Page 10 of His Last Shot

He waves his hand in the air. “Nonsense. You know I always make time for you.” He casually leans against the front of his desk, crossing his ankles. The arms follow, resting on his protruding belly.

I take a deep breath in for courage and spit it out. “I am going to have to cut back some of my hours here at the bar.”

His eyebrows raise. “Why is that? Have you been having some flare-ups?”

“No, no. That’s been fine. Well, not fine, but not getting any worse, which is good.”

The words explode from my mouth, a chaotic jumble of emotions and confessions.

“I want to go to nursing school,” I blurt out.

“Nursing has always been my passion, and I think it’s about time that I find work that will be more stable.

” My hands are gesturing and flaying as I talk.

“I can go to school in the morning, study, then come here to bar tend if you need it. Then, of course, you know I would always be here on the weekends to help, so don’t worry about that.

I know it’s not convenient, but I really want this. I’ve always wanted it. And then…”

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, his hand shoots up, cutting me off.

“Rachel, slow down. You’re rambling again.

” He uncrosses his arms and grips the desk, letting out a heavy sigh.

“You know I’m starting pool tournaments here, right?

Like next week. I’m going to need you here to help with that. ”

“You could hire someone.” My voice rises as I offer this as a solution quicker than I should .

“Hmmm.” He takes a stroll around the room before sitting behind his desk again, pen in hand, continuing the task that held his attention before my arrival. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“A while now. I’ve always been interested in it.” He continues to write, head down, as if now, since I need something for me, this conversation is a waste of his precious time.

“And you think with your RA you can do this?” he asks, squinting at me.

“Come on, Rachel.” A condescending tone laces his words.

“How would this work? What if you have a flare-up? Will the instructors be as understanding as I am if you need time off? Or if you get a job. Will you call off all the time? No boss, other than me, can help you, Rachel. You know that, right?”

Disappointment quivers across my lip and plummets straight to my heart.

My shoulders droop because …

He’s right.

Every doubt I had I heard in his reasonings.

No one will hire me if I’m defective. How could I put in the time for school?

Is it feasible for me to pursue a career in nursing, given the physical demands of being on your feet constantly?

The answers are as clear as a sunny day with no clouds in sight. None of this is possible.

A pipe dream.

So stupid, Rachel.

“Yes,” I agree while lowering my gaze to the floor, silently chiding myself for ever considering that this was a possibility for me.

Turning to leave his office, he calls my name. “Rachel?” My hand trembles on the doorknob as I pivot to meet his gaze. “I can’t run this place without you. We are a family. And family”—we both say in unison—“sticks together as one.”

He nods, a triumphant smirk crossing his lips, and raises his eyebrow as if to say, ‘ See, I’m always right!’ “You got it.”

He’s satisfied, because he won. Again.

I respond with a smile, forced and tense.

That mantra we recited on repeat after my parents passed was comforting.

It was nice to know that despite losing our parents in one of the most tragic of ways, we still had family that cared for us and had our backs.

Anytime some sort of adversity would attack us, we would all repeat in unison, ‘We are family. And family sticks together as one.’

That chant helped me in more ways than one. But now, as a thirty-year-old woman, this family and those words are like a prison.

“Oh, yeah, one more thing, since we are on the topic of your health.” I have no idea what he’s going to say next. “How is your physical therapy going? Is it helping?”

“Um … Okay, I guess.” My therapist is currently an hour’s drive away. Even though there are PT facilities in this area, it’s hard to find a physical therapist that specializes in therapy for those with RA.

“I wonder if it would be better for you to just do the exercises at home. I really need you here at the bar.” The intensity of his stare makes it impossible to refuse. My uncle doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever.

“Okay, yeah, sure. I can do that.” To be fair, those long drives twice a week felt like such a chore, especially since my presence was constantly required here at the bar.

“Perfect.” He settles in his big leather chair. “Shut the door on your way out, will ya?”

I know when I’m being dismissed. I walk out of his office and click the door shut behind me.

On heavy legs (both literally and figuratively), I walk down the hallway and out into the bar area. The hurt and burning in my knees reminds me that my uncle is right. This job is hard enough. Nursing? Forget about it.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not heartbreaking all the same.

And therapy? I guess that isn’t happening anymore. It was too far away, anyhow.

Nothing in my life is working.

The Oldies but Goodies are here for their nightly drink together, and as soon as I enter their line of sight, they all light up.

I love these three men. They have been a presence in my life since I was a teenager.

Countless times they have given me advice, fought off handsy customers, and made me feel like one of their own.

The three of them started coming in for their evening meet-up about fifteen years ago.

Slick was the sole reason I passed math in tenth through twelve grades.

One of my favorite things growing up was coming here to the bar after school and hanging out in the office until dinner.

It was Micah who gave them the nickname Oldies but Goodies, and they loved it because they loved us.

They range in age from sixty-five to seventy.

And since they know me so well, they immediately can sense my sour mood.

“What’s up, Rachel? Everything okay?” Slick asks first as he takes a sip of his beer.

I shrug as I go about my pre-shift ritual. Stocking glasses, making sure the ice maker is full, garnishes, mixers, and syrups are all lined up and ready to go. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tiny chimes in next. “Dexter giving you a hard time?”

“What did he do now?” Randy joins in as Micah walks out of the kitchen holding clean white plates he stacks neatly behind the bar.

“What did who do?” Micah asks.

“Stop it, guys. It’s nothing. Really,” I retort, needing to put the whole thing behind me.

“Yeah, right!” Slick exclaims. “As soon as you left Dexter’s office, you looked like someone killed your pet puppy. Now spill.”

I meet Micah’s gaze, and his furrowed brow tells me everything I need to know—he’s worried. “Rach? What’s going on?”

I study each of the four men carefully. Men who would move hell or high water to protect me.

Men who treat me with respect, dignity, and pride.

Why shouldn’t I tell them what I asked Uncle Dexter about?

I know they would support me and be understanding of a dream that will never come true.

So what’s the harm in telling them? Plus, maybe, if I let more people in, talk about this out loud, it won’t feel like such a long shot anymore.

And these guys know how to extract information out of me. It’s an art form at this point.

I let out a long exhale. “I told Uncle Dexter that I want to go to nursing school. ”

“Heck ya!—That’s incredible!—Nice going kiddo!” The OBGs all cry out at once.

Micah runs a tired hand over his stubbled face, his eyes heavy-lidded as I regard him. He knows but asks anyway, “How did he take it?”

“As good as to be expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tiny asks. “He’s happy for you, right?” Anxiety etches itself on all three of their faces.

“Not necessarily. He just reminded me how hard it would be with my RA and that he needs me here since we are starting the tournaments soon.” I keep my head down, busy filling the sliced limes.

“I mean, he’s right. How could I possibly go to school and work in a demanding job like nursing with me being me? ”

Tiny’s eyebrows lower and pinch together. “That’s such bull—”

“Language!” Slick and Randy yell out.

The OBGs have been watching their cussing lately. There’s no swear jar. They only yell at each other as a reminder. It’s funny to watch them school each other when one slips. Despite my sour mood, this whole exchange forces me to smile.

Tiny flips his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Anyway, that’s so ridiculous. Don’t let his small opinion of you and his laziness in hiring any help around here stop you!”

“He’s right, Rach,” Randy chimes in. “You are totally capable.”

All three nod before sipping their beers. It doesn’t escape my notice that my brother has been awful quiet throughout this entire conversation. “What do you think, Micah?”

He studies me as he pulls his apron over his head, getting ready to start his shift as head of the kitchen. Micah has big dreams, as well. He wants to go to culinary school and someday become a chef and own his own restaurant. But just like me, he’s trapped.

“Tiny’s right.” Tiny sits a little taller in his chair, something he does any chance he gets.

“But maybe you should wait just a little longer, you know, until these tournaments get started. Hopefully, Uncle Dexter will see that we need help, and that might be the right time to bring it up again.” He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently, then makes his way to the kitchen.

As the OBGs delve into a political discussion, I refocus on preparing for my shift while trying to forget about my shattered dream.

The events of these last few hours whirl around in my head.

The talk with nurse Renee, the renewed sense of purpose I had after, then the crushing defeat once I talked to Uncle Dexter.

How the OBGs were supportive, as usual. How my brother knew my uncle’s reaction, even though he wasn’t in the room with us.

A stray tear tracks over my cheek when a voice cuts through the noise in my head.

“What’s wrong?” My gaze shoots up, and standing in front of me … is Johnny.

His nostrils flare. “Who made you cry?”