Yes, old man Clinton at ninety-two still bellies up to this old wooden frame. The bar top resembles the back of a pew, under the years of wear and many times of varnishing, if you look close enough. I consider it character, especially since the rumor is Clinton drank his profits away and lost the bar long before I ever started slinging drinks across it. He sits in his spot and never talks about the past or the future. The old man is the definition of grumpy and other than the occasional grunt to slide him another round, he doesn’t talk. I don’t ask him about the business and he doesn’t ask me for anything other than another drink. He’s not the man who signs my checks and that’s who I plan to answer to anyway. Whether the story is true or just some small town chatter, I don’t care, I think it gives the place history. Having Clinton hang around only adds to the appeal or the mystery, I’m not sure which.
I shake off the thoughts of the old wooden bar just as I find the man with the cap looking at me. Seeing so many people in and out on a regular basis, I’ve learned to read people. His gaze is one of intrigue, interest, and possible lust but it isn’t purely sexual desire driving him to watch me like most of the patrons.
As much as I could get lost in the ocean green of his eyes, I have a job to do. Drinks don’t pour themselves and the more I mix the more I make.
It’s not long before tall, dark, and delicious is joined by a man who is most definitely related to him. The looks were certainly bestowed upon these two. Where hat man looks like a relaxed farm hand, his brother is all business, from the tie to the wing tipped shoes. His hair is lighter and definitely shorter.
“Sorry, I’m late, meeting ran longer than I planned.” I overhear their chatter.
“More like your secretary had to suck you off before you’d let her leave for the night,” hat man jokes while the suit playfully shoves him.
Well, I guess this one is like every other stereotypical suit wearing fuck. His sole purpose is to dress himself up and see just how far he can push the people beneath him. I see it more times than I care to count. Entitled pricks come into the bar and everyone else is below them.
My gramps always said a hard day’s work is a pay check earned. Not that you can’t have office jobs, but there is something to respect about a man who isn’t afraid to get a little dirty. Manicured men, well they don’t suit me. I want a man I can go fishing with not to the spa for pedicures. I want a man whose version of manscaping is the kind that involves mulch in the yard, meaning he gets a tan fixing the bushes in front of his house, not some wax job from a licensed esthetician.
Just as I begin to ask for their order, the damn song comes on.
Yes, the song, the one we are required to stop all service and climb on the bar top and dance to … again. Once an hour, every hour, we shimmy, shimmy, shake, shake, and pop, all while hoping we don’t pop right out of our tops.
The two men watch me as I do the moves adding a little extra flare of my hair for fun. I mean, if I’m going to have their undivided attention I might as well make it worth their while. Tonya gave me that lesson number one when she had to teach me the dance counts. “Texas size hair swing, think like one of those Dallas sweethearts and toss it around.” A flip of my hair is about all any of these patrons will get from me other than a wink and a drink.
The song ends and I slide down in front of the brothers. “Hey sugar, what’ll it be?” I ask catching my breath.
“Marks Bourbon neat.” The suit orders without hesitation.
“Strong drink, had a long day, honey?” I ask trying to make casual conversation. After all the more they talk, the longer they stay. The longer I have them in front of me, the more drinks I pour and the more money I make.
“Strong man needs a strong drink and a strong woman at the end of any day,” he says with a smirk.
“Happy to help you out with the drink.” I give him my own fake smile right back.
I can’t stand a pompous ass who thinks the world rotates around his dick. Sure, I’m stereotyping him, but I get sick of it. I’m here to do a job not get hit on. Pouring the liquor, I slide it over to him as he gives me a smile that only makes me wish his brother would smile again. Suit man is nice to look at but there is a devil behind those eyes that I can spot a mile away.
That man is trouble, plain and simple.
“What time you getting done here, precious?” He asks.
I look around me and point to my chest, “You talkin’ to me?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Well let’s see, I’m a lot of things, precious isn’t one of them. I’m also not babe the pig, so I’m not exactly sure who you’re looking for but darlin’ you are mistaken asking me anything more than to bring the next drink and keep ‘em coming.”
“I’m Don,” he introduces extending his hand. I reach out to shake his when he lifts mine to his lips and I pull away.
“Well Don, aren’t you sweet, but I have lemon and lime juice along with a hodgepodge of alcohol mixed on these hands, no need to mess up the taste of that fine bourbon, so keep your lips to yourself.” I give him a playful wink hoping he doesn’t take offense to my rejection.
He lifts the tumbler to his lips and tosses back the liquid. “A fine bourbon it is.” He smiles to his brother as if they share some secret. I hope it isn’t like the twin telepathy stuff. I had to live with twins in the dorms at college. I swear they could communicate with their damn eyes. Maybe Mister Tall, Dark, and Delicious is just as much trouble as his brother. This is my cue to stay away, I have more than enough issues all on my own without even considering a man in the mix.
I sigh to myself, but one night of passion to have a release that isn’t self-induced sure would be nice. An opportunity to simply give into my desires, to allow my body to move in rhythm with a partner as we both climb higher and higher in a sexual dance of ecstasy. Sighing, I push my lust-filled thoughts back. It’s been too long since I’ve had a lover. Eye on the prize, Elle, I mentally remind myself to get back to work. The bills I have don’t pay themselves.
“Marks is the best around. Let me know if you need another.” I say before making a quick move to serve Ellis, my regular, another long neck bottle beer.
I spend all night mixing and serving. I also keep the drinks steady for the brothers but give them plenty of space. I don’t need some man to think he has to whisk me away and I damn sure don’t need crazy romantic gestures.
The night is winding down when Don taps the bar for another round. Sliding the drink to him, I take his money and turn back to the register.
“Keep the change this is my last drink.”
He picks up the glass and tosses back the smooth liquid. His eyes close as the burn goes all the way down to his gut. He picked the best bourbon in the house, also the most expensive, but it has a unique blend of oat and sweet that is the Marks signature to their beverage.
His brother has finished his third Arnold and pulls out another twenty sliding it to me as he tips his glass signaling for another. “Sure thing, sugar.” I say to baseball hat man as I take his money.
“Van,” he smiles. “You can call me Van.”
“Marks Bourbon spiked Arnold Palmer coming right up, Van.”
Don, mister suit, and Van, mister casual, hmmm, their parents couldn’t have two completely different boys. At least tonight when I leave here I can let myself get off to the vision of Van giving me his million-dollar smile.
I laugh to myself. This is what my life has become, pushing a cart, serving drinks, and at night finding ways to get myself off as I let my mind think a stranger like Van would even give me a second look.
The night passes and soon I can ring the cow bell to signal last call. My feet ache, my calves burn, and thanks to the bourbon loving boys my pockets are comfortable since they gave me at least five bucks extra a drink. It’s not long before the place is emptied and I’m tossing out lemon wedges, lime scraps, and cleaning the last stool.
Two
Elle
Walking out the cool fall
wind hits my face causing me to breathe deep. I love this time of year. The weather is mild, the leaves are changing colors, some are falling, the apples are ripe, and the days aren’t shortened just yet. Gramps used to say this was the best time for fishing. They were ready to bite before the cold of the winter sends them to the bottom of the lakes and streams where the water is warmer.
I don’t know why but every time I walk out of the bar, I have this small moment where I feel free. Maybe it’s because I leave here with cash in my pocket. Maybe it’s because I have conditioned myself to think positive so I don’t drown in the negative. I can’t explain it, but night after night, no matter the weather or what’s on my mind, I have this temporary freedom as I walk to my car.
Even though I exited the building from the rear, I can hear two men talking. I look to the left of the parking lot to see Don and Van chatting beside a fancy sports car. Well, the saying the car makes the man must fit Don and his suit.
I brush off my thoughts wondering if one day I’ll be able to wear a suit to work. I don’t know that I’ll ever want to drive a car with more buttons than my phone but then again, I’ve never had the opportunity either.
“Soon baby brother, your day is coming. Live it up at the lake all you want, but mark my words, you’ll get roped in too.” Don jokes with Van loudly. I can’t help but wonder what Van will find himself roped into.
Nevertheless, it’s not my business. I smile thinking about the jean wearing, cowboy boot sporting, baseball hat, and lake loving man. Well, I guess dreams do come true since I just met my real life fantasy man.
I smack myself in the forehead for being so silly. Obviously, fatigue has me delirious if I’m thinking for half a second that man even knows I’m alive. Especially when his brother is Mister Suave in the flesh and probably loves to play wingman.
I make my way to my 1981 AMC Eagle 50 series Kammback. The body style is similar to a gremlin with its odd hatchback, but the all wheel drive gives it a lift. It was the only car gramps and granny ever bought brand new. Granny wanted it because it looked similar to an old Hornet she used to drive and Gramps loved the off-road capabilities. With the snow that we get here in the great state of Kentucky, the car is perfect even as it’s aged.
In the end, I’m the only person my age driving a car that is older than me, but was never hugely popular in the first place. Overall, it looks like a jacked up, modified bug of sorts. After the estate was settled, it’s the only thing I have left besides our hideaway, which is so far away I can’t live there and work too.
Gramps had enough life insurance to be buried beside his wife. There wasn’t anything left. The house went back to the bank when I couldn’t carry the mortgage on my own credit. It’s me and my Eagle until I can save up enough to get something a little more economical on gas. Then I will move to the hideaway and make the commute to work.
A girl’s got to have dreams.
Dreams, I laugh to myself again thinking of Van. Maybe I’ll have quality time with my battery operated boyfriend in the shower thinking of him tonight. That’s the closest thing I’ll have to making that dream come true. Everything always seems just out of my reach.
I lift the door handle, the locks long ago were sticking more often then clicking so I stopped using them. Sliding into my worn out brown seats, I sigh. The key slips into the ignition like the match they were made to be. I turn it over.
Nothing.
Flipping it back, I try again.
Nothing.
No click, no attempt to turn over, no whine, absolutely nothing.
Wrenching open the door on a loud creak, I step out. I worked nine hours at Marks this morning and now a six-hour stint at the Run Down. The minute I step outside each night my body knows I’m off work, the fatigue always sets in immediately. Now, I’m in the dark, tired as hell with a car that won’t start.
The normal girl would call her man. The regular girl would call her friend if she didn’t have a man. Who do I have? Well, I’m sure a doctor could give it a more scientific name but I just call them left and right—as in my left hand and right hand. Good thing, they come in pairs because if my hands don’t make the Eagle fire up then left leg and right leg will be making the walk home.
Clambering out of the car, I fight back the tears. I will not cry. It’s my own damn fault for sending everyone out before me tonight. I have no life. I have no one waiting for me to come home. So to me it made sense to let everyone else leave. I’ve never had the extra money to go out so even the few attempts others have made to befriend me have not lasted. No one wants to foot the bill all the time and I have to be smart with the little bit I have. There is no nest egg, no fall back, and no financial footing in my world. There also isn’t time, money, or energy for my car to break down tonight either, but shit happens and it always seems to happen to me.
Popping the hood up, I struggle with the heavy metal. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.” I mutter to myself as I set the rod into the hole to keep the top open. I tap my finger on my chin as I think.
No clicking, no whining, no attempt to turn over, my battery must be shot. I look at the black top of the box which is currently the reason of my demise and have not a single clue as to what I can do at two in the morning without a set of jumper cables and a battery that obviously has no juice left to give it the cranking amps. Aimlessly I stare at the engine compartment somehow thinking my breath would become magic and poof it would crank.
Only that isn’t reality.
Nope, reality is I have no one and a nothing car that has more sentimental value than real value. Reaching over to the support rod, I pull it from its secure hold and drop the hood back into place with a thud. Going to the driver’s door, I reach in for my purse. Then with a kick of a rock under my boot, I take the first step in the long walk home.
“Sweet bye and bye,” I sing to myself and then just simply hum a made up tune as my feet cry out for relief and my piece of shit bed suddenly feels like a cloud in heaven calling my name. “Tomorrow, sweet tomorrow.”
Three
Sullivan
My last night of normalcy.
This is insanity. Everything I swore I’d never do is about to happen. I can’t find another solution though, not soon enough any way.
Tomorrow, I go to the same store my brother does and pick up the suits my mother ordered for me. They are only opening on Sunday as a personal favor to my father.
Why? I’m not worth all that, but to them I’m sure the Marks’ family money is.
Monday will be here before I know it and my life in a suit begins. Vance Marks retired years ago leaving the business to my father Van Marks. Dear old dad has decided he would like to retire in the next five years. He’s worked for Marks’ Bourbon his entire life, I imagine he would like to retire and maybe even travel with mom.
Donovan is next in line, but given his recent legal troubles, overall nature of immaturity and irresponsibility, the family decided I should come out of hiding on my farm to become the man I am destined to be. As for me, I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. I was called in by my father who had a twenty-minute conversation with the exact time line of my transition into the office. There was no option, no alternative, and no argument to be had.
Sullivan Marks, third generation, master distiller. It has a nice ring to it, but truthfully, this is not my goal in life.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to mix a good batch of hooch. Going to the plant and testing different blend ideas, that all appeals to me. What doesn’t turn my crank so to speak is corporate bullshit. I’m not one for board meetings. Hell, I don’t even know why we have a fucking board, but when our grandfather went legit after prohibition, he did so with more hands in his pockets than his own.
Since these men and women of the board each have their personal stake in the company they also each get a say in the operations. Donovan was immediately voted down to fill my father’s shoes. If I don’t step up, then they will fill it with a person who d
oesn’t carry the Marks name.
It would be a crying shame to see that happen. At least if anyone asked my family that’s what they would say.
Like a good southern boy, I’ll put on the suit and put in the time to carry on the family business, even if it kills the real me inside. I may love the feel of soil between my fingers and going to bed after a long day’s work in the field, but I wasn’t born to farm corn and oats. I was born to make bourbon.
Donovan peels out of the parking lot of the Run Down. It’s the one joint we can go to and he doesn’t get recognized. He gets off on the fame. He knows I hate it. Since this is my last weekend of freedom, being the brother he is, he came here for me. By this time next week there will be some sort of press conference or some release that will have my name and face in the newspaper. Long gone will be the days where I can go to a bar, have a drink, and no one know my name unless I tell them.
I swear the people in this part of town don’t turn on a television for nothing. Outside of keeping Marks Bourbon in stock, no one at the bar cares who runs the company or that our entire distribution and corporate offices are less than ten minutes away. The people here live in a bubble without a single care for the outside world.
This would be why I bought myself seventy-five acres of farm land that actually hits the property line to this place. The sign outside the barn that reads ‘Sully’s Farm’ is bigger than the damn house I live in. Hell, the barn is four times the square feet of my home. My mother laughed when I told her the plans for my home.
I’m a simple man. I need a place to wash the sweat of a long day off my body before I rest my aching feet. That’s it.
Now, the barn, on the other hand, houses my farm equipment—one thing Vance Marks taught us all, if you put money into you take care of it so you don’t lose money.
She is ...: I Ain’t Ya Mama Collab Page 2
