The Wild One (9 page)

“I feel prettier,” says Joe, batting his lashes. “I really do. Do I look prettier?”

I try to think of a good comeback, but I just sort of giggle inanely instead. Goddamnit. Why can't I think of funny things to say when I need them?

Then we change the bathroom lights (while I try not to think about the underwear-waxed-to-my-vagina situation) and I add something else highly necessary I bought in the hardware store: a soap dispenser to affix to the wall. I'm fast running out of my pathetic savings from my preschool job, but to hell with it: I suddenly want to help Joe, to do everything I can so Potstill has a fighting chance at survival. And that means a decent toilet with nice soap.

“This looks so much better!” I exclaim.

“I found this the other day in the storeroom,” says Joe, holding up a huge old-fashioned metal fan. “If we have this at the back of the bar, and we open the windows at the front, it might not be so stuffy, right? And it looks kind of—”

“Industrial chic.” I try to sound like I know what I'm talking about. “Totally.”

Next I sit at the bar, while Joe trains me in the art of bartending. The top whiskeys, the register, which glasses go where and what we use them for, how the ice machine works …

Then he invites me to join him behind the bar.

After confidently charging around the place changing lightbulbs and planning décor for the last hour, I suddenly feel strangely nervous. There's something physically and emotionally intense about being in this narrow little bar area with Joe when there are no customers here.

It's such a tiny space. I am acutely aware of how close he is to me at all times, of where I'm looking, what I'm doing with my hands, the fact that I seem to be constantly in his way, how tall he is, how … attractive. I mean, I don't like him like
that.
I really don't. And yet … I feel sort of giggly and shy around him, like I find myself smiling so much around him that my cheeks hurt. What is that about? Lame.

I clear my throat. “That's it? We only make five cocktails?”

“No, we make dozens of cocktails, but you can't learn more than five in a shift,” says Joe. “Plus, now you and I have to drink the five we made. More than five and we'd be langered.”

“Langered?”

Joe grins. “Irish slang. Drunk.”

“Oh.” I look up at Joe. His dark hair is clean but about two months overdue for a haircut and sticks up at weird angles. And he's wearing a plaid flannel cowboy-type shirt. (Actually, I think that if you're a dude, you have to own a plaid flannel shirt when you live in Brooklyn. Like, by law.)

“‘Langer' also means something else…” He points to his crotch.

“How confusing,” I say, trying not to look at Joe's crotch.

“Indeed. Right, Let's start the demonstration.” Joe grabs a glass. “Coco, may I introduce the Whiskey Sour? Now, we make our whiskey sours like the good Lord intended: fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, ice, and a good bolt of whiskey. Mix with anger, pour with love…” He shakes the cocktail shaker furiously and then delicately cracks it open and pours the frothy concoction into a chilled mason jar. “See? Go on, try it.”

I take a sip, and gasp at the icy bitterness. “Wow. I mean, yum, but that is
sour.
” I pause. “And I suppose, thus the name. Whiskey Sour.”

“Right. My God, the brains on you. Genius.”

I stifle a snort of laughter. Joe takes a slug, hands the glass back to me, then starts the next demonstration. I can't believe Joe is going to all this effort to make cocktails just for me. He's so hot and funny and—pay attention, Coco.

“An Old-Fashioned. Sugar cube, Angostura bitters, water, crush the cube, muddle…”

He is grinding the sugar with such an intense frown that I start laughing, and he looks up in surprise.

“Muddling isn't funny. Muddling is serious. Now, add the whiskey, squeeze the orange … voilà. Taste.”

“Okay.” I cough helplessly. It's disgusting. “Um, a little strong.”

“You'll learn to love it.” He mixes another in silence, while I look on and try to learn. “Try this. Rob Roy. Scotch, sweet vermouth, a little Angostura bitters, and a cherry.”

“I love maraschino cherries!” I take a big slurp and immediately spit it right back into the glass. “Urgh! That's even more disgusting than the Old-Fashioned!”

Joe cracks up.

I am mortified.

“Oh, my God. I'm so sorry, that was just, um, automatic, I, um…” I'm babbling and I can't stop, shut up, Coco,
shut up.

“You might like the next one better. A Whiskey Smash. Fresh mint, a quarter of a lemon, and simple syrup. Smush them down—”

“—is that a technical bartending term for anything smashed? ‘Smush'?”

“Yes, smartypants, it is a highly technical term. You need to smush before you smash.”

I giggle and hiccup at the same time.

Joe glances at me. “Are you langers already? You must be. I wasn't
that
funny … Strain, add whiskey, ice, voilà. Drink it.”

I pick up the glass and take a long swig. It's very light and refreshing to gulp, and before I know it, I've drunk almost the whole thing.

“That's my favorite.” I feel so light-headed and giggly. Drunk! At work! I
am
wild. According to Pia, anyway.

Joe holds up two limes. “I think you'll like the next one the most. It's a Rickey. Squeeze all the juice from both limes into the glass, add ice, whiskey, club soda, and … voilà!” He hands it over, and I take a sip.

“Nope, I like the Whiskey Smash more.” I hand back the Rickey and pick up what's left of the Smash. “Yummy. Smash.”

“I think you just like saying ‘smash,'” says Joe.

“No, no, I like the mint. I grow mint in an herb planter in my kitchen. I like herbs.”

“
Erbs?
” Joe takes a slug of the unloved Rob Roy. “In Ireland we pronounce the ‘h.'
Herb.
”

“Herb? That's an old guy's name.” My giggles are interrupted by hiccups. And then I start giggling again.

“You
are
langers.” He smacks himself on the forehead. “Bad Joe. Bad. All right, make yourself another one. Go on. You're smart, you can do it. I'll watch.”

I try to control my giggles long enough to make a Whiskey Smash.
Calm down, Coco.
I love the way Joe doesn't seem to take anything too seriously. And I like the way he said I was smart. For some reason, people thinking I'm smart makes me feel smart, and people thinking I'm dumb encourages me to make stupid mistakes. I wonder if that's normal.

“Why don't we do bar snacks?” I ask as I muddle the sugar and mint.

“No kitchen,” Joe says. “I tried to convince Gary to get a popcorn machine, but he refused.”

“That is an amazing idea!” I say. “I love popcorn. I put sea salt and dark chocolate chips on mine.”

“What is sea salt, anyway?” says Joe. “I never heard of sea salt before about six years ago, did you? I mean, what did everyone put on their locally sourced hand-cut fries before sea salt was invented?”

“I think the other kind is called table salt,” I say.

“
Salt
made from
tables
?!”

I don't think I've ever laughed this much around a guy. I can't tell if it's the Irish accent or the booze. Probably a little of both.

At that moment, an older guy walks in, and I can tell by the disinterested way he takes a seat at the bar that he's not here for a drink. Joe, suddenly nervous, quickly clears away the detritus from our cocktails and introduces us. It's the owner of Potstill, Gary.

Gary doesn't even meet my eyes, just takes his phone out and answers a text, sighing deeply, while Joe, unbidden, gets him a seltzer with lime. Gary looks like an ex-boxer who eats way too many subs. Bug eyes, receding pale hair, a nondescript goatee that isn't bushy enough for Brooklyn.

Gary takes a long drink, burps loudly, and finally looks up. “I'm closing the bar.”

“What?” Joe is shocked. “Why? Last night was huge. This could be a great live music venue—”

“People who watch music don't drink whiskey,” says Gary, with total confidence.

“We could offer other drinks, expand the bar—”

“There is no ‘we,' Joe. There's only ‘me.' I own the place. You just manage it. Don't forget that.”

Wow, Gary is an asshole.

Joe takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm, and finally asks, “When?”

“I'll put it on the market at the end of the summer. I'm going to my place in Nantucket until then. My wife's having another fucking baby. She refuses to stay in the city.”

Did he just say
another fucking baby
? Charming.

“Okay,” Joe is suddenly very interested in polishing already-clean glasses. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Gary stands up, drains his seltzer, and, without even saying good-bye, leaves the bar. The door slams behind him.

There's a long silence.

“I can't believe that's it,” mutters Joe finally. “Potstill is dead.”

“Maybe someone will buy it and see the potential…” My voice trails off into nothingness.

“No one is going to look at the numbers and keep this bar open, Coco. They could make a lot more money ripping the guts out and building something new.”

Joe sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture that reminds me of Julia. She texted earlier: she's recovered from Peter the Magnificent and is now out with Pia and Angie, while Madeleine rehearses with her band. I'd usually be with them, I guess, or maybe in the old days with Ethan while he monologued at me, teaching me things I didn't want to learn. I'm glad I'm here, though. This feels like the right place to be.

“If I could do one thing right now, it would be to make this bar a success,” says Joe wistfully.

“If I could do one thing right now, I'd…” My voice trails off. I can't tell Joe the truth. He'd just think I was silly. And I don't want just one thing, I want three. I want to be thin. I want to fall in love. I want to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my damn life. And I have no idea how to do any of the above.

“You want another Whiskey Smash?” I ask.

Joe grins at me. “Sure.”

As I make them, Joe takes his iPod out of his back pocket.

“You know what annoys me most about Gary? He doesn't even
like
music. He agreed to let Spector play here because he owed someone in the band for helping him out with some pot deal.” Joe reaches up to an ancient set of speakers and stereo system. “I don't particularly like pot. But I fucking love music.”

A new song comes over the loudspeakers. “This is MGMT,” he says. “Time to Pretend.”

“It's great…” I say. But Joe isn't listening.

Then he looks back at me. “Let's get langers.”

 

CHAPTER
10

So we do.

By the time the bar closes, we've sampled most of the whiskeys behind the bar, plus three more Whiskey Smashes (me) and four more Rob Roys (Joe).

A few more patrons come in, but each time, as if on cue, the previous patrons leave. Which means practically no actual bartending is done. Instead, we listen to music, talk, and, you know, drink. I can't think of the last time I had this much fun.

Later, sometime around midnight when the bar's been empty for over an hour, Joe makes the executive decision to close up. I go to the bathroom and realize I'm swaying slightly and feel deliciously fuzzy. Being a bit drunk is fun. But it also feels naughty … I mean, I'm at
work
.

“I thought it was illegal to be drunk behind a bar,” I say as Joe locks up the stockroom and turns off the lights.

“No, that's behind a wheel,” says Joe. “Jesus, I'm starving,” he says, pronouncing it
schtarvin.
“How about a late-night snack?”

And as he holds open the door for me to walk out into the balmy June night, I realize something.

I'm on a
date.

You know, kind of.

I'm with a guy and we're going for food after drinking cocktails. That makes it a date. Right? Right.

Funny thing about walking around in this happy tipsy state: it feels like it doesn't take long to get anywhere. We're heading to some diner in downtown Brooklyn. The whole time, Joe grills me about everyone in the house. I tell him about Pia's food truck empire, Julia's intense workaholism, Madeleine's accountant/rocker dichotomy, and Angie's fledgling fashion career. It's easy talking about my friends. So much more interesting than telling him about me. And I'm having the best time. I cannot stop smiling.

Eventually we reach the diner, a grubby little place with unflattering white lighting and torn faux-leather booths. We take seats at the counter.

“Two disco fries, two chocolate shakes,” Joe tells the disinterested waiter. I raise an eyebrow. “What? I come here all the time. Can't I order for you?”

The old me would have just shrugged, accepted what he ordered, and then not really eaten it anyway. I never ate in front of Ethan; it made me feel really self-conscious and gross. But to hell with all that. This is the new me. And I don't want disco fries and a chocolate shake.

“I'm a grown woman. I'll order for myself,” I say. “I'll have French toast with bananas and a black-and-white shake.”

“What's a black-and-white shake?” Joe asks.

“Vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup.”

“Sounds perfect. I'll have that too, please, instead of my chocolate milk shake. But I'm sticking with the fries. Don't try to take an Irishman away from his potatoes. We'll fight you for them. Now, sir, do you have any cake?”

“No.”

“No cake!” Joe cries out in mock horror. “The shame of it. Right, just the fries and the shake.”