it doesn’t need to smell like a dive.”
“Well, I guess it’s his bar, so it’s his choice on the music and how it’s maintained,” I say shrugging, trying to keep the snarky attitude out of my voice, but damn it’s hard. She was attractive until her attitude tripped and fell out of her mouth.
“I guess,” she replies, heaving out a very loud sigh, “but what a way to run customers off.” She sets her nearly-full glass down on the bar and starts to walk away.
“Maybe your snobby ways don’t work out here in the country. We have our own way of doing things and don’t need suggestions from city-folk,“ I spout off, emphasizing ‘city-folk’ with a country twang, which is no doubt what she thinks of us out here in the valley. “This bar does plenty of business, just not on Tuesdays because it’s a school night, and people have families to attend to.”
Snobby bitch. Who walks into a place and passes judgment over a few songs and an in-grained smell denoting the type of business it is? Alcohol and tobacco go hand-in-hand in a bar. Does she complain about a garage smelling like gas and grease? Or a restaurant smelling like food? She probably does. Snobby city people.
She cocks her high-arched eyebrow at me and lets out what could only be described as a snarl before walking toward the doors.
Good riddance. How dare she thumb her nose at some of the greatest music to ever be recorded. And I own a bar; they smell like alcohol and tobacco, I silently holler at her as the glass doors close.