The Art of Tending a Bar: Speaking
"Hey, kid." The young bartender looked over his shoulder at his co-worker. "Can you do dishes tonight?"
Yes, he would burn his hands in the scalding, soapy water, then rinse the glasses off in the freezing cold water; he'd clean the grill in all of its grease and glory, nearly destroying his fingers in the process; he'd drain the sinks and almost hurl at what was left behind, then spray them with the hose and finally be done and over with, the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and fast food still lingering on his clothing.
The bartender nodded and gave a thumbs up. The co-worker smiled. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. I've got to leave a little early to get to my sister's house on time. Family business and all."
Oh, so he'd be doing this all by himself? No matter. It wouldn't be too hideous during clean-up. At least he hoped not. He could never tell anymore. But he nodded once again.
Someone called to him, ordering a Jack Daniel's. That order was easily filled, but the next was a bit difficult. It was one of those girls that was completely in love with him for no reason. She'd try to talk to him, but the young man knew better than to begin talking with lovely strangers. Who knew what kind of brute they had come in with.
During one of his free moments, an old man talked to him about his experiences in World War II. The bartender found it extremely interesting, even though he hardly said anything. The old man did most of the talking, recalling when he would run through the complete wilderness, when his friends would get sick, and one especially intriguing one when he was shot in the leg. He still had a limp.
By the time the old man shook his hand and left, not very many people were left in the bar. It was, after all, closing time. The bartender sighed and took out a bottle of cleaner, beginning to spray the counter top.
"Wow," a familiar voice said in astonishment. "He's still got a limp after all these years."
The young bartender couldn't help but smile when he looked at her. "How long have you been sitting there?"
The female shrugged. "A while." Before he could ask, she added, "I don't dance very much. Used to, but I had a few bad experiences with an ex, if you know what I mean."
"That's a shame." He wasn't sure why, but he found himself strangely angry with this ex of hers.
She laughed, but shook her head. "Nah. I like sitting here and listening to random old men tell tales of their battle scars." The bartender nodded in understanding. "Plus, it's kind of fun to watch you."
He coughed, air skipping in his throat when he inhaled. "H-h-huh?"
The girl smiled, amused. "You don't talk very much, and it's funny to see you communicate. At first I thought it was odd because you talked to me the first moment I met you. Even now, you're talking to me just fine."
"I only talk around people whom I'm comfortable with."
"Still doesn't explain about our first meeting." The bartender could feel his face heating up, but the girl just paid for her drink with a yawn. When she walked away, she glanced behind her and winked. "Later, Superman."