“Same shit, different day,” I mutter to myself, swiping a bar towel across the sticky counter, still tacky from the happy hour rush. Soon it will be the dinner rush and the open mic night rush.
I sigh, dreading the evening ahead of me. There was a time when I loved this job. Being a bartender means you get to talk to people, hear their stories, sometimes be their therapist. The same people come back to me, again and again, and I have come to look forward to my regulars. Except for today. Today, I am drained. I’m tired of it. Life is monotonous and boring. I am forty-one years old, single, living in an apartment above a storefront, and managing a bar. I used to think I was going places and now the only place I’m going to is the kitchen walk-in for more maraschino cherries.
“Mel, earth to Mel.” My boss and friend Andrew is waving his hand in front of my face. “You good here? Chelsea has a track meet, and I missed the last one.”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath and give him a tight smile. “I’m good. Wish her luck for me.”
“Open mic night. Should be a good one.” Andrew arches his eyebrows.
“My favorite,” I say sarcastically.
I’ve been working at The Ugly Mug for longer than I care to admit. After high school, my life went a little off track. I thought I’d work here for a couple of months and then figure out my future. Maybe even go to college. But months turned into years. Waitressing turned into bartending, which turned into managing.
Andrew treats me well and quite frankly, I don’t know what else Iwoulddo. I don’t know what another life looks like for me. But Iamsick of it. I just don’t have the courage to find out—to pick up and try something or somewhere new.
“Why don’t you sing a little tonight?” Andrew gestures to my guitar case, leaning against the stage area. “You bring that thing with you everywhere, but you never sing.”
I shake my head. “It’s always a full night,” I say, not meeting his assessing gaze. “The bar is always packed, and the list of performers is always too long to squeeze me in.”
“Then put your name on there now,” Andrew urges, handing me the sign-up clipboard.
I let my gaze linger on the empty spaces, mulling it over for a moment before shoving the clipboard back at him. “Don’t you have a track meet to go to?” I roll my eyes.
Andrew laughs softly, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay.” Then softer, “I’m just worried about you, Melanie. You seem…sad.”
The truth is, he’s not wrong. Up until a year ago, some of my friends were still single so I had people to do things with. I had plans every weekend. It didn’t feel like I was on my own. Gradually though, everyone started to pair off, each finding their person.
I wanted to find mine too. I tried fix ups and dating apps. And it’s always the same—awkward small talk that fizzles out, or someone who’s only looking for a hookup. After a while, it just didn’t seem worth it to keep swiping. I’ll admit, I’m lonely. When I come to work or on the rare occasion go out with friends, I put on a happy face. But continually going home to an empty apartment wears on a person.
I turn away from Andrew and tap the computer screen, distracting myself from uncomfortable emotions. “Well, I’mnot,” I retort.
Andrew is about ten years older than I am, but he’s known me a long time. He knows when I’m not okay.
“Okay, I’ll leave it alone.” He starts for the door but turns back. “Mel? I’m always here, you know.”
I soften at this and offer him a tight smile. “I know.”
“Have a good night,” he says. Then he’s gone.
A Friday night in the beginning of June picks up fast. The dining room and outdoor seating are packed and on a wait. I’m tending bar faster than I have in weeks. Our open-mic night attracts bands and singers from all over the area since there aren’t too many places offering this opportunity. Every performer gets a twenty-minute time slot, serving as the perfect background noise for a busy shift.
When things get underway, I am finally able to get out of my own head. There’s no time for anything else when there are customers to be served and lines out the door. Finally, around nine thirty, things calm down enough that I can take a break.
“I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to see who can be cut,” I tell Kasey, the twenty-something girl tending bar with me tonight.
“Sounds good.” Her eyes light up.
I know she’s hoping to get cut early because she wouldn’t shut up about going to Atlantic City with her friends after this. My body aches just thinking about going to a club after working a bartending shift.Oh, to be young again.
“Start rolling some silverware,” I say, gesturing to the quiet corner of the bar. “I’ll try to get you out of here.”
“Thanks, Mel,” Kasey chirps.
I push through the double doors to the kitchen and duck straight into the closet-sized office. The spinny chair creaks as I drop into it, and I kick the door shut behind me.Finally, some silence.Just me, the hum of the ancient mini fridge, and the stack of shift schedules I don’t want to look at. I check my phone like someone might’ve called me in the last couple of hours. Spoiler: nope. No texts, no missed calls, no nothing. Most of my friends are posting pictures of their kids’ soccer games or anniversary dinners. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in a bar office that smells like fryer oil, muttering to myself.
“A fucking lonely loner,” I say out loud, because apparently, I’m also my own best company. “How did I get here?”
Once upon a time, I thought I’d be somewhere else entirely. A singer-songwriter under the neon lights of Broadway in Nashville, playing sets until someone offered me a record deal. I had notebooks full of lyrics, the guitar, the voice people said could take me places. Instead, I’m here—scrubbing spilled beer off sticky counters and cutting servers early like it matters. The worst part is, I don’t even know when I stopped believing Nashville was still a possibility. I still carry my guitar everywhere, but now I only play music for myself. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, a stark reminder of life passing me by.
