I walk in the bar on a Friday morning after my run with Floyd along the riverside. We don’t open until noon, but I have orders to place for next week.
I start up the coffee pot in the kitchen then walk out behind the bar. The place looks like hell. It better have been a busy fucking night.
The weekday barmaid Lola is getting lazy. I swear to fuck, she spends more time applying that glossy shit to her lips than she does doing the job she is paid for.
Work ethic is sorely lacking nowadays. Everyone wants something for fucking free. What happened to hard work, perseverance, dedication, and determination?
I watched my momma bust her ass for years. Even though I heard a million damn times, “This is my bar,” come out of my old man’s mouth, it was Momma who held those qualities—the ones it takes to run a business—not him.
Sighing, I wipe the sticky mess from last night off the nicked up, old, oak bar. One of the four sinks under the bar hasn’t drained completely, so I reach down, pull out the lime wedges, and throw them in the trash that wasn’t taken out. The coolers aren’t stocked, the fruit trays are sitting in the melted ice under the soda tap, and I am ready to fucking explode.
When I walk around the bar and look down, I find the fucking floor isn’t swept or mopped, and there are full ashtrays on the pub tables. What’s more, I have more than an hour’s worth of paperwork and orders to place before I can even start the damn clean up. Orders that have to be placed, or I won’t get a delivery on Monday when the bar is closed, and I will be fucked.
I decide the priority lies on getting the order in, so I head back behind the bar and walk up the steps between the kitchen and the back of the bar to my office.
I walk in, and there is old Lola, bare-assed, laying across my old man’s waist.
“Get the fuck up,” I yell.
She startles and jumps. “Oh, God. Oh, Hendrix—”
“Get the fuck out of my office. You, too, old man.”
“You watch your tone with me, boy.” He glowers at me as he sits up.
“I ain’t gotta watch shit, old man. What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck are you doing with my employee?”
“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing here, son,” he slurs as he stands.
“Get your pathetic ass out of here.” I point to the door. “Lola, I’m sorry about this—”
“We love each other,” she says and starts crying.
“Is that so?” I force a laugh and shake my head as I look at my pop’s pitiful ass as he buttons up.
“Yes,” she answers and grabs his hand when it is free. “We’ve been in love for a year.”
I look at him, waiting for him to deny this ‘love.’ Hell, as long as I have been alive, I have never heard him say that word to Mom or any of us. The denial never comes, though.
“A year? So Mom was still alive?”
Still no answer, and at that moment, charity ceases to exist.
“Get your shit out of the apartment. And, Lola, you’re fired. You may wanna get yourself checked, too, old girl. His dick is a weapon.”
“How dare you? You can’t do that!” he yells at me.
“It’s done. Now get out.” I don’t yell, don’t fight. This is actually fucking perfect.
He had been under the protection of my mother for all my life and stayed that way through grief’s numbing after effects over the last year.
The first step in the grieving process is denial and isolation. My brothers and I hit denial from word terminal, but with only a two month warning of expiration, there wasn’t time to go hiding out. The next step in the grieving process is anger. I have been stuck on that one for a while now. There are even stages to this particular stage. I get pissed, and then I am numb. Then, before I know it, I’m right back to being pissed again.
Lola is wiping the smudged mascara off her face. I can hear my dad mutter to her, “Guess we were meant to be, you and me.” He puts his hand on her ass as he looks over his shoulder at me, giving me his glare. It is the same glare that once made my mother and us boys cower, but now holds no weight over me.
“It’ll last as long as she stays your meal ticket,” I respond back as Lola shakes her head and they keep walking around, gathering their things.
I head down to get back to work. He has no more control over this family any longer.
“Lost another one?” Jagger strolls in and laughs. His assumption is based off the obvious fucking mess of the bar he is looking around at.
“Maybe,” I answer noncommittally.
“Seriously, bro, you need to learn to play nice with others.”
“Look, unless you’re here to take on another night—step it up a bit—I don’t wanna hear shit.”
“I liked Lola,” he says as he sits down on the other side of the bar.
I hold my finger in front of my mouth, keeping him quiet, and point up. “You hear heels clicking up the wooden stairs into the apartment?”
When he looks at me like he has no clue, I raise my eyebrow and shake my head.