DeeDee twists on the stool to face the general direction of the bar and lifts her hand in a salute. “Adieu, little friend.”
“Please tell me you never actually called her that to her face.”
She shrugs. “That’s what I call everyone you ask me to train, and I get them to call me Mamma DeeDee.”
“I really hope you’re joking.”
She inspects her nails in response.
I love this girl all the way from her weirdly round toes to the sprinkle of freckles that dusts her nose—yeah, I’m a poet, and I know it—but sometimes being her boss feels like wrangling a wild steer.
“I’m heading out now,Mamma DeeDee,” I inform her. “I sent Kayla home already, so against my better judgement, it’s just you and Zach on close tonight.”
She perks up like a puppy who just got called over for a cuddle. “But Zachy Zach loves me!”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
She makes a face. “Don’t be gross, Monroe. He doesn’t like me likethat.”
I don’t know if she actually believes that’s true or if she’s just being wilfully blind, but the heart of our sweet and adorably gallant server Zachary has clearly been resting in DeeDee’s hands since sometime within the first five minutes he met her. The problem is that he issonot her type. He’d be way better for her than the usual asshats with attitude problems she dates, but she shuts the conversation down every time I bring it up. Watching him hopelessly pine after her is a little bit cute, a little bit sad, and a little bit bad for overall employee relations.
“Just...be gentle with him,” I instruct, “and unless we get some miracle rush, close the place at ten.”
“Ten?” DeeDee repeats. “Voyons, là!I’m not making any money these days.”
“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, no one else is either. I’ve had to cut everyone’s hours down. I’m hardly billing any of my own hours just to avoid firing anyone else.”
She reaches over to place a hand on my arm and squeezes. “Hey,ma belle, ?a va. We’re gonna make a comeback, okay? It’s always dead at this time of year,mais l’été s’en vient.”
Summer is on the way.
That’s the same promise I’ve been holding onto, repeating it like a mantra every time another load of snowfall keeps our customers tucked up at home or huddled in bars with better locations. Even in the high season, it takes something special to lure the students all the way up here past Mont-Royal Station, and usually wearesomething special: cheap appetizers in the evening, cheap drinks all night long, good DJs with good music, and a party that doesn’t quit until the lights come on.
It’s not the kind of barIwent to as a student—I was more the ‘dusty Irish pub where I can work on my literature assignments’ sort of girl—but this place is weirdly infectious. We’re a staple of student life, a rite of passage before graduation. We’re supposed to be one of those bars you justhaveto try.
“It’s never been dead like this,” I admit to DeeDee. “I keep checking the books, and we’re way behind on any other year. The owner is on my ass to pull my shit together, or else—”
“The owner can eat a bag of dicks,” DeeDee interrupts. “You’re the best boss ever, and I will get all up in his uglyyeuleand tell him to shut it.”
“Well thank you for that assessment, DeeDee. I appreciate it.”
I squeeze her hand where it’s still gripping my arm and then reach for my purse on the floor. DeeDee gets up, and we kiss each other on both cheeks before she heads off to dump her stuff in the back and get ready for her shift.
When it’s busy, I use the staff entrance to leave, but it’s a lot more convenient to go through the main doors out onto Avenue Mont-Royal. I pause in front of the brass taps behind the perpetually sticky wooden bar top and stare out at the familiar view of my kingdom: Taverne Toulouse.
This place has gone through several looks since it opened in 2001, and the decorations have all been layered on top of one another throughout the years. The original dark leather man cave atmosphere is still detectable under the hipster-era additions of vintage chandeliers, quirky table lamps, and repurposed piping now used as shelving units. An entire wall devoted to graffiti and signatures bears testimony to the thousands of liquor-seeking souls who have wandered in here throughout the ages. There are a lot of penises scribbled on that wall, but there are also some genuinely thought-provoking works of artistry done in hasty sharpie strokes under the glow of the bar’s dim lights. I’ve lose track of time getting swept up in those cryptic messages of love and longing more times than I can count.
A few of our infamous posters grace the other walls, advertising deals on shots and pitchers with slogans like ‘What have you gotToulouse?’ and ‘You needToulouse-en up.’ We have a small stage tucked away in a corner next to a DJ booth that faces a makeshift dance floor lined with mismatched leather couches. The latest addition to the decor is a neon sign all the staff pitched in on to get me for Christmas. It’s hung over the door to the toilets and spells out, ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.’
My employees like to make fun of the way I can storm in and singlehandedly throw a pack of inebriated frat boys out but still always manage to say please and thank you to even the most problematic of customers.
“Hey, boss. How’s it going?”
Zach comes out from the back with a load of freshly washed plastic pitchers in his arms and starts arranging them on a shelf underneath the bar. Honestly, I don’t know why DeeDee won’t give him a shot. It’s not like he isn’t handsome. He’s got this scruffy beard with sun-streaked dirty blond hair thing going on that makes him seem like some sort of wholesome farmer boy who could take you for a memorable romp in the hay.
Objectively speaking, of course. I’m smart enough not to hire men I have any kind of sexual tension with myself.
“It’s...going. Thanks for asking, Zach. How are you?”
