Page 3 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

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I have a slow start to my day after my eventful night. I can’t help but continuously hit snooze on my alarm until a whole hour of ten-minute reminders has gone by.

When I finally get out of bed, it’s almost noon and I’m about to be late for work.

I jump up, realizing I completely overslept, and throw on my work uniform.

Then I run to my bathroom to put my hair in a bun, brush my teeth, and apply a quick coat of mascara.

I grab a banana and fill my water jug, knowing I will be making and consuming a liter of coffee once I get to work to cope with my tiredness.

Stepping outside, my breath is at once taken away by the thick, muggy heat of Tennessee in the summer. I think humidity was invented to keep us humble. I would like to meet one person that looks good after two hours outside on a humid day. News flash, they don’t exist.

I spot my car parked all the way at the outskirts of the parking lot. That’s the problem with working late—by the time I get back to my apartment at 2:30 A.M., every nearby spot is taken by already snoozing residents.

Jogging over to my bright purple old Chrysler Sebring, I click the unlock button on my keychain three times, hearing nothing in response. Ugh, my battery must be dead again. I unlock my trunk and pull out my portable jump box. That’s how often my battery drains—I had to buy a box to keep it alive.

Popping my hood, I hook up the cables and turn the box on, tapping my foot impatiently as sweat starts to form down my back.

After waiting a few more seconds, I rub my steering wheel for good luck and talk to my car.

“Come on, Barney, you’ve got this. I’m already late for work and I promise if you just turn on and drive, I will get you a new battery soon. The best battery I can find.”

When I turn the key in the ignition this time, I let out a quick “yip” in relief when it starts. I hurry out of the car to close my hood and throw the jump box in my trunk.

Turning out of my complex, I begin to feel anxious, like I have every day lately. Tripp has been in charge this past month, and I feel like I’m walking on eggshells at work. A place that used to bring me solace and comfort feels like it’s slipping away from me.

Whiskey Jane’s was originally opened by a man named Seymour and his wife, Jane, who he loved more than anything. He always said that every kiss he shared with Jane was stronger than any whiskey ever made, hence the name of the bar.

They opened back in the late ’70s with only a dream and each other.

The bar became a local favorite on our side of town, and has been for over 50 years.

Seymour passed away in 2003 from an unexpected heart attack and instead of closing the doors on her husband’s livelihood, Jane continued to run the bar like the resilient woman she is.

When I turned eighteen, I was awkward, lanky, and desperate for a job.

I went down every strip of restaurants and bars I could think of in town.

Eventually, I stumbled upon Whiskey Jane’s and walked in.

Jane stood behind the bar looking like a stylish mountain woman.

Long untamed gray curls and large chunky teal earrings framed her sun-aged but gorgeous face.

She looked like a backwoods Dolly Parton.

She had beautiful silver rings on almost every finger and a fitted blue flannel that hugged her frame.

I felt myself shrink in her presence and was intimidated immediately, even though she stood at half my height.

I self-consciously cleared my throat and then stepped towards her.

I started giving her my pitch about why she should hire me and handed her my perfectly typed-up resume that I’d spent hours creating at the local library.

She accepted the paper and waited for me to finish my spiel.

Once I was done stumbling over the reasons why she should hire me with no experience, she smiled and crumpled up my resume, tossing it in the trash.

I stared at her open-mouthed, gaping like a fish, till she said, “Darlin’, you’re the first person I’ve had walk in here and apply for a job with a resume, while lookin’ me in the eyes, in the past ten years. If you want a job, it’s yours.”

So that was it, I started the next day. That’s where my bond and love for Jane began.

She took me in as an awkward, inexperienced high school grad to fill ice bins and serve food.

She transformed me into a confident bar manager.

No to-go order goes without napkins on my watch.

No Karen leaves pounding a negative review into her phone on Yelp.

No piece of gum is found wedged under a table.

I take my job very seriously and Jane’s approval has always meant the world to me.

She helped shape me into the strong woman I am today, after all.

The past few years at the bar have been the hardest I have experienced.

Four years ago, I started noticing that Jane would repeat herself multiple times during a shift.

I originally thought this forgetfulness was just her age and being overwhelmed with the many tasks that there were to handle in a day.

But her mental state continued to decline and after visits with a doctor, Alzheimer’s was found as the cause.

There is nothing that can describe the pain of watching someone you spent years connecting with, slowly forget you.

Every joke and experience you shared together is suddenly a one-sided memory.

The past two years tumbled by with Jane slowing down and growing more agitated and confused until it got to the point that she could no longer drive or come to the bar.

In the last months, Seymour and Jane’s only son, Tripp, came here from New York to move Jane to a memory care facility since she is no longer able to care for herself day to day.

He has never cared about the bar, and through the years, Jane always talked about how he would never visit them once he left town.

So, when he walked in one day and told me he was coming back to Clairesville to run the bar, I was shocked.

Tripp started trying to make changes instantly at the bar. He said that it needed to have a “cleaner” and “refined” aesthetic to attract new customers.

To him, this means changing the charm and grit that created the bar. First, he told me there will be uniforms, which would have Jane in a fit if she saw them. Jane has always been about self-expression and always told staff to “come as they are” to work.

One time I showed up for a shift in a puffy, metallic blue ’80s style prom dress that I found thrift shopping to play a prank on her.

When Jane saw my outfit, she just shouted, “Hey! When did you raid my closet?! Now go over there and start marrying the ketchups.” She didn’t acknowledge my outfit again for the rest of my shift.

The joke ended up on me because I had to work the rest of my shift looking like a clown threw up on me.

I must say, though, my tips were great that night.

Now Tripp has mentioned he wants to paint the bar and change up the interior, too.

Whiskey Jane’s has always had a tradition that you can draw and write on any wall in the bar.

That means every inch is covered in things like scribbled drunken names, funny inside jokes from our regulars, and young hopeful couples marking their initials accompanied by the year in Sharpie hearts.

The interior may be dated and lack beauty to someone like him, but to the locals that have come here for years and years, it feels like home.

Even as a child, Tripp hated spending time at the bar, Jane always mentioned to me.

She said he resented it and hated having to spend time in a place that looked “poor” and run down growing up.

He was always embarrassed by his parents’ business.

The day Tripp finished high school, he moved to New York, saying he needed to get out of this dump.

I could always hear the hurt in Jane’s voice when she would talk to me about this.

She always made excuses for Tripp, though, saying he was meant for bigger and better things than her and Seymour.

Which is why I was extra shocked hearing that he had a sudden interest to move back and run the bar, now that Jane isn’t able to.

I have always been able to read people’s intentions well, I think, and I know there must be an ulterior motive to his sudden interest in the well-being of the bar.

Pulling up in the bar parking lot with the mountain view I love so much, I see that Tripp’s car is already here. I mutter, “Shit,” to myself and quickly turn off my car. I am about to get a lecture for being late.

Checking myself in the mirror quickly, I realize that my mascara has smeared under my eyes from my battery jumping excursion, so I quickly wipe under them with my pointer fingers.

Then I rush out of my car and give myself a pep talk.

There is a bitter taste in my mouth, knowing I’m about to get chewed out by someone who just showed up here randomly and now acts like he knows what he’s doing.

Opening the back door to the bar, I’m at once overtaken by the scent I’ve grown to love through the years. Real wood floors, French fries fresh out of the fryer, and a little bit of stale beer that lingers.

I see Rob, our cook, standing at the flat top getting ready to start some burgers.

Rob is a six-foot-four beast of a man who started here as a bouncer back in the ’90s, but quickly realized he was a teddy bear who couldn’t handle sending people away.

So, he trained to work in the kitchen and has been here ever since.