“So,”he began, placing a big, frothy drink in front of me, “one of the mostimportant things I learned in the Army was self-discipline. And after I leftand turned to booze to numb everything, I used that discipline to make thechoice to ignore what I had learned. Eventually, after a whole lot of therapyand rehab, I managed to take control again.”
“No,I get that, but why a bar? You could’ve done anything.”
Heconsidered the question with a cock of his head, then shrugged a few secondslater. “‘CauseI’m good at it, I guess. I neverreally had any talents, youknow?I think I told youthat a while ago. But I’m a people person. I like socializing and making othershappy. And I’ve always beenpretty giftedwhen itcomes to pouring drinks. I just keep in mind that I’m doing this for otherpeople; it’s not for me, other than to pay the bills.”
Ihummed contemplatively as I sipped my drink. The sting of alcohol bit at mytongue and warmed my throat as I swallowed with the anticipation of heatfilling my belly.
“Iwrite for myself,” I said, thinking out loud. “It’s my escape from reality. Ijust happen to make money doing it.”
“Youmake money byreleasingwhat you write. That’s what you do for otherpeople. You make them happy by putting your work out into the world,” hecorrected. “But youwritefor yourself.”
“Well,then couldn’t you sort of say the same for yourself?”
“Howdo you figure?”
Ipointed to him and said, “You said you like to socialize and make people happy,and that’s why you decided to open up a bar.”
“Andbecause I’m amazing at mixing drinks.”
“Okay.So, you mix the drinks for other people, yeah, but all of this,” I spread myarms out, addressing the bar and its patrons, “is ultimately for you. This iswhat makes you happy.”
Witha rag in hand, he polished a glass and stared at me, wearing a lopsided grinand a set of hooded eyes. The look made me shift on my barstool, as somethingold and familiar brewed deep in my belly and heart, and I dropped my gaze tothe drink in front of me.
“What?”I asked, gigglingnervouslyand wrapping my handaround the stem of the glass.
“Youmake me happy.”
Mycheeks flushed and my smile grew wider. “Iampretty great, huh?”
“Thebest.”
“Well,I guess that makes us even,” I replied. “‘Causeyou’re pretty great yourself, and I guess you make me happy, too.”
“Youonly guess, huh? I’mgonnahave to work on that.”
Thebar was then filled with another raucous round of “Sweet Home Alabama” andGoose threw his head back, groaning loudly. I could only giggle, my lipspressed to the edge of my glass.
“Ireally hate this fucking song,” he muttered to the ceiling.
Then,in an attempt tochange the subject, I asked, “Do youhate thatIdrink?”
Lookingback at me, he replied, “Why would you think that?”
“Well,I just wasn’t sure if it made it harder for you to hold onto your control,” Isaid, shrugging.
Heshook his head. “If it bothered me, you’d know about it.”
“You’resure?”
Hesmiled. “Communication is one ofmystrong points,” he said, and I knewimmediately that it was a gentle jab at a particular person I hadn’t seen inweeks. “But thank you for asking.”
***
“How’smy favorite grandson?”
Isnorted as I headed up the stairs to my apartment. “Oh, I guess you don’t careabout me anymore.”
Momuttered a small, careless sound. “I’ve had thirty-five years to hear about howyou’re doing. It’s Alex’s turn.”
