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PROOF OF LIFE
JESSICA ASHLEY
This is for those who refuse to kneel to the world.
Keep standing firm.
Daniel 3:17-18
MAVERICK
Music pumps from the speakers surrounding the dance floor, some upbeat song that I’ve heard countless times before, but couldn’t recite the lyrics even if it would save my life. We’re nearing closing time, with only an hour and a half to go, so the Friday night crowd has dwindled to a bridal party in the far left corner booth, a group of guys sitting at the end of the bar, and Old Man Whitaker, who has been a regular here since back when my grandfather owned the place.
This bar is all that I have left of a man I barely knew, but who clearly knew I’d need a place to at least give me some semblance of roots once I was discharged from the military.
One of the guys from the remaining group slaps a twenty on the counter. “Give me f-f-f-five shots, dude.”
I glare back at him. One of the great things about owning the place? I can refuse someone who’s too drunk to make good choices. And this guy clearly drank that ability away two shots ago. “No.”
He straightens as best as he can, then turns from me to his friends before looking at me again. “Did you say no to me?”
“I did.”
“You can’t do that.” He tries to stand up straight but fails miserably and puts a hand on the bar. “I’m the customer. And the customer is always right.”
“Not when he’s so drunk he can’t see straight. Learn to cut yourself off. Now, you closed your tab thirty minutes ago, so take your money, and let your sober buddy drive you home.” As I glance over at the guy clearly operating as the designated driver, he offers me a nod of understanding before rushing to intercede.
“Sorry, man. I tried to cut him off three drinks ago.”
“See to it that he gets home safely so he can sleep it off and hopefully re-evaluate his life choices.”
“My life choices? Dude, you own a bar.” He grips either side of his sports coat and straightens it as best he can, though he still has to look up at me when he does. “I’m basically a doctor.”
“Who is getting hammered on a Friday night. Yeah, you’re definitely the guy I’d want to take medical advice from.” I finish drying the last of my bar glasses, then toss the rag over my shoulder.
“Are you ssseriousss?” he slurs. “Did you just insult me?”
I look at his friend and plant both hands on the bar top. “Get him out of here before he makes yet another decision he’ll regret tomorrow.”
“Yeah. We’re going now, Josh,” he says as he tries to guide his friend toward the door.
“What? No! I don’t want to leave yet! I’m not done.”
“Oh, you’re done,” I say. In fact. I reach over and press the button to turn off the music. It dies instantly, and the bridal party in the corner lets out groans of protest.
The woman wearing the white veil has her eyes half closed as she slides out of the booth with her friends. “This is not cool, bartender man!”
“Go home,” I say as I flip on all the lights. “We’re closing up a little early tonight. Tabs are taken care of; just get out.”
She pouts but wraps an arm around the shoulders of one of her friends, and together, the group leaves my bar. Since the guys left right before them, I watch the security footage of my parking lot as the women leave, just to make sure they get into their vehicle safely. Thankfully, it seems that the driver of the bus they rode here in is already outside waiting on them, so I come around the bar and start collecting glasses.
“You know, you’re not nearly the hothead your grandfather painted you as,” Old Man Whitaker comments as he gets up and starts helping me collect glasses.
The guy doesn’t work here, but I gave up on reminding him of that. Now, he’s as much a part of this place as I am. Like me, he doesn’t drink a drop of alcohol, but he and my grandfather were best friends their entire lives, so I think coming here is his way of reliving the good old days.
And since my dad practically cut my grandfather out of his life before I was born, hearing the stories he recounts is my only connection with a man I barely met a handful of times before he passed away.
“Oh yeah?”
