It was inventory day. Tuesdays were always inventory day, but most weeks the owner took care of it himself, saying, “You do enough around here, Tate.”

Once a month he would do an extra thorough inventory and have me double check his numbers. Might seem tedious to some employees, but I appreciated how careful and precise he was. And he insisted on paying me double-time, which was pretty cool. The early start also gave me the opportunity to clean things that I usually didn’t get to. Like the sign.

As I’d told K, the owner wouldn’t clean the sign. Or go near it. Or even look at it. If I told him it was broken, I guarantee he would just take my word for it, privately sigh in relief, and hire someone to put up a new one.

I didn’t mind cleaning it. Getting the ladder out of the stock room and setting it up on the sidewalk was a bit of a pain, but only because the ladder was awkward and the sidewalk sported more holes than a 1987 pair of acid-wash jeans. But as I preferred a clean sign to a dirty one, it was worth the trouble in the end. Matter of pride, I supposed.

I had my balancing act on the rickety old ladder down to an art, and I scrubbed the letters of The Imp’s Bottle with vigor. Water spots from rain and caked grime came off on my rag. Funny how one thing had to get dirty in order to make something else clean.

The two-foot-tall imp (well, he was supposed to be an imp, but he looked more like a stereotypical leprechaun to me) stared unblinkingly at me with his flinty eyes and sly smile, his 2-D bottle of 'lager' raised in an eternal toast. I scrutinized him, as I always did when up close and personal. His smirk and the gleam in his green eyes made him look more evil than mischievous, but as I had no way of knowing the original intent, I couldn’t say if that was right or wrong.

I wondered if the imp’s ambiguous smile was part of the reason K had originally come into the bar, all those years ago. She seemed to be the type to take a chance on strange things, rather than avoid them. That made me like her even more.

After descending the ladder, I took a few steps back and surveyed my handiwork. The sign looked about as clean as a forty-plus-year-old sign could look. Good. Done.

I grabbed the push broom and began sweeping the leaves and dirt away from the front entrance. The air was beginning to adopt its autumn chill, as it always did this time of year. Still, the sunshine felt nice on my face.

I paused my sweeping to allow a man walking by to cross the sidewalk in front of me.

“Thanks,” he said, gracing me with a polite smile. “Nice day.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Especially for October.”

He raised his hand in parting and kept walking, his coat unzipped and flapping in the breeze.

That was weird. I never spoke to passersby.

Contemplative, I set the broom aside, lowered my hands into my pockets, and gazed around. Such a strange, sad little neighborhood. Especially noticeable in the daylight.

The building directly across the street was vacant, and had been vacant since before I'd begun working at The Imp’s Bottle. The roof was shedding shingles and all the doors and windows were boarded up, creating a dilapidated eyesore. I was pretty sure there were nightly visits from squatters and/or teenagers looking for a place to get high.

The building next to the eyesore was also currently vacant, though it had functioned as a string of different unnecessary businesses over the years. A video rental store, an adult video store, a jewelry boutique, a psychic hotline call center, and most recently an adult bookstore (which was the same thing as an adult video store, to my knowledge. How many books could there be on the subject, really?) In the next couple of weeks a new make-shift business would undoubtedly move in, live its short life, die financially, and move out, all while contributing to the gross deterioration of the structure.

The two buildings that flanked The Imp’s Bottle were almost identical to the bar: brick exterior, built around 1915, remodeled around 1965, and in desperate need of another remodel. They’d probably been beautiful in their heyday, but now showed the decay and abuse of their age. Narrow, grimy alleys ran between each building.

On the corner to my left was the scummiest, most run-down strip club I’d ever seen: The Glitter Hut. The clientele that frequented the place (and sometimes wandered into The Imp’s Bottle afterward, shedding rainbow glitter with every tilt of their head and shrug of their shoulder) was the lowest of the low in terms of both integrity and income. Most were married, over sixty, or both. The ‘dancers’ usually appeared to be some combination of high and malnourished, as if they were paid in drugs instead of money. I felt bad for them. Whenever one or two of the girls wandered into The Imp’s Bottle after The Glitter Hut closed, I made them sandwiches.

On the opposite corner was a twenty-four-hour video rental place. Not ‘adult,’ just regular movies. The sign was gaudy, dated, neon yellow, and read “Anytime Video,” despite the fact that they'd stopped carrying 'videos' over a decade ago. Sometimes the pair of managers would come in to The Imp’s Bottle for a drink. They seemed like decent guys. Friendly. Polite.

Kitty-corner to the bar was (get this) a cemetery. Headstones were visible from our front windows, like physical momentos of a cautionary tale. Not exactly the best view for indulging in an adult beverage.

It was probably the pub's location along with the lack of visible authority in the neighborhood that brought in a steady stream of teenagers thinking their basement-manufactured fake IDs would be sufficient to score them a cheap beer.

I scoffed to myself just thinking about it. I had zero tolerance for that BS.

Teenagers were stupid. I knew that. I used to be one. And I was stupid. There were a lot of good reasons why they couldn't legally drink. I always turned the kids away, directing them to the arcade around the corner. They could have soda and pizza like I did as a teen.

Bemused, I folded the ladder.

The owner appeared in the doorway. "Done already? Nice hustle, Tate."

"Thanks," I said.

"Here," he said, stepping aside and holding the door ajar. It let out a vicious squeak as he opened it. The hinges had been squeaking for months. Neither of us could seem to remember to buy WD-40.

I picked up the ladder and guided it through the doorway in its horizontal position. The owner came in after me with the broom, shutting and locking the door behind us.

"Any light bulbs need to be changed?" I asked.

"Nope, they're all set," he answered. "You can put the ladder away. Thanks for getting the sign. I know it's a pain."

"No problem," I said, beating down a smirk. His words were code for, 'I hate that sign,' and we both knew it.

As we walked to the back room I glanced up at the wall. The new clock looked good. And secure. The owner had paid a professional to come in to mount it. Probably wise, considering the fate of its predecessor.

"The cleaning crew took care of the restrooms, and I'm all finished back here," the owner said, indicating the store room at large. "We're good on cocktail napkins, paper towels, all restroom supplies, all cleaning products... Yep. Just double check my list, will you?"

Once the ladder was tucked away, I skimmed the list. It looked like he'd thought of everything. Ordering would be cheap this week. "Looks good," I said. "I'll just run through the cupboards, coolers, and freezer."

"That list is right there," he said, motioning to a sheet of paper on the counter.

I checked the cupboards first. Martini mixers, margarita powder, a box of Earl Gray tea, sugar, salt, containers of toothpicks, a few loaves of bread (mostly for starving stripper sandwiches), condiments, and plastic containers labeled "Cocktail Peanuts" (as if these were somehow superior to regular peanuts). All expiration dates were good.

We had two coolers, both with sliding glass doors that I attempted but often failed to keep fingerprint-free. The coolers contained all of our most popular bottles of beer in abundance, and of course, a case of Red Dog in cans. Upon looking, I was reminded that there were no bottles of my favorite beer left. It didn't make me sad. It was proof that K had really been here. Maybe I should order a few more. She'd said she would come back. It would probably be later rather than sooner, but I should be prepared either way. I hoped she'd be back soon. Tomorrow would be good. Or tonight.

The freezer held all the extra bottles of hard liquor, arranged in alphabetical order (my doing). The current bottles of liquor were stocked on three shelves behind the bar, in front of a large decorative mirror that was mounted on the wall. Cleaning the mirror was a pain, and I only did it before opening or after closing, as it usually involved moving every single partially-full bottle of booze to the counter. Every type of rum, whiskey, gin, vodka, and tequila imaginable were there, along with a handful of more 'exotic' liquors that no one ordered or could pronounce.

Our physical bottles matched the inventory sheet. Good. The floor could use a rigorous mopping, but other than that, everything looked clean, organized, well stocked, and ready. The floor was originally beautiful dark hardwoods, but during the '60s remodel it was decided that tile floors would be more practical for inexpensive upkeep. Probably true, but I couldn't help thinking how much classier the bar would look with hardwood floors. I wouldn't mind polishing them.

"Everything look okay?" the owner asked as he joined me behind the bar.

"Yep, good," I said, signing the list. "I'm just going to mop the floors."

"Thanks, Tate," he said. "You're a lifesaver."

"Sure."

He left shortly thereafter, leaving The Imp’s Bottle in my 'capable hands.'

Since I was present and ready, I opened the bar early, preparing myself for an uneventful evening. It was Tuesday, after all.

A few patrons came and went. None were memorable. None lingered. None were K.

Just as David Bowie's "Young Americans" began to play overhead, the door swung open abruptly, producing a merciless squeak. The commonplace sound was followed by a fit of high-pitched giggles.

I glanced up, not the least bit surprised to find a pair of petite girls in short skirts walking toward me. One had white-blonde hair styled in a high cheerleader's ponytail, and the other sported a bright red pixie cut. Both carried monstrous pink purses complete with some reality TV star's name printed in a garish font all over the faux-leather surfaces. Between their hairstyles, statures, and purses, they looked like adolescent anime characters.

Ahhhh, teenagers. Been about a week since I'd last witnessed any of this particular species in the wild.

Wiping a wine glass far past the point of it being spotless, I watched as they hopped up on the bar stools in front of me, their movements almost synced like choreography from a pop music video. Ponytail was humming a little tune, no doubt something straight out of a Disney movie.

She grinned at me. Even her teeth were tiny.

"Heeeeeey, Mr. Baaaaartender," Ponytail sang. Her voice was every bit as high-pitched and childlike as I'd imagined it would be. "I'd like a Slow, Comfortable Screw. Can you help me out?"

Boy. Like I hadn't heard that one before.

I smirked. "I would like one of those, too. But alas, I'm working. Life, am I right?"

She and Pixie Cut giggled behind their palms. "It's a drink," she told me.

"I know what it is."

This girl was something else. Looking me in the eye and ordering a drink with such a provocative name amidst shared giggles with her equally youthful looking galpal. Did her mother know what she got up to after school?

Setting the wine glass down on the bartop, I spread my arms wide, palms flat against the weathered wood, doing my best to shield the pair of sprites from all the naughty liquor bottles shelved behind me.

"So. A Slow, Comfortable Screw, huh?" I repeated with an amused smile. "Is that what they're drinking on Hannah Montana these days? I'm gonna need to see some ID, please. And sorry, but your library card won't cut it."

"Sure! ID! I have one of those. No prob."

She grinned at me and her arm disappeared into the bottomless void that was her purse, no doubt searching for a phony driver's license that I would not be accepting.

While she groped through the depths of her bag, I turned to her friend with the pixie cut. "And how about for you? Lemme guess, you'd also like something fruity and sweet with an inappropriate name?"

Pixie Cut giggled again. "Oh, um, I'm not drinking. Um, today."

"Cutting back after a wild weekend, huh?" I teased.

"Well..." she hemmed. "Kinda?"

I gave her a knowing look. "Your ID still on the laminator?"

More giggles. "Noooo! That's not it!"

Uh-huh. Sure.

"So," I said. "How about a virgin Cuba Libre?"

Pixie Cut clapped in glee. "Ooooh, that sounds yummy! What is it?"

I lowered my hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels. "Well, a Cuba Libre is basically rum and Coke. 'Virgin' means you get the Sans Alcohol Special. So...Coke."

"Oh." Pixie Cut adopted a pout.

"I can spice it up with a lime wedge and a mini umbrella," I offered.

"Okay!" she said, all smiles again.

"You're way too easily pleased," Ponytail told her. She had finally succeeded in fishing a comically large pink wallet out of her purse. With a theatrical flick of her wrist, she presented her driver's license on the bartop in front of me.

Oof. Definitely fake. Without even picking it up for a closer inspection, I could see all the telltale signs.

I slid the ID back over to her. "Right. Thanks. So, one virgin Cuba Libre and one citrus mocktail-cocktail coming right up."

"Mocktail? Why?" Ponytail demanded, her eyes shifting to the side. She held the counterfeit ID aloft between two doll-like fingers. "This is totally real."

"Is it?" I asked, widening my eyes in feigned shock. "Am I losing my touch?"

"You must be," Ponytail said with a vigorous nod.

"Well...shoot," I said. I snapped my fingers for dramatic effect. "Should we get the second opinion of our Friendly Neighborhood Policeman?"

"Um, no," Ponytail said, biting her lip.

"What school do you go to?" I asked.

"Westerburg High," she answered automatically.

"Mocktail it is," I announced.

Ponytail groaned while Pixie Cut dissolved into a fresh fit of giggles and wiggled her finger at her friend. "Told you! I told you!"

"Shut uuuup!" Ponytail cried, smacking her arm.

I smirked to myself and began (not) mixing their drinks. No liquor, no problem. Right? The overhead camera, dated as it was, would catch everything I put in their glasses.

Pleased with the presentation, I set their 'drinks' before them on the bartop. "Here you are, ladies," I said.

More giggling. Seriously, how had these two not tired themselves out yet?

"You're cute, Mr. Bartender," Pixie Cut told me.

"Tate," I said, pointing to myself. "And I'm flattered, but way too old for you."

"Tate. Okay. Fair enough," Pixie Cut said. "Cute name."

"Thanks. My mom picked it."

Ponytail tittered between sips of her drink. Her laughter reminded me of parakeets chirping. "You're funny, Tate."

"Why, thank you. I'll be here all week."

I dipped into a mock bow, making them both laugh again. Geez. Either I was more charming than I'd ever thought, or I was in some kind of weird mood today. Never before had I talked to any patron this much on their first visit, let alone a couple of kids from Westerburg.

My uncharacteristic behavior struck me as odd. Eh, I didn't hate it.

The pair of sprites left shortly thereafter, still whispering and giggling about how 'cute and funny' I was. Maybe they thought I couldn’t hear them. Maybe they just didn't care. The door emitted an obnoxious squeeeak as it closed behind them.

I was surprised to discover that I was chuckling under my breath as I cleared away their empty glasses. That had been great conversational practice. I could never get too much of that. And, hey, they hadn't called me 'weird' once.

As I dumped the half-melted ice from their glasses into the sink, a sudden presence caused me to startle and whirl around.

Standing on the other side of the bar was a man. A man I recognized. The same dark eyes that I had, though crinkled at the corners. The same unruly, grown-out curls, though gray rather than brown. Posture, expression, attire...all similar to mine.

He appraised me, a twinkle in his eye. "You look different," he remarked. "Happier."

"You came back!" I exclaimed, unable to hide my surprise.

"Told you I would," the man said. He studied me for several seconds, and his face broke into a wide grin. A grin like mine. "You met her, didn't you? You met the girl."

My cheeks flushed and I smiled down at the bartop. "Yeah," I confirmed. "I met her."

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