Here Comes the Sun: Chapter 1
"Spencer!"
That's my best friend, Morgan. Tall-ish, thin, light brown shoulder-length hair and hazel eyes. Oh, and she's diabetic. She can't help it, but I'm okay with it. It makes me love her more. But not like that. Like, in a best friend kind of way. She's probably the best friend I've ever had. We met in college; in our video class, to be precise. We worked together on a documentary, and ever since then, we've pretty much been inseparable. We live together in a small two bedroom apartment above the bar we both own. That's where we are now. Four. That's what the bar is called. "Four" was the title of a short film we made together, but I won't go into detail. It's more of an inside joke.
We both got the crazy idea to open a bar together after college. We decided that since we spent a lot of our time partying and bar hopping, we'd put our experiences to good use. Don't get me wrong, we graduated and got our degrees in graphic design, and we each do some freelance work, but most of our time is spent at the bar. And here we are now, two 24 year old best friends running a successful bar in downtown LA.
"Spencer!"
She's the only person in my life I can truly count on. I can talk to her about anything, and she always listens. There was this one time where…
"SPENCER!"
"Sorry, what?"
"Another phone call."
"Ok." I pick up the phone, expecting it to be another call about Open Mic Night tonight.
I'm right.
I roll my eyes and give the guy the same answer I give each one of them. "No sir, we don't take call-aheads. You come in and sign your name on the sign-up sheet. It's first come first serve, so I recommend showing up an hour before the show starts. Yep. Ok. Bye."
I get at least three of those calls every Tuesday night. Open Mic Night. We have all kinds of people come in, sign up, and share their music with the crowd. Some are really talented. Others, well, they're not.
"Hey Spence, the Yuengling guy's here."
Mmm. Yuengling.
Anyway.
I go into the back and unlock the door for the delivery guy to unload the cases of delicious, frothy goodness into the stockroom. I walk back out to the bar and continue getting ready for tonight.
It's not a huge place. Just enough room for the bar, a few tables and booths, and a small stage in the corner. Everything is made of dark wood. The floor, tables, chairs, car, stage. Everything. It gives off a kind of old Irish pub feel. Morgan and I, we're both mostly Irish, so we like it.
Morgan comes out of the office. I know what's coming next.
"So how'd your date go last night?"
Ding ding ding! What fabulous prize do we have to offer our winner, Bob?
"It wasn't a date," I say, giver her the standard Spencer Carlin Eye Roll. Many a person has been on the receiving end of said eye roll.
"Uh huh. Sure," she said, not believing a word I was saying.
"I'm serious. I mean, she was nice enough, she just wasn't really my type," I say, trying to get her to drop the subject.
"You don't have a type, Spencer."
Clearly, she didn't get the hint.
"I don't know, Morgan. I'm just not really looking to date right now, ok?"
"Ok, fine."
She gets it this time.
Did I mention that she was the first person I told that I was gay? Well, she was. And she totally supports me. I really don't know where I'd be right now if she wasn't there to help me get through my last breakup. Rachel, my ex, completely fucked me over. Long story short, I walked in on her with her secretary on our one year anniversary.
Happy Anniversary to you, too, sweetheart.
But that was over two years ago. I should be getting back into the dating scene, right?
Yeah, I thought so, too. Maybe I just haven't met the right woman yet.
The phone rings in the office. Again. Ten bucks says it's another call about Open Mic Night.
I answer the phone. "Hello?"
Insert eye roll here.
Where's my ten bucks, bitch?