1
Reid
Iwas born angry.
My mom used to say that I’d scream and scream as a baby, wailing into the dark hours of the night and to the sunrise in the morning.
Maybe that’s why she started drinking again. She’d stopped when she was pregnant with me — the one good thing she ever did in her life. But my earliest memories are of her stuffing bottles beneath my car seat and waiting in the hot car while she went into the liquor store after school.
By the time I was in elementary school, bitterness coated me like a second skin while other kids were bright eyed and excited about every new toy that graced the classrooms.
And when I was a few days shy of turning fourteen and got pulled over while trying to drive my incoherent mom home from school after she showed up drunk in the pick-up lane, I hated the world and every single person inhabiting it.
Soon, three people became the exception to that when I transferred schools due to the foster family I was placed with in Pittsburgh, leaving behind my history in Philly. Three guys who became a family that I never had. A support system, a safe place to land, and a sense of brotherhood that ran deeper than blood ever could.
Or so I thought.
That’s all fucked now, too.
Maybe it’s part of the reason why it’s not even 5:00 pm yet and I’m finding myself walking down the street from my boxing gym to the bar I drive by every day. The street is quiet and the air thick with summer heat as the shirt I threw on after a quick shower clings to my back. Water drops dampen the collar of it from my hair, and I push it off my forehead.
This area is off the beaten path a bit and exactly how I like it. There’s not much foot traffic through this area, and anyone who is around is minding their own business, not chasing some sort of spotlight that everyone else in this city seems to be.
I shouldn’t judge because that used to be me, but like everything else in life, the shine of it has dulled over the years. As I approach the bar, I debate turning around and heading home just from the dingy, crooked letters above the door that read On Tap. The empty businesses on either side of it don’t aid in its curb appeal. But the neon sign in the window says “Open” and today, that’s all I need.
As I swing the door open and step inside, the blinding light is no respite from the blaring sun at all. It’s a shock to the system when I expected dive-bar dimness. I blink a few times, shoving down a wave of agitation that my workout should’ve suppressed.
It’s an odd looking place. I hover in the entry for asecond, debating on leaving. Not a single chair in the place matches, not even ones that are at the same table. And there are a few of them scattered around. Some high tops, some barely far enough off the floor to constitute being a table.
The walls are a hideous tan color that could really use less harsh lighting on them as they’re riddled with empty nail holes and chips in the paint. Random photos, art pieces, and vintage signs are hung haphazardly around, but even more heavily concentrated around a small stage toward the back of the place.
Must have live music here.
Great.
At least the bar is quiet. Only one middle-aged man sits at the far end, while a few couples are scattered amongst the mess of tables. It takes the lone bartender a moment to notice me, but when she does, she does a double take.
Here we fucking go.
I steel my shoulders and stride over to the bar, not sparing anyone else in the place a glance. Granted, there’s not many patrons to begin with, but still. If you don’t make eye contact, people are less likely to ask for a picture.
She’s young, too young it seems to be bartending. Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s due to her reaction to me or natural. Either way, it does nothing to hide the freckles covering both her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. A few trail up her forehead and into the hairline of her ponytail, the long reddish hair spilling over her shoulder in loose curls.
Something about the hue of it feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t pinpoint it.
Her full lips form a perfect O as I slide onto one of the barstools. The upholstery is ripping and poorly stitchedback up, but it somehow fits in with the rest of the look of this place. She snaps to attention, her spine so straight she might as well have a pole attached to it as she places her hands flat against the grimy counter she appears to have been trying, and failing, to clean with a dark rag. They tremor a bit against the surface, as if she’s seen a ghost, and regret bubbles in my stomach.
I should’ve made a drink at home.
Or skipped one altogether.
I try not to drink when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or angry. Don’t want it to become a crutch like the woman I hated for so many years.
But these days, I’m usually a mix of all three.
The girl doesn’t speak, instead her mouth opens and closes faintly like a cartoon goldfish. It’s not an unusual reaction and not the first time this has happened to me. That’s what happens when you’re in one of the most successful bands of this generation with songs constantly on Top 100 radio.
Were.
