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“She’s all yours,” he says. As he steps away, I notice a napkin that I’m guessing he put down. I’m about to crumple it and toss it as I close out my own tab, but there’s a number written in a feminine script.
“You get a girl’s number, Dawson?” I joke, choosing to slide the napkin away instead of trashing it.
“Shit. Yeah.” Cash reaches then stuffs the thin paper cloth into his front jeans pocket. “Got a date. To a wedding.”
“To awedding?” I laugh, typing in my information and sliding the credit card when prompted.
“Yep. It started out kinda like a joke, so maybe I won’t go but... Got the girl’s number. We’ll see.”
On the one hand, I think he’s crazy for accepting a date—never mind a date to a wedding—from some woman he helped while working tonight, but then on the other...
I think of Sophia.
And if she were to text me back and say she’d love to hang out on Monday...
I’d probably jump for joy, not gonna lie.
The night begins to wind down, and while you can still hear the partying happening out on the street, the majority of the people in O’Gallaghers right now are our late night, closing time regulars. As patrons leave, and staff does too, it starts to feel like any other Saturday night—just with a giant leprechaun on the wall, mooning the establishment.
When one rolls around and Cash clocks out, we’re down to four patrons. Two are playing dice. One is on his phone. The other is throwing cash down on the pine and pushing away from his spot at the bar.
“Have a good night, Cory,” I say, lifting my hand in his direction.
“Good night, Jake,” he answers back. I gather his money and empty glass.
Saint is in the back finishing up back of house cleaning and throwing the mop around the floor. The cooks are good about closing down the fryers and grills, but there are still dishes to run, floors to clean, and random stock to organize every night. As long as we remain calm out here—knock on wood—he can get the back in closing shape.
I clean the front as I’m able, and with these three particular patrons, I have no doubt Saint and I will get out of here on time tonight. They’ll all leave between one forty-five and two. We can lock up. Clean the tables and floors.
And be out by two-thirty.
For being the busiest night of the year, we’re in good shape.
It’s one-forty when one of the dice players announces they’re heading out. “Let me get you closed out,” I say, leaving my towel on the bar to turn toward the register. I find the first digital tab and print it off. Usually he has us use the card we hold, but I ask all the same.
Permission granted, I swipe his card and bring it, the receipts, and a cheap BIC pen to him.
“You, too, Jim?” I ask, pulling up the second man’s tab.
“Sure, just ring it through. Give the tip bucket a twenty, and we’re good.” He’ll still sign the slip, but I get him fully squared away on the computer end.
When they’re gone, I look over to the only one left. “You want one more before I start shutting things down, Greg?” With only one patron in the pub, there’s no need for an official last call announcement.
Greg has got to be in his late fifties, although I think he’s retired, so maybe he’s older. I don’t know much about him even though he comes in a few nights a week. He’s not one to open up.
“Please. Then I’ll get out of your hair and maybe you and Saint can get out of here on time,” he chuckles, the sound rough.
“No need to rush. You’ve got time,” I tell him, placing the ice cold pint in front of him.
I have my back turned, wiping down liquor bottles and the shelves they’re displayed on, when I hear the door open. My initial instinct is to look at the time. It’s one-fifty-three. Legally, we cannot sell alcohol after two, so the person is cutting it close.
I’m exhausted and not in the mood to deal with a belligerent patron, so I put up a quick prayer that it’s an easy person. With a practiced grin on my face, I turn to greet the late newcomer.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Jake
My fake smilemorphs into a real one at who I see.
