by Kate, Jiffy
“Well, everyone who works here has a story,” he says matter-of-factly. “Where did Shaw find you?”
With that statement, I stop and toss the towel over my shoulder. “Shaw didn’t find me. I came here looking for work.”
“Hmm. Just assumed you were in the program.” He uses air quotes on the program and I can't help but frown.
“The program?” I ask, keeping myself busy, just in case Shaw walks back in, because I know from yesterday he wouldn’t be happy if we were talking when we should be working. I have no desire to get fired on my first day.
“Yeah, Shaw’s program. Well, I guess it’s nothing official, but pretty much everyone who works here or has worked here in the past has been someone Shaw takes in off the street, cleans up, gives a job, and eventually, sends on their merry way.”
“And that’s how you ended up here?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. Now I need to know everything.
“Yeah, I was hanging out in the alley behind the bar one night.” He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Strung out. Hadn’t had a good meal or hot shower in days...weeks maybe. I’d lost count.”
The image Jeremy is painting makes my heart hurt. I’ve always had a soft spot for homeless people—those who are less fortunate or down on their luck. When I was little and my parents would drive into the city for supplies or a shopping trip, the men who would stand at the corners of the busy intersections panhandling for change always made me tear up. I felt for them and wanted to help them. My mama would always make my daddy give them a few dollars out the window.
“I’m sorry you were...” I trail off, wondering what the proper terminology is. Do homeless people like to be called homeless? Displaced?
“Homeless,” Jeremy finishes for me. “Don’t be.” He waves me off like it’s nothing, but it doesn’t make me feel less for him, not pity, but just bad.
“Well, I’m glad Shaw gave you a job and a place to stay. That’s really nice.” I mean it now with sincerity and this tidbit of information is making me see Shaw in a new light. He might be an asshole, but at least he’s an asshole with heart.
“It was my own fault,” Jeremy continues. “I started using a few years ago. My parents kicked me out. They gave me loads of chances, but I always chose the drugs.”
“Are you still... using?” I ask. Unfamiliar with drug addicts I don’t know exactly what to say. “Is it something you can stop doing?”
“I’m trying.”
Loud footsteps coming from the hallway sends us both scurrying back to work.
Shaw glares in our direction and sets a crate of clean glasses down on the bar top. “Put these away,” he orders with his dark eyes boring down on Jeremy. When he looks my way, I think he’s going to bark a new order at me, but instead, his scowl deepens and then he turns around and walks back down the hall. When he’s out of sight, Jeremy releases a heavy breath.
“Dude is intense,” he says with a chuckle.
“Seriously.”
We continue talking and getting to know each other, but the conversation never turns as heavy, with no more discussion of programs or drugs or being homeless. Jeremy is originally from Texas and used to live in a suburb of Houston, so we have things to talk about. Like, one of my favorite Japanese restaurants happens to be somewhere he and his parents used to go on special occasions when he was younger. After that conversation, we both agree we need to find a good sushi place when we get paid.
“I know I shouldn’t splurge on sushi, but...”
“Well, all work and no play is for the birds,” Jeremy says with a sigh. “A few pieces of sushi won’t break the bank.”
“Right,” I agree with a laugh. “Besides, I don’t technically have a bank account anymore, so...”
“Bank accounts are for the birds too.”
We both laugh and I can’t say I disagree. I’ve never been too concerned with money. But, then again, I had plenty growing up. We weren’t rich, but we never did without. My grandparents and parents never put much emphasis on it, therefore neither did I. Brant on the other hand, he’s different. His mother came from money. They inherited a large piece of land when his grandparents passed away. Maybe that’s why he’s so consumed with success. Regardless, it doesn’t excuse him of his transgressions. In reality, I think I fell out of love with Brant a long time ago. I might’ve been holding out hope that the spark would reignite, but when he hit me, all of those hopes went out the window.
“So, tell me more about living in Houston,” Jeremy says, interrupting my thoughts. “How did you get there?”
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask, not wanting to think any more about Brant. I decided a few days ago I don’t want to give him another second of my time, but after the call I didn’t take this morning, I know I’ll have to. He won’t stop. I made the mistake of checking my bank balance yesterday morning and saw that he cleared out what little money I had left in there. Honestly, I’m surprised my phone still works, but that’s probably just because he needs a way to contact me. I know I need to talk to him, at least to inform him I’m not coming back and to tell him to go to hell, but I’d rather not discuss it right now.
“Sure,” Jeremy says easily, none the wiser to my inward struggles. “Who’s your favorite band?”
“Hanson, hands down.”
“Han-who?” His look of confusion makes me crack up laughing.
About that time, Shaw reappears and ruins the mood and our friendly banter.
“Paulie needs your help,” he says looking at Jeremy. When Shaw leans over the bar, turning his attention to me, Jeremy rolls his eyes behind his back and offers a wave as he departs.
“You can handle the bar until Kevin gets here, right?” Shaw asks.
Why do I feel like this is trial by fire?
“Yep, got it covered,” I reply, trying to sound confident.
“If there’s a drink you don’t know how to make, just tell them it’s temporarily off the menu. We’re a no-frills kind of bar. Our patrons are used to no one catering to them, so you shouldn’t catch any shit. I’ll be back at eight.”
And just like that, he’s gone and I’m left tending the bar all by myself. Granted, there aren’t any customers yet, but the fact he’s trusting me with it on my first official day makes my chest swell a bit with pride. This feels good—working, fitting in, making a go of things. And I have a new hope that there’s more to Shaw than being a grade-A asshole.
Things are looking up, and I realize as I’m standing behind this bar in the French Quarter of New Orleans that I haven’t been this happy in a long time.
When the familiar ring from my phone comes from under the counter where I placed my backpack earlier, I freeze, staring at the wood like I have x-ray vision. Somehow, I know it’s Brant and now isn’t the time for that talk. But I also feel safer, here at the bar, feeling Shaw’s solid presence even in his absence.
Call me crazy. I know he’s an asshole, but I also feel like he wouldn't let anyone come in here and beat the shit out of his employees. Regardless of his surly behavior, he seems like the kind of guy who stands up for those who are weaker than him. Like Jeremy, and the other people he helps.
I’m also at work, which gives me a good out. I won’t be able to talk long. Impulsively, before I change my mind, I reach for my bag, unzip it and pull the phone out, just in time for it to stop ringing. Holding it in my hand, I stare at the screen again. This time, a voicemail notification pops up.
With slightly trembling hands, I press my thumb down hard on the screen and swipe to open the message.
“Avery,” Brant’s rough, thoroughly pissed voice comes through the phone, loud and clear, and it takes me back to eight days ago when I woke up on the hard floor of our apartment—my face bloodied and bruised. Instinctively, I touch the spot on my lip that just recently began to heal.
“Fucking call me,” he demands with a growl and I can picture his jaw tensed with his teeth clenched. “I’ve spoken to your mom
and she said you’re not at home. If you’re there and she’s lying, I’m going to be so fucking pissed. You can’t just leave without a word. I’ll be in Honey Springs this weekend. I expect you to be there as well.” There’s a long pause and I can hear his labored breaths. “Don’t make me look like a fool.”
The last statement is laced with intention and ire. He’s always been good at threatening me without using words that would make him look like what he truly is—a bully, an abuser.
Don’t make me look like a fool sounds an awful lot like don’t make me hurt you...don’t make me slap you into submission. Now that I know what he’s capable of, and know he’s willing to cross that line, I can’t help it. All along, before he ever laid a hand on me, I think he wanted to. His words of belittlement and intimidation were meant to make me feel small. He wanted me to be scared of him so I would fall in line.
My good mood from being left to tend the bar slips away as I place the phone back in my backpack. I was ready to face him and get this over with, but it’ll have to wait. Right now, I’m afraid I’d crack. I need time to prepare myself. Tomorrow...I’ll call him tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Shaw
I love the bar when it’s empty. I know, as the bar’s owner, I should also love it when it’s full of paying customers and I do, but there’s something about being here all by myself that soothes me. This place means everything to me; it supports me and gives me purpose.
It also has a killer jukebox hooked up to a kick-ass speaker system.
Running my hand along the top of the machine fondly, I peruse the music selection. Every song is approved by me and if someone ever complains about it, they’re told explicitly to fuck right off. My place, my tunes. It’s very simple.
Being thirty-eight, and having siblings a good deal older than me, means I was raised on the classics. I listen to everything from The Beatles to Zeppelin. The heavier the guitar, the better, but it has to have soul, too. If music doesn’t move you, what’s the point?
I push the button for one of my all-time favorite songs and let out a deep breath. Angus Young’s guitar riff fills the room and I can’t help but do a little air guitar of my own. Knowing no one is here, I allow myself to let loose and sing along as I straighten the tables and chairs and wipe down the bar for the umpteenth time. I know the cleaning was all done last night at closing, but it’s something I like to do for myself, even after all these years.
“AC/DC this morning? That’s a good sign.”
Turning around, I see my sister standing in front of the stock room. She has her hands on her hips and a sly smirk on her face as she looks me over.
“What do you mean?” I ask, going about my business.
“You’re usually in a decent mood when you play AC/DC. It makes me almost hopeful, you know? It’s when you play Metallica or Pink Floyd that I really want to run and hide.”
“I just may have to play The Dark Side of the Moon all day,” I warn.
“Oh, God, no. That’s way too depressing for a bar.” She steps behind the bar and starts pulling out glasses and mugs. “One of these days, I’m gonna sneak in some disco on that jukebox, maybe even some hip hop. That’ll liven this place right up.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.
“No, I wouldn’t, not for long anyway, but it’d be funny to see the look on your face if I did.”
I shake my head at Sarah, chuckling. I love the playful banter we have. Even though she’s ten years older than I am, we’ve always been close. The fact that she’s always stuck by my side and now runs the cooking school next door means the world to me.
“What do you mean when you say hearing me play this kind of music makes you hopeful?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. Sarah’s one of the few people I can truly let down my walls around and just be myself, or whatever version of myself is left.
Her movements falter a bit but she recovers and faces me with a sad smile. I hate that smile.
She lets out a deep breath and shrugs before speaking. “It makes me hopeful you’re finding your way again and becoming the Shaw you used to be.” Her voice is soft and I know she means well, but her words still piss me off.
“There’s nothing wrong with the Shaw I am now,” I growl between clenched teeth.
“No, there’s not, but we can all use some improvement from time to time, don’t you think? Can you imagine how much easier things would be if you loosened up just a bit instead of building walls all the time? I understand why it’s hard for you to let people in but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Take Avery for example.”
Hearing Avery’s name catches my attention, but I school my features, only allowing my eyes to cut over to Sarah. “What about her?”
“She’s a great worker, a very sweet girl, and she’s scared to death of you. Would it kill you to compliment her, let her know she’s doing a good job?”
Hearing that Avery is afraid of me makes my stomach sour. I know I’m a dick around her...well, more of a dick than usual, but I feel completely out of my element with her and I don’t know why. I don’t even want to try and figure out why I react to her the way I do, but I don’t want her to be scared of me. That’s just fucking unacceptable.
I run my fingers through my hair, glancing out the front windows, before turning back to Sarah. “You’re right, she is a good worker and I don’t want her afraid of me.” I hesitate, thinking for a moment. “I’ll try to do better.” The gruffness of my words covers up the fact I am a bit remorseful. The last thing I want is for anyone to be scared of me. Helping people is what makes me feel human. Having Avery scared of me feels counterproductive to that effort.
She pats my cheek just like our ma used to do and smiles. “I know you will, Shaw. You’re a good man; you should let people see that from time to time.”
It’s later in the evening when I find myself watching the bar from a corner across the room. Sometimes I’ll say I’m taking a break but hide out somewhere on the floor instead, which is what I’m doing now. I like observing how everything runs without me while still being here, to get a feel for how my employees work and behave when they don’t know they’re being watched. It may sound creepy, but I run a tight ship around here. Since my employees are usually people I bring in off the street, I leave no room for error. I have a one strike policy. I figure after I give them food and clothes and a job, the least they can do is follow orders.
This is definitely not a democracy here. It’s a dictatorship. A benevolent one, but a dictatorship, nonetheless. It’s for the good of everyone and I’m only looking out for the best interest of my employees and patrons. Being the owner of an establishment like this, in the heart of New Orleans, is a responsibility I don’t take lightly. When things get crazy, I shut that shit down. Come Again will never be on the ten o’clock news for a bar fight or riot. Everyone who comes here knows they can have a drink and have a good time, but this isn’t fucking Bourbon.
As for my employees, I really enjoy being able to help those in need by giving them a place to work and make money, but I’ve learned the hard way that not everyone is as honest and hardworking as I’d like. It took me a while to be able to see the difference in someone who wants a handout in life and someone who wants to truly change their circumstances for the better. I specialize in the latter. Although I have no problem giving someone a handout, I’d much rather give them a hand up instead.
The crew working this evening seems to be doing well. Paulie, who was the first person I helped out years ago, turned out to be the right-hand man I never knew I needed, so I don’t waste time watching him. It’s my two newest employees that have my attention, Jeremy and Avery.
I’ve noticed Jeremy struggling from time to time but I’m trying to let it slide. I don’t know all of his story but I know enough to recognize he may need a little extra time to adapt to life here. Living on the streets for as long as he has is fucking rough and you can’t expect things to be perfect ju
st because you have a roof over your head and food in your belly. With him being a user, too, I have to pay particularly close attention to his work habits. I was reluctant to hire him when I found out about his drug use because a bar isn’t the best place for an addict to be, let’s just be fucking honest, but he promised alcohol wasn’t his poison and that this job was his only hope, so I caved and gave him a chance
So I caved and gave him a chance
so I caved and gave him a chance.
Speaking of taking chances, I watch Avery greet a customer and quickly fix his order. That girl—sorry, lady—really is something else. She’s a quick learner and she hustles better than any of my guys. Of course, I’m still leery about having a woman—her—working here, but she seems to be handling the job just fine.
Remembering what Sarah told me earlier today about being nicer to Avery and giving her some praise and encouragement has me groaning into my beer as I bring the bottle to my lips.
It’s not that I don’t like her; it’s that I’m used to working with men, and men don’t seem to give a shit if I’m nice to them or not, they just want to get paid. Besides Sarah, I haven’t worked with a woman in a long damn time and I’m rusty, to say the least. It’s my opinion that, especially considering the types of men who work here, it’s just better if females remain on a customer-only basis.
Shit, am I really that much of a sexist?
Just listening to myself think has me wanting to kick my own ass.
“Hey, stranger,” a sultry voice whispers in my ear. “Whatcha doin’ lurking in the corner?” Slim fingers and long nails slip around my bicep and I instantly tense. “Relax, Shaw, it’s just me. I won’t bite...unless you want me to.”
I cock my head to the side to see Brandy, a regular, licking her lips while watching me. Relaxing slightly, I turn back to my beer.
“What a charmer you are tonight,” she murmurs, her tone quickly turning sarcastic.
“What can I do for you, Brandy? You having a good time?” See, I can be nice. Kinda.
