Page 7 of Silver Edge
He’d sobered me with some strong will, offering me an accepting group of supporters. He’d taken care of me until I could manage on my own. I owed him my life, not my attitude.
Shaking the dizzying thoughts from my head, I cracked the door and searched the alleyway for any homeless. I wasn’t about to give up my oasis to every vagrant within a ten-mile radius.
With a quick exit, I slung the chain around the handle and silver hook protruding from the brick wall. I yanked the lock I’d purchased yesterday from my pants pocket and secured the door to keep out any unwanted trespassers, like myself.
I shuffled through the alley to the corner. Skyscrapers towered overhead. Restaurants, convenience stores, and coffeehouses owned the bottom-floor real estate along the street. Loud honks, people shouting, and sirens blaring halted my steps. How did people live with all this noise pollution? Not to mention, the smells were worse than a druggy vomiting from withdrawal.
Despite the fact no music sang through my earphones, I slid them into my ears and walked along the sidewalk through town to the skate park. It took longer than I’d expected, but the enormous warehouse-looking structure towered at the edge of the other side of the park. Bands. A strange building with an eclectic appearance. It looked like an old mill meets 1940s theater, with its large wooden water wheel out front, ticket booth, and marquee.
A line of people snaked around the side of the stone-faced, wood-beamed building. There was no way I could wait that long. Too many people, too long a line for my kind of crazy. Someday I’d conquer that demon, but not tonight. Tonight, I needed to land that job I’d crashed enough clubs without paying to know another way existed.The band entrance.
I snuck around back and traipsed up a steep ramp until I found the loading and unloading zone where an eighties wannabe hair band member hefted a set of drums from an SUV.
“Come on. We’re up next. Get a move on.” A shaggy-haired boy’s voice cracked with more irritation than the cymbals clanking at the hands of his band mate.
I raced around the dark-blue Toyota 4Runner that had seen more miles than some of the bums in New York. “Here, let me help. I’m the bartender. I’ll carry one in on my way.”
“Thanks.” He cocked an old man caterpillar eyebrow at me. Probably the other kid’s father. “Aren’t you a little young to be bartending?”
“No.”Shit, shit, shit. I hoped my ID would speak louder than my skinny frame.
I snatched a guitar case and eyed the peeling paint, missing boards, and crumbling stone facade. Yep, I’d fit right in. I entered the building through the backstage entrance. Black walls, curtains, and pipes decorated the place in a dungeon motif. It swaddled me in loving arms of darkness. A small room to my left housed all the band equipment, so I dropped the case, nodded to the band members, then bolted through the backstage entrance to the bar area.
Two bars, one on each side of the dance floor, served the swarming patrons. The one to the left was small so only the one bartender would fit, but the busier one to the right housed two registers, plenty of room, and only one bartender. The lone bartender was zooming around behind the lacquered wood structure, people shouting orders at him. A medieval wrought iron chandelier swayed with the techno beat blaring from the overhead speakers. People crowded together underneath it, some dancing, others trying to scream into one another’s ears over the music.
This was my shot to prove my worth before sharing my job history. After a deep breath, I slid under the bar counter and greeted the first Goth-dressed, black-lipstick-wearing customer. “Whatcha want?”
“Whiskey sour,” the patron shouted.
I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and the sour mix, pouring with precision while scanning the bar menu pricing, then slid an orange rind on the edge of the glass. The man tossed a twenty next to the drink, so I made quick change and pocketed the tip.
The bartender at my side banged on the other register, his full attention on abusing the device. “Damn thing!”
“Beer!” A man with skinny shoulders pointed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, popping the cap off a bottle of beer and sliding it to the patron.
His attention remained fixed on the machine in front of him. “Register won’t give change.”
“Whatcha got?”
He glanced my way with a welcome-to-the-island smile. He tugged the floral print shirt away from his chest and mopped his brow with a napkin.
“I can help, or you can keep beating that machine until you’ve got nothing to work with.”
His face angled to the side, reminding me of an old Hawaiian doll I’d once had at a foster house. “One Long Island Tea, two rum and Cokes, a beer, and a cheeseburger with fries.”
I saw the two twenties in the customer’s hand. “Food tax seven percent?”
“Yeah.” He swiped his brow again.”
“$34.63. Your change is $5.37.”
“Who are you?” the bartender asked. A red light flashed over his dark skin, illuminating his Hawaiian shirt.
I averted my gaze to make change once more. “The new bartender.”
“Awesome!” The overweight man, who looked like he belonged in a Polynesian luau more than a pop-punk and heavy-metal club, winked at me. He reminded me of Ton. A big brotherly type, but softer, friendlier, happier. I liked him. “You starting already? Boss said he hadn’t even interviewed anyone yet.”
