Chapter Text
Gia
It’s two in the morning and I’m still at work. I check my phone to see if Dante saw my message yet. Delivered.
“Another” a raspy voice calls as a glass clinks, and I pour yet another scotch for the grumpy old man. I should probably cut this guy off soon; he’s been stacking all of his glasses and it’s becoming a safety hazard. I could have taken the glasses when he was done with them, but this is at least entertaining. The bar’s dead tonight, with one booth full of university students and the Morgan Freeman-sounding alcoholic in front of me.
Looking over at the clock again, I go over to the phone and call Dante’s number, bouncing my leg in anticipation.
After a few rings, the phone clicks and Dante’s voice crackles through the speaker of the old bar phone. “Hey, who’s this?” He yawns out in a deep voice, clearly having just been woken.
“It’s Gia.” I grumble. “Where are you Armetta, you were supposed to be here an hour ago?” On the other side of the phone, I can hear Dante cursing and throwing himself out of bed.
“G I’m so sorry, I fell asleep. I forgot I was driving you! Are you still going to make it on time?” I can hear his heavy breathing through the phone. The thing about Dante is that everyone sees him as this stoic bouncer-type, but he’s actually an anxiety-ridden softy. He has the compulsive need to be there for everyone all the time, and somehow is. I don’t know how he does it.
“I should be fine. The bags got lost, so he’s still sorting that out. Just take a breath, get over here as soon as you can, ya?”
“Ya, right, okay.” I hear a deep inhale and slow exhale on the other side of the line, “I’ll be there in ten!” With that, the phone clicks, leaving a dial tone. Dante used to be our calm and collected leader, but the past few years of living a normal life have left him antsy. He misses the action, even if he insists he doesn’t.
I get back to the counter and look out at my bar, The Alibi. The vintage yellow lighting bounces off the dark green walls, which are half covered by dark wood wainscoting that match the chairs and tables, giving the place a warm and lively feel. On the back wall in the alcove, there is a beat-up jukebox playing music below the hung up records. A young guy gets up from one of the red booths scattered around room and comes walking over to the bar, swaying to the muffled music. I think this is a Billy Joel song. God, Billy Joel is so good. What’s the name of it?
“Hey, can I get another shot for me and my friends over there?” He slurs the words, then turns around and tries to count out the people at the booth, “two, four, eight− wait no that’s not right. Ummm… seven?” Alcohol really does kill brain cells.
“It’s six. I’m cutting you all off after this one, I’m not even sure how you’re standing let alone how some of you were dancing.” I remark as I line up the shot glasses and grab a bottle of vodka.
“Oh, most of them can’t stand,” he chuckles as I pour the shots, “It’s only me and Lilith that can—we slowed down a few hours ago. Got caught up talking.” He says in a more sober tone as he looks back at the booth, staring at a young girl with raven hair. It might be Vienna. Or is that song slower?
I put away the vodka bottle, then, because I apparently hate myself, I opened my mouth. “How long have you two been going on?” Why do I do this? I don’t want to hear about this kid’s love life.
“With any luck, by morning.” I look at him with a raised eyebrow as I grab a tray, “I’m asking her out tonight,” he clarifies “I’ve liked her for years, about time I do something about it.” He says it in such a determined tone, as if the entire world being on fire wouldn’t stop him. Oh! We Didn’t Start The Fire! That’s the song!
I grab the glasses and walk around the bar to escort him back to his booth. “Well, good luck with that. You two look good together.”
“Ya, thanks. I need it.” He smiles at me as I drop off the shots and walk off. He seems like a good kid. Not as annoying as the other university students that come here.
When I get back to the bar, I find the drunk old man with his head in his hands, looking down at his empty glass. If he adds that glass to the tower, it’s falling over. I split the stack of glasses into two and put them behind the bar, all without him looking up, before I tap him on the shoulder.
“Hey. You okay? Need some water?” I do my best to sound sympathetic, but I’ve never been good at this side of bartending.
“Ya sure, probably should have some.” He grumbles in a deep and raspy voice while raising up his head.
“Anyone ever tell you that you sound like Morgan Freeman?” I remark in an amused tone as I grab him a glass of water a few seats over.
“A few people. My wife always said I sound more like Keith David though.” He chuckles nostalgically, though the alcohol slurring his words damage the effect. “When my daughter was eight, I think, she begged me to dress up as the bad guy from Princess and the Frog. I spent the whole night wearing this one-foot top hat, banging my head on door frames, and no one got the costume! She yelled at one guy who thought I was Willy Wonka.” He gave a deep and hearty laugh, one that felt like it vibrated the atmosphere around him. “She loved it though; she was dressed up as Tiana.” He smiled as I handed him the glass of water.
“She sounds like a fun kid.” I chuckle as I remember the few similar stories with my own son. My son. I try to keep the frown off my face. Not much longer now.
He looks at his glass for a second, then frowns, “I don’t remember the last time I talked to her. She cut me off when I fell off the wagon,” He took a drink out of the glass, downing half of it in one go, “Can’t say I blame her. Threw away nearly ten years of sobriety because of one phone call from her mother.”
He suddenly pushes away his glass and gets up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to dump that on you. I should get going. Old man like me has no business being out this late.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me $120 in cash. “That should cover everything. You keep the rest.”
“Thanks.” I say as I slide the cash behind the bar. “Are you gonna be okay to get home?” I say with a light yet worried tone.
“Ya, I live across the street. Should be fine walking.” He takes a few steps before pausing, “Thanks though, it’s been a while since anyone’s asked me if I’m okay.” With that remark, he makes his way to the door. My eyes follow him out as I catch sight of a red SUV pulling up in front of the bar. Finally, he’s here.
I run to the back room and call out to Saif, who’s lying on the couch scrolling on his phone, “Saif! Dante’s here, I’m heading out. Cover the bar and close up! Keys are in the hook!” I grab my stuff off a chair as he mutters a response and gets up, then I run out the door.
I sprint into the cool late-August air with my jacket in my arms, trying to open the car door, only for it to be locked. “Dante!?,” I call out and knock on the door as he fidgets with the controls of his old car. After a few seconds of impatiently pulling at the handle, the door opens and I jump in.
“Hey, sorry!” Dante apologizes as I put on my seatbelt and take a deep breath. I look over at him as he pulls onto the road. It’s kind of comical seeing him drive a car like this. Even though this is considered a big car, his bouncer body type makes it seem like a clown car, with his bald head being only inches from the ceiling.
“It’s okay Dante, his flight hasn’t landed yet. Thanks for driving me, I really appreciate it.” I fidget with my rings, nervous now that the reality is kicking in.
“Of course.” He glances over to see my fidgeting, “Don’t be nervous, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
“See me? Sure. Live with me? Not likely.” I sigh heavily as my shoulders sag, “It’s been seven years. Sure, we call every week or so but they’re not long calls. And now he’s moving his whole life to be with a woman he barely knows−”
“His mother. He’s moving to be with his mother because he wants to know you more”
I cut him off, “He’s moving because his dad has a long-term assignment. He asked to stay with Scott’s family, Scott has to convince him to come here.”
Dante moves one hand off the wheel to give my hands a quick squeeze, ”This is a good thing. Even if he didn’t want to come in the first place, he’s here. That’s the important thing. It’ll be hard, and maybe weird at first, but it‘s a chance.”
I hum a half-hearted agreement and shift in my seat as I look out the window to the passing freeway signs, one of which is pointing to the airport. Dante sighs and turns up the radio, deciding to focus on the road.
I end up thinking about my shift to distract myself from the anxiety of the night. Two things I’ve noticed about being a bartender is that, one, you hear drunk people complain about their lives, and two, you see everyone’s worst and best moments: dates, breakups, reunions, relapses. But most of them are too drunk or caught up in their moments to remember that you have a life too. So you end up kind of stuck behind a bar, forced to listen to other people’s problems and pour them drinks, when all you want to do is pour a drink to yourself and just sit in silence. I can’t say I don’t like my job though— actually, I love my job.
I don’t know, maybe this can be a good thing? I miss him so much, I am excited to see him again. To get to know him. To show him the life I’ve made here. I just hope I don’t mess it up.
Then the phone rings and realize I might have already.