It’s Eamon actually: It’s a boxing club. I own a few different businesses around the city.
Cindel: Any I would know?
It’s Eamon actually: I guarantee it.
A winky emoji was added.
“Cindel!”
My name rings out more clearly on my left side.
“Can you help by chopping the limes? I need to go grab a lager to stock the mini fridge before we open.” Brittany is a hard worker and is kind of amazing at delegating tasks.
Slipping the phone into my back pocket, I head to the small chopping board to take over garnish duty.
Jada was by the front, spraying and wiping away last week’s drink specials on the A-Frame sign.
I scanned the room, anticipating Cassie taking inventory with a clipboard or high up on a ladder changing a lightbulb, but instead she was sitting. I’ve been here almost six months and not once have I seen that woman sit. Even on her smoke breaks, she stands in the back alley. Literally, her motto is: “If there’s time to lean. There’s time to clean.”
I walk over as she starts to cough uncontrollably. She curls into herself, attempting to cover her cough. It looks like she’s truly unwell.
“Cassie… can I get you anything? Water perhaps?”
Unable to speak between fits of coughs, she just manages to shake her headno.
“Would you like to go outside and get some air?”
She shakes her head vigorously again, unwilling to accept any help I offer. My manager is a chain-smoker, but I’ve never witnessed her struggle like this.
Connor, the barback, appears at our side a moment later. He snakes an arm around her back, helping her to stand.
“I’m going to drive her to her house. She needs a breathing treatment,” he states, as if it’s no big deal.
Cassie continues coughing, appearing even more pale than before.
“Can I do anything to help?”
He shakes his closely shaven head. “Naw… I should be back in about an hour or so. I called in help with coverage tonight.”
Looking between Jada and Brittany, we all look slightly stunned. We open in minutes with just the three of us.
After they leave, we pick up the bar menus from the tables. We collectively agree that we weren’t going to serve tables tonight. If they want to order, they will need to come to one of us at the bar. Luckily, it is the middle of the week. That fact alone could make this undermanned shift doable.
The hour goes by and still no Connor. Jada and I stay behind the bar while Brittany runs the room, cleaning up discarded drinks and spills.
By ten o’clock we accept that it is just us for the rest of the shift. The reasonable flow of weeknight customers becomes increasingly busier by the hour.
Did a bus let off a bunch of people in front of The Black Sheep? What is going on?
We are having trouble keeping up with collecting and sanitizing the glasses before a new drink gets ordered.
Brittany, being the superstar she is, runs the dishwasher in the back.
Jada and I improvise, using martini glasses to serve drinks that have no business in that glassware. It is so busy, I’m amazed when I notice two familiar faces at the end of the bar. One chews the usual toothpick, while the other just looks offended to be here.
“What can I get you?”
Adjusting the toothpick to the corner of his mouth, the chatty brute answers, “Two Guinness, doll.”
