Read Online The Grandfather Clock by Jonathan Kile - Free Book Online Page A

clock.”
    “ You’re kidding,” she
said. “I remember my father had an old gun hanging on the mantle in
the house I grew up in over in Orange. He must have put it inside
the clock when they moved to Tustin. That was in the early
60s.”
    “ Do you know anything
about it?”
    “ Gosh no. I forgot it even
existed. I haven’t seen that thing since I was a
teenager.”
    “ Do you want it?” I
asked.
    “ Why would I want
it?”
    “ I don’t know. Well, I’ll
hold on to it.”
    “ You should take it on
Antiques Roadshow,” she laughed.
    I smiled as she laughed. She sounded
good. I felt like my visit had helped, or maybe it just helped me
to not worry about her. I wrapped up the musket and put it back
inside the clock.
     
    Dan was right. By week four, I was
beginning to acclimate to the irregular hours. On Monday through
Wednesday, I worked three twelve-hour shifts. My legs were getting
strong, my back and shoulders had stopped aching, and my hands were
nimble. I wasn’t Tom Cruise in “Cocktail,” but I could work the bar
efficiently. During the busiest hours, I had help from either Laura
or Melissa. Laura was a single mother, picking up a few days to
supplement her main job waiting tables at Red Fish. She was
younger, but careworn. She bantered just enough with customers to
make the tip, but she was in it for the money and worked
quickly.
    Melissa was fresh out of LSU and she
had a jealous boyfriend who would sit at the bar for two or three
hours. He eyed me suspiciously. I made a couple of attempts at
friendly conversation with Sean, and when he didn’t play along, I
ignored him, which made him more paranoid. Melissa was pretty, but
she came to work dressed like she was going out, hair teased out,
too much makeup, and ridiculous shoes. She was actually a good
bartender when she wanted to be. Other times, she’d talk with a
group of customers for ten or fifteen minutes, and end up going out
with them when she got off work. Sometimes even sooner.
    It was an easy bar to work. If you
wanted a frozen hurricane, take your business to another bar. But
gin and tonic? Beer? Shots? This was the place.
    I usually picked up a few afternoon
hours on the weekend, but generally I kept a couple of days free to
recover physically. Strangely, tending bar for fifty hours a week,
I was drinking less than I had since I went to college. Getting off
at four in the morning, I was often invited for the after-after
party at someone’s place. But by then, most of the people I met had
been partying for hours and were totally smashed. I’d have a few
beers and watch people pass out, or hook up, and sometimes both.
More than once I’d find myself watching the sun come up, get some
breakfast, and go home and sleep until three in the afternoon. I
really started sleeping better when I got my own tiny hovel of a
studio apartment on Dauphine. I bought dark curtains and earplugs
for getting my day sleep in.
    About a month and a half in, I flew
back to St. Pete. Christie graciously handed over my clothes, my
laptop, and I filled three boxes with books and other random,
mostly useless, items that were mine. I shipped them to New
Orleans. Sam greeted me with a mixture of disappointment and
happiness. He promised to come to New Orleans, and often. He
lamented the loss of his volleyball partner, but was glad that he
didn’t lose me to marriage. I drove back on a Sunday night,
arriving Monday morning. I was used to being up at night, and the
drive was a breeze without traffic. Now I had a seven-year-old
Honda Accord parked on the street. It was soon filthy and I only
used it once or twice a week.
    I bought a cheap bike at a pawn shop.
One that I wouldn’t worry about getting stolen. It was a simple
existence. Every day was a different repeat of the one before. Off
days, I caught up on sleep. Each night at the bar brought a new set
of tourists, many of whom wanted to include me in their Big Easy
experience. The tourist crowd would give way to