After Harold returned from his first weeklong trip, he winked at me and pointed his finger. “You caught the bug, didn’t you?” I don’t know what made him think anything different of me after just a week of helping in the shop, but maybe he recognized the exhaustion in my eyes. I hadn’t slept much. I wanted to watch the machines and make sure every single part of the first steps were running precisely the way he wanted. Otherwise, whatever I did during that one week could potentially change the taste of a slew of bottles filled with bourbon that no one would taste for at least a few years. I didn’t want a mistake to follow me around like that. More importantly, I felt enamored watching the production of a mash that would turn into alcohol. It was distracting and allowed me time to forget about my ongoing nightmares from the war. The patterns working through the mash hypnotized me. I could only think about the motion of the machines mixing paddles. There were no triggers in the basement of The Barrel House. It was a safe place to be alone.
Did I catch whatever bug he was talking about? I told Harold I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent watching the machines work their magic. Maybe it wasn’t a common statement to make.
“No one knows it’s a fairly relaxing job, so we have to keep that between us, okay?” he said with a sly smile.
“It’ll be our secret,” I told him.
There were many nights after that week when I wished to be alone in that basement, watching the machines function on a repetitive cycle, never missing a beat as it created a void for me to stare into, forgetting everything else around me. I haven’t found something to offer that sense of comfort since then, really. It sounds odd, and it’s nothing I would share with anyone because I doubt they would understand, but I’m thankful for the time Harold spent teaching me how to make bourbon. I’ve spent the last year reading books on different practices and recipes to achieve particular tastes, for no reason other than intrigue. Now, I’m here, working in this brilliant man’s shop as he dies in a hospital bed. Did he always know I would end up here?
Working here feels more natural than working with Pops at the warehouse.
As I’m sweeping up the floor in the main room that holds the larger machines, I hear a landline ringing from the far corner. It’s Harold’s office, which I tend to stay out of even though he leaves the door open. I know the bills are stacking up, but I don’t want to touch anything without some kind of word from him or Mrs. Quinn. The phone doesn’t give up, making me wonder if he has an answering machine attached to the thing. I place the broom down against the wall and cross the open space to Harold’s office, flipping the light switch on the way in. I take a seat in his old leather rolling chair, feeling the springs plunge through a high-pitch squeal. It looks like the phone is from the eighties. I haven’t seen one of these box phones since I was a kid.
“The Barrel House, how can I help you?” I answer.
It’s a customer asking for hours, but not without a long-winded explanation of why he needs to know, mostly because he heard Harold is sick and assumed there would be a change in the opening and closing schedule. The long minute of chit chat invites my gaze toward the wall in front of me. There are photographs covering every square inch of the open space, from one side of the office to the other. The pictures aren’t in frames or in any particular order, just tacked up on a cork-board. My eyes fall on a picture of Melody from around the time I left for the Marines. She doesn’t look much different now, aged well, I suppose, but I remember her like that as if it was yesterday. Her smile was wide enough to show at least eight teeth on the top and bottom, and her freckles all scrunched together through her obvious happiness. I’d kill to see that smile again. She hasn’t smiled a real smile since I saw her for the first time the other day. I can’t say I blame her, but I can’t fathom what she must be going through.
The customer thanks me for the answer that hasn’t changed since Harold set the times years ago and I realize I’m still holding the phone up to my year, scanning the photos long after the gentleman hung up on the other end. It seems like new pictures stopped coming in a few years ago, seeing the years labeled with a sharpie on the bottom corner of each one. I wonder if she’s smiled a real smile since the photos stopped being hung.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and bring up Melody’s contact information I saved to my phone this morning. A chuckle rumbles through my gut when I find the nickname: The Girl of My Dreams with her number beneath. She won’t see her number pop up in my phone, and there’s no sense in lying to myself about what she meant to me once, and what she obviously still means to me now. The words are beyond cheesy as I stare at them, but finally having her number in my phone feels like an achievement in this journey we’ve been making our way through.
I wasn’t expecting to hear from her anytime soon, especially this morning or even this afternoon, but I’ve done nothing but wonder if she and the rest of them are okay.
Me:Hang in there.
The second I hit send and re-read what I typed; I picture the poster of a cat hanging from a wall by its paws. I couldn’t have said anything more thoughtless, really. I used to have game, way back when. I’ve since lost it all. If I were her, I might not respond. In fact, I place my phone back into my pocket just as it buzzes.
She replied.
The Girl of My Dreams:Brett?
Maybe placing a nickname in her phone for myself too wasn’t the right move, but I thought it might make her laugh when she saw it pop up. I don’t know what she’s thinking at the moment, but she isn’t confused by who: “Your Teenage Crush,” is. It’s good to know there is only one of us.
Me:You’ve now confirmed my age-long question. :)
Again, maybe not the time for jokes. Most likely, definitely not the time for even a hint of a joke.
The Girl of My Dreams:Are you always this cocky?
I can’t say a woman has ever called me cocky. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not because maybe I’m too nice and too much of a “girl-dad,” and it’s the actual reason I’ve been single for so long, but as much as I’d like to play the role of a cocky guy—former Marine, I can’t pull off the attitude unless I’m pissed about something.
Me:Nah, just trying to distract you.
Staring at my phone and waiting on a response for a long several minutes does nothing but reassure myself of how big of an idiot I am to be sending her pointless messages when she’s sitting by her father’s deathbed.
I suppose she didn’t need a distraction.
The afternoon crawls by almost as slow as the morning had, but the boredom falls upon the empty storefront I’m manning with no one else here to run the floor. Machines don’t bore me but staring at a clock after completing all the daily tasks here, it isn’t my idea of a good time.
The buzz of my phone pulls me out of my trance, and for a second I have hope that Melody has chosen to respond to my text from earlier, but it’s Mom instead.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hi, sweetie. How’s the shop?”
“Everything is fine here. I’ve got it all under control.”
“Harold appreciates what you’re doing. I hope you know that,” Mom says.
