well, well

  Nick is standing behind the bar and laughing at me as I walk in. "Why -" I set my stuff down " - do you look like the cat that at the canary?" I love this saying because it sounds deranged coming out of the mouth of someone who isn't collecting social security. "Rough night last night?" Nick is always on the verge of laughter. He looks like a kid tasting ice cream for the first time. It'd be cute, except his delight is a derivative of my pain. "Unbelievable," I say rubbing my eyes. Then I add a warning. "Don't start with me." He just chuckles because he knows I don't mean it. He's one of the few people that "gets it" here in LA. I'm going to grouse for a few minutes but I'm just playing it up for my own amusement. Besides, it's me and Nick working together - hungover or not, I’ll have a good shift.

  I begin my opening side work: setting up chairs, getting condiments, filling pitchers of water. If I just keep busy the nausea won't catch up with me. Walter, our general manager, comes down from the office to fuss with angle of the bar stools. He is "helping" in the way only a type-a diva can. I once asked him to help me run food and he gave me a convuluted answer that translated to: I don't know the table numbers. I stopped taking him seriously after that. I bite my lip and catch Nick's eye. Walter gives us little ministrations to show us who's in charge ("Can you clean the tables clean outside?" "Like I do every shift?") and then realizes he isn't needed. He retreats, but at the last second he calls out to Nick. "Do you have a minute? Can we talk about something?" I give him a look of exaggerated shock and mouth, "You're in trouble." He is forced to fight the urge to smile (victory!) and he follows Walter up the stairs. I'm left to lay out the bar mats and cut fruit alone. 

  Day shifts start slow so it doesn't matter that Nick is MIA but I'm dying to tell someone about my night. When the door finally opens, I catch a little of their conversation. Nick walks over to the bar. I throw him a furious look. "I had to open by myself because you guys were talking about football?" I throw a lime at him. We switch places. He resumes his position behind the bar, I lean an elbow on the service well like an industry veteran. Having the bar between us compells me to spill all my secrets. There's a sense of bartender/client confidentiality even though I'm not (technically) a patron. I also just don't feel judged by Nick. If I list him reasons why I'm a piece of shit, he just gives me his own reasons why he is as well. Then we compare notes. It's a refreshing change from all the people who try to "fix" me or act like I’m unhinged. I don't want to pretend like I don't fuck up and Nick doesn't make me. He listens. "So I end up downtown, but I'm surrounded by all these lame-ass clout chasers. At that point, I should've gone home. But one of my dealers was there and he gave me free ecstasy right at the same time my friend texted me about a warehouse party and it was like -" I mime an explosion with my hands "- the stars just aligned for me to make stupid decisions." He grins and shakes his head. "And now you're here." "And now I'm here. Can I have a shot of Fernet?" 

  It begins to pick up. I seat tables, move chairs around, bring drinks out, carry food. I enter into a state of flow. Blue moon, grey goose and soda, two limes, side of ranch, print reciept, three waters. When I'm busy, I don't have time to think about anything else. I don't even flirt fight talk joke with Nick. I just do my job. "Can I get a coke?" I ask him, dancing on my toes. There's food in the window, a table to bus, a table just sat- "I have to call my guy," Nick says, catching me off guard. I can't help but laugh. "Stop stealing my jokes!" I shout at him and add "Fuckin' loser!" because I can't think of anything else. I'm too busy. As my luck will have it, the 805 keg blows. It's one of our most popular drafts. Nick shoots me a dejected look as he opens the case to the cooler. "Fuck," He says. "Do you need my help?" I ask. Please say no. But he says, "Yeah" and I'm forced to follow him. The kegs are in the walk-in behind the kitchen. I follow Nick past food that's almost ready to be run. We enter the walk-in and then - everything stops. It's quiet. He looks for the keg. I'm suddenly very aware that we are alone. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. I feel the slightest ripple in the wide, empty expanse of chest that's been numb for the past two years. I've forgotten all of my lines. I dont look at him. What if he kissed you? the voice in my head asks. Betrayel. Run? Go to Mexico and change my name? Hit him? Kiss him back? "Ready?” Nick asks, pulling me back into reality. He doesn't kiss me. He's found the keg. I pick it up my side and we walk back to the bar.