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And I needed a job.
Duck Duck Moose was part dive bar, part pool hall and the town’s preferred gathering space. There were other bars and restaurants nearby. Most with better food, drinks, and service. But locals loved the Moose.
The inside was perpetually dark. Oak paneling, a lacquered wooden bar top, and dim lighting added to the mystique. But it was clean and had the best waffle fries in Maine.
Jim Tremblay, one of the grouchiest men ever to inhabit Planet Earth, and his wife had bought the place thirty years ago. They had run it together for decades before she passed from cancer when I was in high school.
Without his beloved wife, Jim had nothing to do but serve drinks and scowl, but owning the busiest bar in town meant he needed help on the weekends. And I had dealt with my fair share of difficult personalities over the years, and the tips would be worth it.
So I showed up early, with a smile and a can-do attitude.
“You’re a little thing,” he remarked, side-eyeing me while drying glasses. The bar was spotless, as usual, and Led Zeppelin played softly in the background.
I shrugged. “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”
Yes. I was only five foot two, but I was battle tested. A person doesn’t go from trailer park to Ivy League without a thick skin and pointy elbows.
As an introvert who didn’t drink, bartending didn’t seem like a natural fit for my skill set. But I could do it on weekends, and the tips were good. This job would give me the two things I needed most at the moment: money and time to work on my dissertation.
Plus, I was a scientist, a born observer. It was one of the benefits of growing up an outsider. We got really good at watching closely.
The Moose would give me great insight into the community, the fabric of this place. As well as the gossip. And I hoped it could help me forge connections for my research. The opioid epidemic was personal to me, and to most people who lived in this community. So it was no surprise that I’d chosen public health and opioids specifically in grad school. I wanted, no needed, to understand how this happened and how we could fix it. And there was no better place to remind me of the stakes.
So far, the governor’s office had not been returning my calls. So I’d start smaller, more local. The Maine Department of Public Health had been generous. They’d supplied thousands of pages of documents and data sets to go through. But I needed to understand how things were going on the ground. Data and statistics could only tell me so much about how a public health crisis like the one I was studying played out in ordinary towns like Lovewell. And how the people in charge, the people with the money and power and access, planned to help them.
Jim scrutinized me, busying himself with bar tasks but watching me as he did so. It was chilly for May, but it was the start of the busy season up here, and Bernice at the diner had told me that he was looking for help.
After a long silence I’m sure he used as a tactic to unnerve those he thought too weak—but one that didn’t faze me in the least; not after the years I’d spent outside this town—he nodded at me. “You back for good?”
I rounded the counter and washed my hands, then snagged the basket of limes and a cutting board. If there was one thing a guy like Jim respected, it was hard work.
“No,” I said, slicing the first lime. “I’m here to conduct research and write my dissertation. Then I’ll go wherever I can find a decent job.”
“Good.” He grunted, grabbing another rack of glassware from the kitchen. “How long will you be here?” he asked when he returned.
“About a year.” It was a hard pill to swallow. But I was a realist. I had spent the last decade pushing myself harder than I ever thought possible. And the finish line was in sight.
But my mind and body were exhausted. Not to mention my finances. I couldn’t afford Boston rent, and I needed to settle in a place where I could get my research done. And given the scope of my ambitions, I needed to plan accordingly.
So it was back to Maine. Back to this complicated town and its expectations and realities, things I had never quite been able to shake, despite a decade away.
“You can change a keg.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded without looking up from my work.
“And you’ll cut people off when they’ve had too many? Can’t have a timid little girl working my bar.”
I paused and turned to him, knife still in hand. “Wouldn’t be my first time. I can handle it.”
“The job’s yours for six months. And then you get your ass outa this shit town. You hear?”
I rolled my eyes. “Shit town? You’ve lived here your entire life.”
He cocked a brow, clearly going for nonplussed, but he couldn’t hide the hint of a lip quirk. Maybe old Jim was capable of smiling after all. “Exactly. That makes me a goddamn expert in just how shitty this place is. Everyone knows you’re destined for great things. You’re a good kid, but you’re not a bartender. You’re better than that.”
I shook my head. It was the refrain I’d heard my whole life. Everyone here expected a lot, and I was doing my damndest to make it happen. “I just need work. Preferably on nights and weekends so I can finish my PhD.”
He nodded. “Don’t get distracted. Do your research and then get the hell out.”
