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I like it, I think. It’s just going to take me some time to get used to.
Doc drops his beer can to the table with a thud. “I got a question. Hank tells me you take pictures and sell them on the interwebs, but not portraits and such. I ain’t never heard such a thing. People pay for pictures that aren’t their kids or their dogs?”
I laugh. It’s a generational thing. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I do photography—portraits and commercial stuff when I get a client. But mostly, I get paid from my social media account, which is monetized because of the number of followers I have. For that, I take random shots of my day, usually close-ups with short captions, and post them. People check in and see what I’m up to.”
Three sets of scrunched brows meet my explanation so I try again.
I pull out my phone, click into my social media app, and show them. “See, here’s today . . . my morning cup of coffee, a stoplight over Main Street, the parking lot out front, and a shot of the neon reflecting off the spotless bar.”
I click into each picture, pointing out the number of hearts and comments. “The more people who look at the pictures, like them, and comment, the more money I get.”
Doc moves his glasses down his nose and leans in closer to focus on my phone. “That’s a job? Those pictures are real nice, I guess, but you can’t even see you in them. Or anyone. It’s . . . a cup of coffee.” He shrugs, and I can’t help but giggle a little.
“I know, it’s different. People are curious creatures by nature. We like to see what other people’s lives are like, so I show them mine. It lets me do photography, stay anonymous, and make a living. Well, that plus ‘working’ behind the bar.” I do air quotes around the ‘working’ as I look at Unc because I’m still sitting on my butt, talking instead of helping.
The sound of gravel crunching out front breaks up my TED talk on creative ways to turn hobbies into careers. I hop up, pointing at the three guys, asking if they want another round, but they all decline. “Nah, we’ve got a game to get to. Sunday night poker. Hank’s turn to host.”
“Don’t go too hard on him, fellas. Payday’s coming and I’ve got my eye on a new lens filter for my camera.” I smile and swoop behind the bar as Olivia pockets her phone and goes to greet the next round of customers.
The dinner rush is more of a trickle, but it gives me something to focus on as I make drinks for Olivia. I add a couple of cherries and a dash of grenadine to some Sprites for a family with two little girls, delivering their Princess Punch to delighted giggles. A few beers here and there, but mostly, I pull soft drinks and sweet tea to accompany the food the few tables order from Ilene.
Unc leaves with Richard and Doc, heading to their weekly game. I’m glad he’s got friends, and now that I’m here as bar backup, they can play earlier because I can close up. It’s the least I can do, but I’m willing to do so much more. Anything I can to help him.
The door opens, and I automatically look over to see who our latest customer is. I find . . . Bobby Tannen filling the doorway.
Whew, boy, he looks good! Good and . . . determined.
He’s got on a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, dark-wash jeans slung low on his hips with a black belt laced through the loops, and black cowboy boots that look like they’ve seen a lot of dance floors and very few pastures. I realize something . . . he’s dressed up, like for a date. This is fancy Bobby.
A stone settles in my stomach, knowing I’ll have to watch him have dinner with whoever he’s going out with tonight. Maybe she’s still outside? Or he’s meeting her here?
But I’m not surprised. A guy like that must go on dates every night of the week, probably with a different woman each time, judging by how many were throwing him come-hither looks. And fine, also by the fact that even I almost fell for it, wanting to meet his kiss when he moved in closer. Luckily, sanity reigned supreme because that whole ‘you’re special’ thing was straight out of ‘How to Hit on Chicks at Bars 101’. In other words, no thanks, Bucko. Any interest I’d harbored had floated away like smoke.
Until I see him standing in the door and that sour taste climbs the back of my throat. Jealousy? Of his potential date?
Yeah, that’s what that feeling is. On the bright side, maybe I can get an up-close look at what a guy like him goes for. I’m thinking a pretty, blonde, cheerleader type. I don’t say that to be bitchy, more like my observations of life have led me to believe that’s how it always works.
