“But Finn, he’s an astronaut.”
“He’s a liar on a first date. It happens.” Finn cocked a brow and pointed to the far end of the bar. “Limes. Now.”
Benji scurried off, and I forced myself to stop eavesdropping and get back to work; but for the next twenty minutes, I kept catching snippets.
The guy had also climbed Everest. Twice. Without oxygen. How one breathed without the stuff was a wonder, but I didn’t stop long enough to hear that explanation.
He’d consulted for three different presidents on economic policy.
He was technically a duke in some small European country, but he didn’t like to talk about it because Americans weren’t allowed to hold titles of nobility and he feared the plebeian masses revolting against him.
When his date excused himself to the bathroom and never came back, nobody at the nearby tables was surprised. The guy sat alone for another ten minutes, checked his phone repeatedly, then closed out his tab with a twenty percent tip and left without making eye contact with anyone.
“Rest in peace, George,” Benji said as the door closed behind him. “He cracked under pressure after all.”
“Ice, ice, baby.”
“Oh, God. I might hurl.” Benji burst out laughing.
“Sorry, careful, ice can get lodged—”
“Stop!” Benji wheezed. Our regular old-timers cackled from their corner where they’d heard the whole thing.
“Fine. I need to get table nine cleaned up anyway. His poor date’s drink is still sitting there, and I need the turn.”
The night rolled on.
More customers, more drinks, more chaos.
Mark ran food until his shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Finn and Benji worked the bar like a two-man army, building cocktails and pulling drafts without pause.
I bussed, refilled, restocked, and repeated until my legs ached and my arms felt like overcooked noodles.
Around eight-thirty, Finn straightened from the beer he was pouring. “Shit, what time is it?”
“Eight-thirty-ish,” I said. “Why?”
“Game starts at nine. I need to switch the TVs.”
Right. The Lightning. Some Western Conference team. I couldn’t remember which. The bar would want to watch, and Finn was fanatical about making sure every screen was synced up before puck drop.
“I got the bar,” Benji said. “Go do your TV wizard thing.”
Finn grabbed the master remote from under theregister and began his ritual circuit of the room, clicking each of the twelve televisions over to the pre-game coverage. The familiar graphics flashed across the screens: highlights, stats, talking heads in suits making predictions.
Aside from the usual tension that built in the crowded room before every puck drop, I barely noticed. I was too busy hauling a fresh rack of glasses from the dish pit, trying to get ahead of the rush that would hit once the game started and everyone wanted another round. The pre-game chatter became background noise. Talking heads discussed line combinations and power play percentages. Highlights from previous games flickered across the screens. I tuned it out, focused on the satisfying rhythm of work: grab, stack, carry, repeat.
The national anthem played. Gays clutched pearls in place of hands over their hearts as they sang along. Then cheers rippled through the bar.
Finally, the familiar sounds of hockey: skates on ice, the crack of sticks, the roar of the crowd.
I was restocking the garnish bins some twenty minutes later when it happened.
“GOAL! And it’s Shaw with the snipe! Skyler Shaw buries it top corner, and the Lightning strike first!”
My hands stopped moving, a lime bleeding ontomy fingers.
