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

servers,
bartenders, musicians and hostesses as they got off work. I made
friends, but didn’t get close. Brian and Dan were my best friends
there, but Brian was playing his music and Dan worked when I
didn’t. On a rare occasion, I’d fire up a barbecue in my courtyard
and invite them over. We’d eat steak and drink Abita. Text messages
would flow in, and we’d decide who had the best invitation to do
something better. Dan always won that contest. He knew every girl
in town and, unfortunately, why they were someone you wouldn’t
date.
    Every once in a while I thought about
Erin and the unceremonious end of our acquaintance. That way my
story. Missed opportunities. Whether it was a pretty bridesmaid who
thought I looked like a Hollywood star, or a successful advertising
executive with a wry sense of humor, I was not even getting their
phone numbers. To top it off, now I was a bartender. The one-night
stand was easy. Except, it wasn’t. A one-night stand that starts at
four in the morning is generally a medical intervention. “Drink
some water.” “Take some aspirin.” “Eat something.” I would wake up
in the morning, wanting to get out and do something, and there was
a hungover stranger in my bed whose phone was buzzing incessantly.
And that was the tourists. I quickly learned not to take anyone
home. The tourists were a mess, but the locals were hardcore
partiers. They’d suddenly call their drug connection, and start
going through my CD collection. To a twenty-two-year-old hostess on
Royale Street, a CD collection is vintage vinyl. I actually heard
the words, “Wow, you have Nirvana!” As if it were the White
Album.
    This was not my effort to play the
field. Any bartender can take someone home. It was really my effort
not to be rude. I’d be in a situation where Brian or Dan was taking
someone home, and I was taking care of the friend. Or, I would
pathetically think I’d met another Erin, only to find another
Christie. A few months in, I gave up. I didn’t express interest in
anyone. It only made it worse, because these women were drawn to
the cold, disinterested man. That’s not a cliché. I wasn’t trying,
and girls liked that. In the same way, I always went for the girl
that wasn’t flirting. I knew I was on to something when my behavior
earned the admiration of Dan. He said it took him over a year to
stop banging his head against the wall of partying every night, and
jumping at every girl.
    I was not too cool though. There was
something alluring about the parties, the late nights, and the
total lack of judgment in that world. No one cared that I lived in
what amounted to a 600-square-foot kitchen with a bed, or that I
opened 400 Rolling Rocks a day for a living. I counted. By four in
the morning, no one has the upper hand.
     
    It was the Thursday afternoon shift
that became interesting. The bar hired a middle-aged man with a
P.E. coach mustache to play guitar. He showed up every Thursday
with a shiny case and tiny amp and microphone. It was probably
three o’clock in the afternoon when Robert was going through his
motions that I met Claudette. It was the first time I’d seen her.
She was not our typical customer. First, she ordered a martini,
which was fairly unusual, and was drinking slowly. Second, she was
in her fifties, at least. She had an accent that I initially
confused for Cajun. At some point, she walked up to Robert and put
a ten-dollar bill in his tip jar. She sat back down, smiled at me,
and said, “Listen.” Robert then sang a song in French. It was slow,
melodic, and pretty. I could see a tear gather in Claudette’s eye.
Then he played the familiar “La Mer.” People in the bar stopped to
listen. Claudette began to chat with me and a young guy sitting
next to her. She was from France, and had married an American. I
heard her say that her husband traveled, and she knew Robert from
another bar he played in. She had followed him to Ol’
Toons.
    On her third visit,