Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
When I arrive at The Crease, the bar I work at, the parking lot is empty. I’m pulling a double today since I needed last night off. That’s the rule around here. If you want a night off, trade with someone. If you call out sick, you’re fired. Gino, the owner, doesn’t mess around. Jobs on the Boardwalk are hard to come by, especially in the summer. I’m thankful Gino gave me an opportunity when I got out of the junior hockey league even though I had zero experience. He’s a former player and has a soft spot for guys like me.
Inside, the sun shines through the large window which faces the Boardwalk. There’s a view of the beach and the two tables sitting in front of the window are our most sought-after tables in the place. Can’t say I blame them. The view is amazing, especially at night when everything is lit up. We have two televisions. A massive screen in the back is currently showing the second round of a golf tournament, and there is one at the bar for the old timers who still come in to watch Monday Night Football which is currently airing the twenty-four-hour-news channel. While The Crease is trying to be hip, it has a long way to go. Gino refuses to outfit his place with more TVs. He doesn’t want to be a sports bar, but a destination place for locals and tourists to hang out.
As soon as I turn the open sign on, people start to come in. The tourist population is dwindling down now it’s September, but there are still a few stragglers. Most of the locals know me by name and come to the games to cheer on Northport. More and more people come in, and finally, an hour after opening, the early evening waitress starts her shift, which allows me to stay behind the bar.
I’m not your typical bartender. I don’t spend hours chatting with the customers. I don’t hand out sage advice, and I definitely don’t sit and listen to anyone’s sob stories. We all have them and I’ve heard them all before. Nothing bothers me more than when someone starts drinking and then spills every secret they have. Northport is a small town and I know far more than I should about its residents.
All day and into the night, there’s a steady flow of customers. Each time I take a couple bucks off the table or process a credit card with a tip, my mood becomes a bit brighter because the cash in my pocket is putting food in my niece’s mouth, clothes on her back, and it’s keeping the lights on for my mom. Someday, I won’t have to worry about a paycheck or some generous person handing me an extra five bucks because they liked how I made their Long Island Iced Teas. When I’m in the NHL, I’m buying my mom a house. Whatever I can afford, to get her out of the mobile home park and into something that’s hers. If I continue to play the way I did last year, by the end of this season I should be a high draft prospect. There isn’t a doubt in my mind I’ll leave college and play professionally. I can always finish my degree online or something.
Once the sky turns dark, the crazies come out. The party goers. The drunk-ass guys who buy rounds for the entire bar not realizing how much it’ll cost them. My favorite is when some posh kid comes to the bar and says he wants to open a tab and I ask for his credit card. They look surprised at my request for them to hand over their precious. I’m not sure what they expect when they make a request, but their expressions are always comical. While the current pretty boy digs through his thousand-dollar wallet looking for mommy or daddy’s black Amex card, I help other customers. Cash customers are my favorite.
“Hey man, what can I get you?” This dude looks like he’s been through the wringer. A black eye, his nose might be broken, and he has a fat lip.
“Bud Light.”
I grab a pint glass, clean the inside, and then pour him his beer. After setting it down in front of him, I pour him a shot of tequila because he looks like he needs something stronger.
“Thanks,” he says before downing the shot. “You should see the other guy.”
I chuckle. “In this case, I hope he’s a lot worse.”
He tries to crack a smile. “He is. I won.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s her name?” I ask, against my better judgement.
“Ben Franklin, about ten of them.”
It takes me a moment for his words to sink in and when they finally do I come to the conclusion the guy in front of me got the shit beat out of him for a thousand dollars. “You’re joking, right? You let someone punch you in the face for a grand?”