“We’re comparing tonight’s traffic to a hurricane?” I said to Jacks. “That’s how slow it is.”
By 8 p.m., the bar had achieved a stillness that felt almost “bibliological.” In response to our blank expressions, he explained that the word meant “too much like a damned library.” Finn declared it not a word and therefore irrelevant to a proper examination of the evening’s success. Jacks and I shrugged and pretended not to listen to our bar parents bicker over made-up words.
Two couples sat at separate booths, nursing drinks with the unhurried pace of people who had nowhere else to be. A regular named Dale sat at the far end of the bar. Dale came every Saturday without exception and had apparently not received the memo about the boat show. Jacks suggested he might have received it and decided that his stool at Barbacks was more important than marine commerce.
Finn concurred.
Mark’s attention remained fixed on his spreadsheets.
I cleaned every surface twice, then I reorganized the garnish station . . . again. With Jacks’s help, I restocked the well, rotated the beer taps, and wiped down the bottles on the back bar with an attention to detail that would have impressed Peter. He would have also approved of the label-forward alignment I achieved.
“Benji,” Finn said.
I looked up from the section of bar I’d been wiping for what was probably an unreasonable length of time. Finn was standing at the register with his keys in his hand and the expression of a man who had done the math and arrived at a merciful conclusion.
“Go home,” he said.
“What?”
“You and Jacks, go home. It’s nine o’clock. We’ve got Dale and one couple left. It’s not going to get any busier. Rod and I can close up tonight.”
“You’re sending us home early on a Saturday,” I repeated for clarity—because this hadneverhappened.
“I’m sending you home early on a Saturday that’s operating at the capacity of a slow Tuesday. There’s no reason for two bartenders and a barback to stand behind an empty bar watching Dale drink Maker’s Mark, a drink that doesn’t even involve mixing anything.”
“I’m fine staying. I can restock the—”
“Benji, you’ve restocked the well twice, cleaned the bar four times, and reorganized the garnish station into what I believe is alphabetical order. I didn’t even know that was possible for garnishes. Go home.”
Jacks was already untying his apron.
“You’re sure?” I asked Finn.
“I’m sure. Enjoy your night.” He paused. “Say hi to Peter.”
I untied my apron, hung it on the hook, and retrieved Biscuit the manatee from beside the speed gun, because I was not leaving him overnight in a bar like some kind of abandoned stuffed animal orphan.
“Good night, Dale,” I called to the end of the bar.
Dale raised his glass without turning around, which was Dale’s version of a standing ovation.
The moment my car door slammed shut, I texted Peter.
Me: Finn sent me home. Bar’s dead. Boat show in Sarasota stole everyone. I’m on my way.
His response came in four seconds.Four seconds.Peter, who typically responded to texts with the speed of one drafting theMagna Carta, replied in four seconds.
DrPostIt: Good. Door’s unlocked.
I stared at the message. I’d given him the nickname DrPostIt after our first refrigerator exchange. It seemed to fit, and it made me smile.
Looking past the name, I dissected his message. There were two sentences. Two impossibly shortsentences with no elaboration, no “I’m working on the manuscript” or “I’ll put the kettle on” or any of the contextual information that Peter usually provided.
Something about his message made the tiny hairs on my neck leap to attention.
The door was, indeed, unlocked.
Peter had left it unlocked for me, on purpose, in advance of my arrival.
