The Bar Next Door

  The Bar Next Door

  Katia Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by Katia Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or lingering between those two states), or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book has been licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Contents

  1. Monroe

  2. Monroe

  3. Julien

  4. Monroe

  5. Julien

  6. Monroe

  7. Julien

  8. Monroe

  9. Julien

  10. Monroe

  11. Julien

  12. Monroe

  13. Julien

  14. Monroe

  15. Monroe

  16. Monroe

  17. Julien

  18. Monroe

  19. Julien

  20. Monroe

  21. Julien

  22. Monroe

  Save An Indie

  Up next

  I. Your Rhythm

  1. Fader || The Temper Trap

  2. Figure It Out || Royal Blood

  3. My Body || Young the Giant

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Club Katia

  Also by Katia Rose

  One

  Monroe

  HEAD RETENTION: A beer’s ability to maintain its foam head for a measurable amount of time before collapse

  “I’m really sorry, Kayla, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

  I try not to wince as I watch my employee’s face crumple like a failed soufflé.

  “We’ve really loved having you here,” I continue, feeling like I’m making a pathetic it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech to a soon to be ex-boyfriend. Letting staff members go is ten times harder than any breakup I’ve ever been through—and no, I’m not going to reflect on what that says about my past relationships. “You’ve been an awesome employee, and this was a really hard decision to make. Sales just aren’t high enough for me to keep this many staff members now that the holidays are over, and you’re our newest hire. I promise I wouldn’t be doing this unless I had to.”

  Kayla bobs her head and swallows. I hope she’s not about to cry. If she cries, I’m totally going to give her the job back, or at least send her home with a bottle of whiskey this bar can’t afford to part with anymore than it can afford to keep paying her.

  “Your official last day will be two weeks from now, but if you have to leave earlier, that’s completely fine.” I’m giving the two weeks as a courtesy, but even that’s pushing the limits of our finances. I rifle through the papers on my cluttered excuse for a desk and hand her one tucked into an envelope. “I got this ready for you. It’s a reference letter, and you can feel free to give my name and the bar’s number to anyone you apply with. If you want, I can pass your name onto some other managers.”

  Please take the hint, Kayla. Please don’t make me admit that not even angelic cherubs sent from on high could pull two weeks’ pay for you out of their asses if they descended on this bar right now.

  She manages a thin smile as she accepts the envelope. “That would be great, actually, and I understand why you have to let me go.”

  I smile back at her. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t my last resort.”

  She gets up off the stool I keep in here for the rare occasions I need to a have a sit down chat with my employees and pauses at the door.

  “I just want to say that I’ve really liked working here. You’re the first boss I’ve ever had that I’ve actually, um, liked.” Her cheeks go pink. “Is that unprofessional? I didn’t mean to talk shit about my other bosses. Oh damn, I just said ‘shit.’ I’m sorry. I’m fucking this up. Oh, shit! I said fuck. Wait, I mean—”

  She cuts herself off and clamps a hand over her mouth, blushing harder by the minute.

  “This is not a PG rated institution, Kayla,” I inform her with a laugh. “You don’t have to apologize for dropping accidental F-bombs around me, especially when you’ve just lost your job. Honestly, I think that’s the least profanity I’ve ever encountered when letting someone go.”

  She lets out a nervous giggle and drops her hand from her mouth.

  “Have a good night, Kayla.”

  “Thanks, Monroe. You too.”

  She gingerly closes the door to my office—if you can even call this converted broom closet an office—and I slouch back in my chair before letting out a sigh. I hate firing people. In my opinion, it’s the worst part of being a manager. I could complain about the long hours, the never ending scheduling conflicts, or the customers who make the dreaded demand of, ‘I want to speak to the manager,’ but I’ve always seen that as part of the job description. The disappointment of people who’ve trusted, admired, and worked hard for me—just not quite hard enough, or in Kayla’s case, just not at the right time—is never easy enough to pass off as ‘part of the job.’ Those crestfallen faces haunt me like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

  I’ve been reading too many Victorian novels lately, I tell myself as I imagine Jacob Marley floating through the door to rattle his chains at me and tell me off for sending a poor, helpless girl out into the cold.

  Kayla is neither poor nor helpless. She’s a university student who works part time to afford a social life, and in all likelihood, she’ll have another job by the end of the week.

  I still feel bad.

  I start shifting through the papers on my desk to sort out what I need to take home with me tonight. The storage closet I managed to shove a chair and tiny desk into doesn’t have room for a filing cabinet, so my office always looks like an explosion of stationary supplies. I have a few baskets and folders to try to keep things in check, but my shifts here are usually a mad dash between the front of house, back of house, delivery door, and whatever last-minute manager errands I need to run. I periodically poke my head in here to toss receipts inside and let them land where they may. Cleaning up is a futile effort.

  I’ve just about got my things packed when the door gets thrown open so hard it bangs against the drywall.

  “Esti de câlice de tabarnak, it’s dead in here tonight!” exclaims a very loud Québécois accent as the girl emitting it yanks the stool out from where Kayla set it aside and plops herself down. “Comment ҫa va avec toi, putain?”

  In contrast to Kayla, DeeDee doesn’t show any qualms over tossing out half the expletives in the French Canadian dialect before asking me the equivalent of, ‘What’s up, you whore?’

  In fact, nearly everything about DeeDee is a direct contrast to Kayla. The term ‘shame’ is a foreign concept to her; the only thing about DeeDee that’s ever turned pink is the current bubblegum shade of her hair. She’s the kind of person who’d show up at a funeral with a case of vodka coolers and a piñata in an effort to ‘liven things up.’ While she’s not the friend who’ll sit and cry with you over your ex, she is the friend who’ll pull your head out of your bag of Cheetos, make you put something pretty on, and whisk you away to the kind of night where you’re eating pancakes at 3AM and at least one of you has lost a shoe somewhere.

  If Kayla has a sunny disposition, then DeeDee is goddamned solar flare.

  She’s also an
excellent bartender and professional party starter, but not even her spontaneous dance routines on the bar have been enough to up our income lately.

  “I just let Kayla go,” I announce.

  DeeDee twists on the stool to face the general direction of the bar and lifts her hand in a salute. “Adieu, little friend.”

  “Please tell me you never actually called her that to her face.”

  She shrugs. “That’s what I call everyone you ask me to train, and I get them to call me Mamma DeeDee.”

  “I really hope you’re joking.”

  She inspects her nails in response.

  I love this girl all the way from her weirdly round toes to the sprinkle of freckles that dusts her nose—yeah, I’m a poet, and I know it—but sometimes being her boss feels like wrangling a wild steer.

  “I’m heading out now, Mamma DeeDee,” I inform her. “I sent Kayla home already, so against my better judgement, it’s just you and Zach on close tonight.”

  She perks up like a puppy who just got called over for a cuddle. “But Zachy Zach loves me!”

  “I know. That’s the problem.”

  She makes a face. “Don’t be gross, Monroe. He doesn’t like me like that.”

  I don’t know if she actually believes that’s true or if she’s just being wilfully blind, but the heart of our sweet and adorably gallant server Zachary has clearly been resting in DeeDee’s hands since sometime within the first five minutes he met her. The problem is that he is so not her type. He’d be way better for her than the usual asshats with attitude problems she dates, but she shuts the conversation down every time I bring it up. Watching him hopelessly pine after her is a little bit cute, a little bit sad, and a little bit bad for overall employee relations.

  “Just...be gentle with him,” I instruct, “and unless we get some miracle rush, close the place at ten.”

  “Ten?” DeeDee repeats. “Voyons, là! I’m not making any money these days.”

  “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, no one else is either. I’ve had to cut everyone’s hours down. I’m hardly billing any of my own hours just to avoid firing anyone else.”

  She reaches over to place a hand on my arm and squeezes. “Hey, ma belle, ҫa va. We’re gonna make a comeback, okay? It’s always dead at this time of year, mais l’été s’en vient.”

  Summer is on the way.

  That’s the same promise I’ve been holding onto, repeating it like a mantra every time another load of snowfall keeps our customers tucked up at home or huddled in bars with better locations. Even in the high season, it takes something special to lure the students all the way up here past Mont-Royal Station, and usually we are something special: cheap appetizers in the evening, cheap drinks all night long, good DJs with good music, and a party that doesn’t quit until the lights come on.

  It’s not the kind of bar I went to as a student—I was more the ‘dusty Irish pub where I can work on my literature assignments’ sort of girl—but this place is weirdly infectious. We’re a staple of student life, a rite of passage before graduation. We’re supposed to be one of those bars you just have to try.

  “It’s never been dead like this,” I admit to DeeDee. “I keep checking the books, and we’re way behind on any other year. The owner is on my ass to pull my shit together, or else—”

  “The owner can eat a bag of dicks,” DeeDee interrupts. “You’re the best boss ever, and I will get all up in his ugly yeule and tell him to shut it.”

  “Well thank you for that assessment, DeeDee. I appreciate it.”

  I squeeze her hand where it’s still gripping my arm and then reach for my purse on the floor. DeeDee gets up, and we kiss each other on both cheeks before she heads off to dump her stuff in the back and get ready for her shift.

  When it’s busy, I use the staff entrance to leave, but it’s a lot more convenient to go through the main doors out onto Avenue Mont-Royal. I pause in front of the brass taps behind the perpetually sticky wooden bar top and stare out at the familiar view of my kingdom: Taverne Toulouse.

  This place has gone through several looks since it opened in 2001, and the decorations have all been layered on top of one another throughout the years. The original dark leather man cave atmosphere is still detectable under the hipster-era additions of vintage chandeliers, quirky table lamps, and repurposed piping now used as shelving units. An entire wall devoted to graffiti and signatures bears testimony to the thousands of liquor-seeking souls who have wandered in here throughout the ages. There are a lot of penises scribbled on that wall, but there are also some genuinely thought-provoking works of artistry done in hasty sharpie strokes under the glow of the bar’s dim lights. I’ve lose track of time getting swept up in those cryptic messages of love and longing more times than I can count.

  A few of our infamous posters grace the other walls, advertising deals on shots and pitchers with slogans like ‘What have you got Toulouse?’ and ‘You need Toulouse-en up.’ We have a small stage tucked away in a corner next to a DJ booth that faces a makeshift dance floor lined with mismatched leather couches. The latest addition to the decor is a neon sign all the staff pitched in on to get me for Christmas. It’s hung over the door to the toilets and spells out, ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.’

  My employees like to make fun of the way I can storm in and singlehandedly throw a pack of inebriated frat boys out but still always manage to say please and thank you to even the most problematic of customers.

  “Hey, boss. How’s it going?”

  Zach comes out from the back with a load of freshly washed plastic pitchers in his arms and starts arranging them on a shelf underneath the bar. Honestly, I don’t know why DeeDee won’t give him a shot. It’s not like he isn’t handsome. He’s got this scruffy beard with sun-streaked dirty blond hair thing going on that makes him seem like some sort of wholesome farmer boy who could take you for a memorable romp in the hay.

  Objectively speaking, of course. I’m smart enough not to hire men I have any kind of sexual tension with myself.

  “It’s...going. Thanks for asking, Zach. How are you?”

  “Superb,” he answers with a grin.

  That’s one of his adorable Zach-isms: coming up with a different synonym for ‘good’ every time someone asks him how he’s doing.

  “I let DeeDee know that I need you guys to close at ten if things don’t pick up. Sorry to cut your shift.”

  He shrugs. “I understand. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Not like I’m making much money off this crowd, anyway.”

  He nods toward the single occupied table.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Zach nods at me, and I continue. “Was Kayla...okay when she left? I had to tell her we’re letting her go. It just seemed like the fairest thing to do, since she’s the newest hire and her schedule was pretty limited anyway.”

  “Makes sense. She seemed fine. Maybe a little less...peppy, now that you mention it, but I wouldn’t have even thought anything about it if you hadn’t mentioned it.”

  I shift my bag up on my shoulder. “Okay, good.”

  Zach smiles again. I swear this kid’s eyes actually twinkle when he grins. “You’re very sweet, Monroe, to think of her. I’m sure she understands.”

  “Apparently you’re the sweetheart around here, Zach,” I tell him. “I’ve been meaning to let you know, but our latest Google review mentioned you by name and said you were a very attentive and caring server. It’s really impressive to make a strong enough impression on a customer that they remember your name and take the time to write a review about you. Great work.”

  He mockingly puts a hand on his chest. “Anything for Taverne Toulouse. Oh by the way, did you see that the place next door got sold?”

  My interest kicks up like I’ve just caught a whiff of something in the kitchen and can’t tell if it’s burning or not.

  “I didn’t see that. Does it say anything about what’s going in there?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.
The à vendre sign just says vendu on it now.”

  “Let’s hope it’s something good for business,” I muse. “God help us all if it’s another bar.”

  The property next door used to be a bakery with a cute little seating area, but it’s been empty for months, sitting there like a gloomy momento mori to remind me of what Taverne Toulouse might be headed for every time I walk by.

  “They’d be crazy to put a bar in there,” Zach assures me. “This area is oversaturated enough as it is. My guess is that’s why the place got sold instead of rented out again. I’m thinking the buyer might actually be someone looking to convert it for retail.”

  “Maybe it will be a store that makes people really thirsty.”

  Zach indulges me with a laugh before heading to the back again, but I don’t move after he’s disappeared. Instead, I stare out the room in front of me.

  Maybe I’m setting my sights too small. Maybe this is more than a twenty-seven-year-old should want out of life. Maybe I really am limiting myself like I know my parents secretly think, but this view—this one right here, behind the counter of this grimy dive bar that’s held together by prayers, duct tape, and the residue from way too many spilt beers—this is my favourite view in the world.

  Sometimes I let myself imagine it really is my view. I get swept up in plans and possibilities, and I wonder if all the worries and doubts about my path would go away once I put my hands on this bar and called it mine. I could really make this place into something special—not just to me, but to everyone who walks in the door. Once my brain starts heading down that road, I can get sucked into a daydream that last hours.