1. LAST CALL
ROSIE
Just after midnight, The Tin Tankard’s coffee machine gives a death rattle and dies on me.
Because, of course, it does.
I’ve had a hellish week, so why wouldn’t the one appliance helping me through the Thursday night shift decide it’s had enough of this life? I can’t even be too mad at the machine, because I relate.
“Come on,” I mutter, slapping the side of the machine like that will resurrect it. The orange power light flickers once and then goes dark for good. Exhaling a long sigh and pour myself a Pepsi instead. It’s mostly diet, but I need a squirt of regular for the taste and for the sugar. The cold beverage doesn’t have as good a jolt as coffee, so I need to keep moving to not fall asleep standing up. I spray and wipe the bar top repeatedly, pretending that cleaning sticky surfaces is a temporary way of making my living.
Pretending that one day I’ll have an actual career, not just an hourly job that pays so little I depend on tips to pay my bills. I look around to see if any of the lingering patrons need anything,but the place is in that lull that happens right before the last call. The music is low because nobody wants to put money in the jukebox, and they’re too tired, or too buzzed, to dance.
The Tin Tankard tries hard to make its patrons believe it’s a classic British pub. The lighting is intentionally dim, but instead of providing a warm amber glow, the LEDs turn skin tones ashen, making everyone look old and tired.
The floors are “distressed wood,” which would be charming if they weren’t so symmetrical. Every plank seems to have the exact same scuff marks, and when you walk on them, there’s no authentic creak, just a hollow, laminate thud.
The centerpiece is the mounted stag’s head above the fake fireplace that’s never been lit. The antlers are slightly uneven, one side just a little too long, giving the taxidermy a subtly off-kilter look, like the large deer is judging the place for not quite pulling it off.
Despite this depressing décor, people still show up every night the Tankard is open, and there are always a few lingering customers who won’t leave until they’re kicked out at closing time. Tonight’s candidates include a couple making out aggressively in a corner booth, and three guys in flannel arguing about basketball like they’re on ESPN.
It’s too early to count my tips, but my brain automatically does the math of what I need to pay this month.
Rent. Electric. And of course, Dad.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket again. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
It’s always Dad.
I finish wiping down the bar before I check. There’s a dried ring of something sticky I have to scrub at and the muscles in my forearm burn. When it’s finally gone, I toss the rag in the laundry bin, wash my hands, and only then pull my phone out.
Three missed calls and five texts.
Dad: Rosie, call me.
Dad: Just a minor problem, nothing you need to worry about.
Dad: Where are you?
Dad: I need to talk to you tonight.
Dad: Rosie, ANSWER.
My stomach tightens into a knot as I picture his face, flushed and shiny, the way it gets when he’s been drinking and trying too hard to sound sober. And then I picture the stack of unopened envelopes that live on his coffee table, the ones covered in stamped red letters. And finally, I picture the last time he said “small problem” and how it turned into me emptying my savings account so he could keep his apartment and pay his power bill.
I lock the screen without replying.
If it were an emergency, he’d call the police. Or an ambulance. He calls me when he wants money.
“Everything okay?” Louise, one of the servers working tonight, leans over from the other side of the bar. She’s a couple of years older than my twenty-two, and tonight she wears her glossy dark hair up in a messy bun. Her smudged eyeliner frames intelligent brown eyes.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just my dad.”
She rolls her eyes in sympathy. “Still playing the ‘poor me’ violin?”
“Something like that.” Louise knows some of the issues I have with Dad. I had to tell people at work something that explains why he calls and texts me so often.
She pats my arm. “It was busy tonight, so we probably did okay in tips.”
