Shelter in Place by Alexander Maksik Page A

place in White Pine. A senior from the college, let’s say. So us three back there pouring Olympia and well drinks. The bottom-lit bottles behind us are mostly decoration. The occasional Cuervo shot, the occasional kid trying to impress her friends by ordering Frangelico on ice or some other bullshit.
    Lester’s is prison guards. The Owl is college kids. Two separate parts of town. Lester’s up on the ridge. The Owl down by the beach. Both with sawdust on the floor. In this part of the world, you want a bar without sawdust on the floor? Go to Seattle.
    This particular Saturday The Owl is jammed. They’ve got a band setup on the stage in the corner. Let’s say they’re playing Nirvana covers. Temple of the Dog. That kind of thing. Kids from the college doing their best Kurt Cobain. Matt and I, we’ve got a solid rhythm going. I’m a good bartender when I’m on and I’m on tonight. Everything makes sense. Everything logical. Here we are now, entertain us. Every now and then we’ve got to pack down the tip jar. Put a fist into all those ones and punch. Flying along. The place is jammed until close and when it’s time, no one wants to go, but no one’s an asshole.
    The prison guard working the door is named Seymour Strout. Hand to God that’s his name. Rock solid from the sternum up. Sternum down? Belly like you wouldn’t believe. Seymour fucking Strout. He matters to me, to all of us, but for now, let’s say Matt and I drink a few bourbons while we’re scrubbing the bar down. And not the well junk either. The barback, too while he’s doing inventory. Craig. The three waitresses are at a table doing the same, counting their tips.
    Let’s figure Matt’s mixed them something special. He’s working one of them. Julie? Cathy? Kerry? The girls there all had that long
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at the end of their names. And at the end of every night what bartender wasn’t mixing something special for some waitress somewhere? Maybe just the sad fuck whose mother is a murderer, the mopey kid who’s lost the love of his life. So let’s say Matt is working on Kerry and she and her friends are counting tips and drinking whatever it is out of rocks glasses at a sticky table over by the empty stage.
    It’s that end-of-shift feeling. Camaraderie and fatigue and fading adrenaline. Alcohol burn. All the noise sucked out of the room. Ushered out, really, by Seymour and his big belly. Maybe someone’s got Paul Simon on the jukebox, because by the end of the night nobody wants to hear another moaning Seattle band. Let’s say it’s “The Obvious Child.” Another song my mother loved. See her singing loudly, badly, fingers drumming the wheel. So it feels good.
I am remembering a girl when I was young. And we said these songs are true, these days are ours, these tears are free.
And it is one of those nights where I stuff two hundred bucks into my pocket, the paperwork all adds up, and I look around and smile at the new waitress with the red hair and think it’s okay, it’s all fine, this new life.
And some people say the sky is just the sky, but I say why deny the obvious child?
    So I take my drawer to the manager’s office upstairs. Another name I can’t remember. She’s smart and fair and tough and keeps her distance and doesn’t behave like she’s the CEO of some multinational corporation the way a lot of them do. She doesn’t sigh when your drawer is off ninety-seven cents as if you’ve just betrayed the fucking nation. Maybe we chat about something or other, because we like each other, but it’s late and we’re both tired and a little drunk, so have a good night and see you tomorrow and go easy on whatever it is you’re drinking.
    Then I’m coming down the stairs, not happy, but fine. I’m okay. I’m surviving. I’m alive. It’s enough of a good night, enough goodness to smooth over the