“Draft?” I ask, earning a nod.
I move to fill the glass and can feel her eyes on me the entire way. Call it a boost to the male ego, but I can’t help and smile a little. Once I pour a perfect beer, I return to where she sits. The woman is looking around the bar, taking in the old décor.
“Kinda slow in here, isn’t it?” she asks, setting a five on the bar and reaching for her drink.
I take the money, go to the register, and return with her change. “Not too bad. This is mostly normal for a weeknight.”
She looks around some more and leans in so no one else can hear her. “You don’t get a lot of women in here?”
I shrug and prop my hands on the bar. “On the weekends, sure. Not as many throughout the weeknights. A few every now and again, small groups having a quick drink after work or whatnot, but really, this is our norm.”
“Huh,” she replies, seemingly surprised by my statement. She reaches for her glass and takes a hearty drink. “Kinda sad, really. This isn’t a bad place. Could definitely use an update, but it has great bones and probably some interesting history,” she adds, looking up at the ceiling, which is covered with a variety of beer décor and customer-signed dollar bills. She points up and laughs.
“I have no idea,” I confess. “I believe it started well before I was born. Chuck, the owner, bought this place about forty years ago, and I guess the story goes, on opening night, patrons were asked to sign their tips and then at the end of the night, Chuck stapled them to the ceiling. Over the years, more have been added, but a lot of those bills go back four decades.”
The beautiful blonde smiles. “I love that story.”
“Yeah, well, hopefully the new owner loves it too,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
“New owner?”
“Apparently, Chuck’s Place will officially have a new owner this Friday. In just four short days, all this history will probably be gone.”
She looks around the bar once more, including up at the ceiling. “You don’t think the new owner would find a way to mix the history with a new style?”
“Probably not,” I confess, turning and propping one elbow on the counter so I can check on the guys down the bar. “Heard it’s an out-of-towner. I can’t see them appreciating what’s here. They’ll end up changing the entire place, from top to bottom, like they did over at The Tall One. About four or five years ago, someone came into town and bought the bar, gave it a complete makeover that caters to the younger crowd, and changed the entire vibe of the place.”
“Enticing more customers isn’t exactly changing the vibe,” she states, focused on our conversation.
“It is when your old clientele doesn’t really go there anymore. They don’t want to deal with the uppity college kids who come to down the twenty-four kinds of draft beers.”
“Twenty-four?” she asks with a surprised chuckle.
“Yep. Can you imagine?”
She looks over at our five-tap system and shakes her head. “I can’t. I mean, maybe a couple more, so you can work in some popular imports or maybe that regional brand I mentioned, but twenty-four is too many.”
I give her my complete attention once more. “You seem to know an awful lot about bars.”
She smiles and glances down. “I grew up in one, but that’s not a bad thing. My dad runs an amazing establishment.” The pride reflecting in her eyes and in her words is evident. “I look up to him a lot.”
“Yeah? That’s cool,” I say, as someone hollers my name behind me. “Be right back.”
I move down the bar and refill Bud’s draft beer and add a hash mark beside his name on the log. I know I should hang down around the guys or at the very least, watch some of the game, but that’s not what happens. My legs carry me right back down to the end of the bar where the beautiful woman sits.
“So, what brings you to town?” I find myself asking.
“Is it that obvious I’m not from here?” she asks with a grin.
“Well, I did grow up here and know just about everyone, so it was a safe assumption.”
“I’m here for business,” she replies after another sip.
“And to watch the Cardinals and have a cold beer?” I ask with a grin.
“Absolutely,” she says, turning her attention to the bar top and running her fingers over the marred wood.
The sound of her voice is like a good country song I can’t help but listen to over and over again—only without the countrytwang. This woman’s from the Midwest, that’s for sure. “So, what kind of business?” I find myself asking, doing anything I can to keep her talking.
