The bar on the corner was the second place I’d applied for a job when I arrived in the city. Dingy-looking, with a long list of cocktails, it had the kind of charm I’d long associated with Brooklyn. The manager, Billy, told me that as long as I could run around quickly, delivering food and drinks, then I’d be fine. I wasn’t required to know the cocktail recipes. The cocktail recipes were for the bartender, Rod, who had a neck tattoo and these glaring eyes that seemed to see right through me. I was terrified of him. But then again, I was terrified of everyone in Brooklyn.

I swept the front floor during the hour before we opened, bringing dead fries out from the corners and into the light for the first time in months. Rod was at his phone constantly, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together. He’d asked me exactly two questions. “How long have you been here?” and, “Where are you from?” When I’d told him my answers, that I’d come in from Michigan only about ten days before, he’d rolled his eyes and returned to his phone. It was clear he didn’t see any reason for knowing me. Not yet.

I was young and quiet, with a heart-shaped face and a small frame. My hair was long, to the small of my back, and my eyes were large and brooding, making many people think I was filled with secrets. When I’d told my family, back in Michigan, that I’d decided to move to New York City, they’d assumed I would fail within the first month. I’d already failed at several things, at just twenty-three years old. I’d failed at college, dropping out after my third semester. I’d failed at relationships, never even having one that lasted long enough for me to sleep with a man. I’d even failed at being a good daughter, as I was running as quickly away from my parents as I could. I was determined to make rent (an insane amount of money). I was determined not to starve (although eating often would probably be a struggle). In essence, I was beginning the cruelest time of my life.

The moment the bar opened, several straggling hipsters entered, ordering drinks from me and using terms I didn’t really understand. What did “straight” mean, with regards to whiskey? What was a Manhattan? I wrote down the orders quickly, then delivered them to Rod, who continued to brood over his phone. He made a few drinks, which I then raced out to the tables. But the orders were piling up, making my anxiety blast through the roof.

All around me, people were asking, “Where’s our drinks? Where’s our nachos? Can we get some more beers over here?”

I began to grow exasperated. Unsure, I leaned over the counter and asked, “Hey, Rod? Are you all right over there? Do we need to call Billy for backup?”

Rod didn’t answer. Red-faced, looking near to screaming, he pushed past me. I was flung against the wall, watching as he raced into the alleyway. He was yelling into his phone, clearly in the midst of some kind of relationship dispute. He’d left me at the bar, with a long list of cocktails, and without an understanding of how any of them were made.

Shit.

The hipsters came at me, then. They raced up to the bar, demanding their drinks, blaring at me. “Don’t you know what you’re doing? Aren’t you the bartender?”

I wasn’t. I didn’t know a single thing. I hadn’t had my first drink until just last year, even, and that had been a wine cooler. Young, wide-eyed, lost—I shook my head madly and told them, “Listen, I don’t know how to make any of these drinks.”

They began to yell again, instructing me. They’d all had “experience” at their own liquor cabinets, and wanted to tell me what to do. Sheepish, I tried to follow their lead, adding bourbon to a shaker and then staring into it, hearing my father’s words echoing in my brain. “You can’t make it out there. You can hardly make it here, Margot.”

Feeling my arms begin to shake, I dropped the bottle of bourbon back on the counter and began to back away, panicked. Sweat went down my forehead in bullets. As they called out to me, I raced into the bathroom, huddling against the corner and wishing myself far, far away. Everything had fallen apart at once. Was it really my fault?

I stared at myself in the mirror, taking it in. A small, meek little person, with frightful, dark eyes. The black dress I’d chosen was slinky, showing a bit more cleavage than I was really comfortable with. Who was I kidding? As I stood there, listening to the sound of my breathing, I heard mass chaos in the next room. A roar of alarm, then of happiness, joy. What were they doing? Perhaps Roy had come back to save the day?

I unlocked the door and crept out, taking stock of the scene. On my side of the bar, a tall, dark-haired man—gorgeous, with thick muscles, strong shoulders, and this wonderful cutting smile with perfect teeth, was making drinks. He’d rolled up his dark button-up, and was doing the motion easily, speaking to the guests and laughing with them. He was a good deal older than me, maybe in his mid-thirites, with gruff five o’ clock shadow that made him very alluring. He slid drink after drink over the bar—things I didn’t recognize but that looked so inviting. The crowd was an in uproar, taking photos of him, absolutely enamored.

Who was this guy?

I approached him from the side, incredulous. I gave him a warm, curious smile. In response, he said, “I hope you don’t mind. There was a backlog, and I used to do this kind of stuff in college. A million years ago.” He winked.

“Honestly, I needed the help,” I said. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

He placed three drinks on a platter and passed it to me, saying, “These go to the table in the far corner. Do you know table numbers? I couldn’t find a map.”

“This is my first day,” I said, my voice small in my own ears. “And nobody told me which table is which.”

“Shit, girl,” he laughed. “This is the biggest mess I’ve seen in ages. And that’s coming from me.”

I tittered, not knowing what he meant. Was this someone I was supposed to know? I frowned at him, incredulous, and then waited, searching for the right words to say in response.

But he covered for me, beginning to shake a martini. “We’ll get through this together.”

He gave me such a sense of promise. After taking a long, deep breath, I grabbed the platter with the drinks and sped toward the far table, delivering drinks. Each time I arrived back to the bar, he’d displayed a number of prepared glasses and bottles, working with speed and agility. The bar was in uproar, absolutely enamored with him. After just a few minutes with him, I had to admit I was falling deep in love—as anyone would, with the man who’d saved her life.

“What would you do without him, eh?” one customer in the corner asked, when I brought him his third round. His eyes were glazed. “What would any of us do? Say, is this some kind of shtick?”

“What do you mean?” I asked him, blinking wildly.

He cackled. “So it is a shtick.”

I didn’t know what he meant. Time was ticking by, my muscles were moving fast and wild and free as I bounded through the restaurant. The stranger at the bar began to tease me, especially as it inched closer to midnight. After a lag in drink orders, he began to teach me how to mix my own drinks—beginning with the martini.

“Hold the shaker like this,” he instructed, pinning my fingers in place. As he touched me, my skin burned with anticipation. I wanted to cling to his fingers, keep him close. I shook the drink and poured it, my arms shaking, knowing he was watching.

“That’s right. Good job. Maybe you’ll be a real bartender someday,” he laughed, not in an unnatural or forced way.

As the night drew to a close, various people at the bar approached us, speaking to the stranger with their hands spread out wide, their eyes large. “Say, my girlfriend just fucking loves you, man. Maybe you could give me some kind of autograph.”

But the stranger shrugged his shoulders, pointing to me. “Aren’t I just the nameless and faceless bartender you see here all the time?”

I nodded, keeping up with this game I didn’t quite understand, didn’t quite care to know. I’d begun to sip a drink he’d made me, a fruity one, and giggling wildly at his jokes. Whoever this man was, I didn’t care. I just wanted him to stick around.

The moment the clock struck two, I slammed the door shut with a huff. As I collapsed against it, I heard the stranger begin to clap behind me. Swirling back, I gave him my broadest grin and curtsey, saying, “If it wasn’t for you, I would be dead right now. Rodney, the real bartender, just disappeared! He’s gone. What the hell…”

The curse felt strange in my mouth. I normally said “heck” or “shoot” or other, family-friendly varieties. I grinned sheepishly at myself, at how silly I felt. Then I waited. The songs changed on the radio, putting us through a horrendous moment of silence.

In the midst of this, he gave me a deep, meaningful look. “I have to ask you a question.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“You really don’t know who I am?”

I stepped forward, scrutinizing the cut of his jaw, his thick, dark eyebrows, his olive skin. With a pang of fear, I said, “I’m so sorry. I realized I never asked for your name.”

With that, he burst out laughing. Immediately, my cheeks turned a crisp red. I knew I was foolish, wrong. I grabbed the broom near the register and said, “Listen, I can clean up from here. Why don’t you take all the tips and go? You did most of the work, anyway.”

But he just snapped his finger, beckoning for me to come toward him. He began to mix two drinks, a margarita and another he called “my personal medicine.” He poured them into two glasses and passed one to me, clinking his glass to mine. I was so unaccustomed to having any attention from men, my heart began to hammer.

“To you. To this bar. And to being nobody to you. What a thing,” he said, his voice quiet and deep.

I sipped the margarita, falling into tipsiness. Swiping the back of my hand against my lips, I found the words. “All right then. If it’s so important that I don’t know who you are—who the hell are you?”

Hell again. I twisted my shoulders slightly, growing uncomfortable. I prayed that he’d leave soon, so that I wouldn’t feel so on display. He was analyzing everything about me, my waist, my breasts, my hair. With a twist, he turned the radio channel, increasing the volume to the ‘80s-centric station and bringing a broad grin across his face. He reached across the bar and gripped my hand, saying, “Come on, baby. Let’s dance.”

And, without knowing who he was, or why I felt I needed to follow his lead, I dropped my drink to the counter and obeyed him. I had the sense that he often got what he wanted. But why on earth would I refuse him?