Yes, it's me. Don't cream your pants.

Listen, I've been ride or die Steve Harrington since day one. But goddamn did Eddie Munson come in like a wrecking ball. Does the Upside Down exist here? Nope. We all deserve to just live our lives in peace, I think.

"All Kinds of Highs" by Bohemian Vendetta (1968)


Eddie had just missed being able to legally enter a bar and buy a drink. He could do that at the end of his first senior year, which in hindsight might be one of the reasons why there was a second one. But the government moved the goal post to 21 not long after he had turned 18. The Hideout was a shithole bar that couldn't be bothered to card unless you looked like you hadn't hit puberty yet. If you could pay and didn't cause trouble, they didn't mind too much to serve the occasional minor. Except Gareth, that fucker was tall enough, but he was baby-faced. Did he even shave yet?

With the recent law-change, and being lax about laws already, the Hideout management didn't much care if Eddie's shitty band kept playing on Tuesday nights. Nobody showed up on Tuesdays except the drunks, and they would listen to anything so long as they were drinking. Clearly the Hideout wasn't exactly a classy joint. Nobody was ordering cosmopolitans and wearing their best going-out outfits. The floors were sticky like a movie theater, the bathroom sink was held together with duct tape, and there were matchbooks shoved under at least one of the legs of almost every table in the place. There was graffiti on the tabletops, stools, walls, decades-old beer posters, even the sticky floor in places. As previously stated, it was a shithole. But it was cool to play music somewhere other than the garage, and sometimes, depending on the bartender, the band could score some beer after playing, and before packing up the van.

Eddie knew the Hideout quite well, at this point. He knew the bartenders, the manager, the regulars, the guy that mopped the floors but did a shitty job because it was perpetually sticky. Or so he thought. He always assumed the place was always the same as it was on Tuesday nights, as that was the only night of the week he'd ever been. Sure, maybe weekends were busier for the more casual alcoholics of the town. It never even occurred to him that there were weekend shifts separate from the weekday shifts. Out of sight, out of mind.

It blew his mind the first time he saw her. She came out of the back room carrying a crate of clean glasses, hoisted up on her shoulder and holding it in balance with just one hand, while the band was in the middle of a song. "Easily distracted" should have been his senior superlatives, one of the three years. He fumbled a chord but found his place again quickly. She didn't notice. She didn't even so much as glance towards the stage. Had she been in the back room the whole time? He would have noticed her during set up and sound check. Although, calling it sound check in a place like the Hideout, with their quality of sound equipment, was a reach. It was more like a "is everything plugged in and in somewhat working order?" check. He wasn't big into the minutiae, but he would have noticed a brand new bartender, and a smoking hot one at that.

The girl put the glasses away, polishing water spots with a rag dangling from her back pocket if she spotted one. If one of the four drunks at the bar asked for another drink, she'd pluck a bottle of beer from beneath the counter, pop the top off with the bottle opener attached to a wallet chain dangling from the belt loop of her frayed jean shorts, hand it over with a brief smile, and go right back to restocking the glasses. She looked completely bored, which was kind of an insult because Corroded Coffin was actually pretty in-sync, even though Jeff was getting over mono and had missed a few practices, and the previous fumble from Eddie.

Eddie liked to talk. It's not that he liked the sound of his own voice, or that he thought he had particularly interesting things to say. It's just that sometimes he'd open his mouth to say something, and his brain would wander and his mouth would follow. It didn't help that he kind of liked the attention (duh, he was the frontman of a band). Between songs, he'd try to engage the crowd. They would usually just yell at him to shut up, or to play Freebird.

"What a crowd! Thanks for coming out tonight, all…" Eddie paused to count, it didn't take long. "All six of you." Nobody looked up from their drinks or conversations. But the bartender, she was watching. Arms crossed, leaning against the back counter. She actually seemed a little amused. "And a special thanks to the hot new bartender! Be sure to tip her!"

The girl rolled her eyes, but smiled. She stood up straight from the counter, and Eddie wondered briefly if she would engage. But then she turned away to take someone's drink order. He rambled on for a few more seconds, introducing the next song that nobody cared about.

The rest of the set went the same way it always did. Someone would clap half-heartedly for a few seconds, and then the guys would start loading their gear up into the van. Eddie's brain had already forgotten the bartender by the time they were packing up. Out of sight, out of mind.

But then there she was, standing under the flood light in the back parking lot, as the guys burst out the back door. She didn't say anything, didn't wave. Just watched the guys wait for Eddie to unlock the back of his van so they could put their heavy shit down.

"You know, I'm not new," she called out, letting out a stream of smoke.

"Well, I've never seen you here before, sweetheart" Eddie replied, pausing short of unlocking the van and earning groans from Gareth and Jeff, hands full of amps and a guitar case. They cursed their frontman's attention span.

"Object permanence. Ever heard of it?" She teased, taking a long drag off her cigarette. Jeff kicked at Eddie's ankle to get his attention back. Eddie took the chance to think of a retort while unlocking the van. Honestly, he's heard of object permanence, but did he really get it? It did take him six years to graduate high school, after all.

"Just because we don't see her on Tuesdays, doesn't mean she doesn't work other nights," Gareth grumbled.

"Duh," Eddie whined. He got that much from context.

"I think I saw her at the market the other day," Jeff added. Eddie rolled his eyes dramatically. Obviously he was the cool one of the group, but did he have to be the coolest by so much? The guys were killing him.

"I usually work weekends, but Danny has the flu, so I picked up his shift," she explained before anyone could say anything actually intelligent to her. She dropped the now spent cigarette on the asphalt and ground it with the heel of her black hightop Vans. They were pristinely clean. They were either brand new or she took good care of them. Eddie couldn't relate. He scuffed, dropped, spilled on, or cracked almost everything he owned, save his guitar.

"Told you," Gareth admonished with a glare pointed at Eddie.

The hot new to Tuesdays bartender started walking back towards the door, her cigarette break now over. "Smell ya later," she called over her shoulder before disappearing through the backdoor to finish her shift.

What an absolute waste of an interaction. He didn't get to say anything witty or charming.

"She was hot," Gareth commented.

"A total smoke show," Eddie agreed, still staring at the now closed back door.

"Guys, it's almost my curfew," Jeff reminded Eddie, pulling his attention back to loading up the van and getting the show on the road. Gareth and Jeff were still in high school, and still had curfews.

Dropping off his bandmates, driving himself home, rolling a joint, and settling in for the night, all played second fiddle to thoughts of the new-to-him bartender. He even spilled a little bud out of his grinder and onto the carpet.

It was nearing the end of June, so it was plenty hot, evidenced by the bartenders frayed jean shorts. They hadn't been crazy short or anything. They certainly couldn't have been classified as Daisy Dukes, but she had long legs, and the shorts certainly showed off enough of them. Her legs and arms were tan. Maybe she spent a lot of time hanging out by the pool. She had also worn a white t-shirt, the graphic on it long faded away, knotted at her navel. It rode up whenever she would reach for a bottle off the shelf behind the bar, exposing a band of tan skin.

The most impressive part of her person, at least in Eddie's opinion, was her hair. It was long, dark, smooth, and shiny. Seriously, it was like a satin curtain framing her face. And it was even longer than his hair. How did she get it so smooth and straight? It could't be naturally like that, right? It reflected the parking lot flood light, like a halo around her face. It reflected hues of blue and red from the neon signs hanging inside the bar. It was like a Prell commercial, watching it sway behind her back as she worked. Eat your heart out, Christie Brinkley.

It was '86, everyone and their mom had a perm. But the bartender reminded Eddie of an old beer poster that used to hang above his dad's tool bench in the garage of the house he spent the first little part of his childhood in. That should tell you how old the poster was; he hadn't even thought about that house in years. They had left that house when he was still really young, no later than '71. The poster featured a beautiful woman holding a bottle of whatever beer, lounging carefree in the sand, long dark hair draped over one shoulder. The bartender's hair was just like the poster girl's; totally from the late 60's.

Eddie thought about the bartender, and the poster that may have caused a premature sexual awakening, and how Freud would probably find the connection super interesting. As he got higher, the thoughts grew more and more irrational, like what if the bartender actually was the girl from the poster? If that were true, she'd be like, 40 or something. Math wasn't his best subject in school. But for a guy with a six year high school career under his belt, it was fair to say that no subject was his best subject. But maybe she was the poster girl's daughter? Or little sister? How old was she anyway? She didn't seem super old. Not that much older than him, at least. Legally she would have to be 21 to bartend, but the Hideout obviously wasn't a stickler for age. Maybe 20? She couldn't be any younger than that, he didn't think. She had an air of grown-up-ness. Just a hint of world-weariness.

And then finally, Eddie fell asleep, the lamp on his desk still on.