The People We Keep(69)

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We clean bottles for an hour or so. I stand on the back bar and call off levels to him. “Tuaca, three-quarters,” I say. “Tia Maria, almost empty.”

“Tuaca!” He laughs. “That bottle came with the bar. I don’t think anyone’s ordered it.”

“Triple dog dare you,” I say, jumping down with the bottle to pour us shots. “Cheers.” I slide his shot across the bar.

We clink glasses.

“One, two, three,” he calls, and we down them.

“Not as weird as I thought it would be,” I say, breathing hard through my nose to try to figure out the aftertaste.

“You’re a bad influence. Got me drinking before noon.”

“It’s like one thirty,” I tell him, laughing, even though I don’t really know what time it is.

“Lunch,” Arnie says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. His limp is worse than it was last time I was here. He has bad knees from being on his feet so much. Needs surgery but can’t take the downtime. I get the polish from the cabinet under the sink and shine the bar for him.

He comes back with two fat burgers and a big plate of well-done fries. We sit next to each other at the bar, studying the wall of clean bottles while we eat.

“Thanks for the burger,” I say.

“You look anemic.”

“Sure know how to charm a girl,” I say, taking a huge bite of my burger.

“You okay?” he asks. He’s looking at my wrist. The bruises.

My sleeve rode up when I held my burger to my mouth. I should be more careful.

“Other guy looks worse,” I say, staring at the now-shiny bottle of Tuaca on the top shelf.

Arnie pats me on the back. Just one pat, his hand resting lightly between my shoulders for a split second.

“Thanks,” I say.

We finish our burgers and share the plate of fries in silence. It’s a nice quiet. It’s a good burger. Arnie remembered that I like my fries crispy.



* * *



“Need a shower,” he says, throwing me his keys when we’re done eating. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Do I smell?” I ask, sniffing my pits.

“Like roses,” he says, gathering up our lunch plates. “But you have twigs in your hair.”

“You could have told me that like an hour ago.” I comb my fingers through my hair and pull out one leaf. It was probably in my car. But I’ll take the hot water and the quiet.

“Wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

“Butthead.” I grin. “I’m totally going to mess with the settings on your beard trimmer while I’m up there.”

“Do it,” he says, tugging at one of my curls. “I could use a new look.”



* * *



Arnie’s place above the bar is old, cramped, and cleaner than you’d expect from a guy who’s always single and works until three in the morning. I’ve been here before. He lets me shower and use his phone to call ahead and book new gigs. I’ve crashed on his couch a few times when I rolled into town over summer break or Columbus Day or something. He’s never made a pass or even hinted he might want to. He’s old enough to be my dad, but that’s not always a limiting factor with guys. Some of them seem to like that more. Arnie is just quiet and easy and likes having company that doesn’t expect too much from him. There’s nothing there, but there’s nothing missing.

I shower, making the water as hot as I can stand, scrubbing every inch of my skin with a washcloth lathered with Arnie’s bar of Irish Spring. Sun streams through the frosted window in the shower, and I watch how it makes the water sparkle on my skin. I let myself cry. It’s safe to cry here. The water will run cold eventually. Arnie will come back upstairs to grab a CD or change his shirt. The sun will set. It will be time to play. It’s okay to let go when there’s an end in sight. When I’m alone, on the road, it could go on forever.





— Chapter 35 —


The last Friday night before spring break—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The place is packed. Arnie can charge a cover for me and I get sixty percent. It’s not a bad deal. Plus, it’s good for my ego. No one here will ask me to play Margaritaville or Free Bird or one of those awful standard covers old drunk people are prone to suggesting. They want me to play my originals. They know them. These kids are here because they saw the sign Arnie put outside. They came to see me.

Justin cut his hair. I wasn’t even looking for him and then there he is. He’s leaning against the wall, watching me play, holding a beer bottle by its neck. He smiles when I make eye contact. The last time I saw him, sometime in June, his hair flopped over his eyes and hung down to his shoulders. I remember it was thick and coarse between my fingers. Now it’s short and spiky and I almost didn’t recognize him in the crowd. He’s with a guy who has a mop of ringlets blooming from his head. They come up to the stage after my first set.

“Just-man!” I say as he kisses me on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

“You’re never here in March!”

“Good surprise?” I ask, wondering if he has someone now.

“Great surprise.” He smiles wide.