Page 8 of Timber Hollow
8
Fire Night
twelve days to full moon
T he atmosphere in Coyote Bills on Fire Night is wild. Untamed, chaotic- frenzied energy fills the space. Everyone is dancing, grinding on one another to the music.
Earlier, before we opened, Angel had given me the rundown of what was expected on fire night while we counted our cash drawers. She'd demonstrated a handful of moves that they all do in sync and made sure I had the basics down. It is a fairly simple routine, a sort of line dance with a bit of little dirty dancing flare thrown in. I practiced the moves while I finished my opening duties, fairly confident that I could follow along with the others. Or, at least be able to dance to the music with them.
Around nine I open the slap shots booth for a bit, honestly just killing time. Midnight is the money hour, when Ivy and Angel truly kick off Fire Night by dousing the bar top with alcohol, dropping a lit match onto it.
Dancing on the bartop with flames licking at my legs, and music blaring feels almost as freeing as running through the trees.
Almost.
All of the patrons watch the four of us perform on the bar, cheering and singing along with the music. The die-hard regulars even know the routine– some better than I do.
Angel- the blonde is in front of me, Ivy behind me, and the other bartender that I haven’t had the chance to talk to yet behind her.
George is behind the bar with a couple of fire extinguishers, just in case. He also is running the small side well for simple drinks orders- beers or sodas only. He apparently doesn’t know how to mix drinks. I expected there to be some unhappy Karens in the crowd, unwilling to wait through the performance to get their mixed drink. There's always at least one person. I’ve worked at enough places like this to know it.
I suppose that the clientele of Coyote Bill's are advanced forms of humanity though, because there isn’t a single Karen to be found.
Maybe that’s just a side effect of watching hot women dance on a flaming bar top though.
The four of us bartenders dance and dance, linking arms and doing high kicks- just because Angel shouts "Hey, let's do the can-can!" With a grin plastered across her face. The blonde's laughter is infectious.
Our soundtrack is a sort of mash-up of a few different hits, longer than the average song but just long enough for the routine.
When the flames die down without the help of George's extinguishers, I hop off the bar. Angel and the brunette go over to climb down using a barstool located at the very end. I’m not sure if it is because they were that short or if they just don’t trust themselves to jump to the floor. When they are down, they each grab a rag and the special cleaning spray to wipe down the mess from the fire. Ivy still stands atop the smoking bar, waving patrons in and making an announcement that Slap Shots will be set up again in fifteen.
My little idea has been a hit with the patrons of Coyote Bills. I can’t say if they'd seen other places do it, or if the customers that haunt the doorsteps of Coyote Bills are suckers for pain or praise. I make sure I tell each of my customers that they take it so well for me . I’ve already started to recognize faces, and repeat customers of the Slap Shot.
I really do owe the Renaissance Faire I'd been to a while back—before Ethan— an enormous thank you. One of their bartenders had given me the idea in the first place.
I set up my little station next to the well George had been at, so I could wash shot glasses when I ran out. When I'd done a test earlier, I hadn't brought enough shot glasses over here, resulting in having to close the booth down much earlier than we'd expected.
Already, a line is forming within the crowd before me, eager for a Slap Shot. This area of the bar had been wiped down by Angel while I’d been getting my shot glasses, so there is nothing else to be done, except to open up the booth.
"Care for a Slap Shot?" I ask the first person in line, a barely legal college kid by the looks of him, a snapback hat on his head backward, a polo shirt with the collar popped, and a thick, gaudy gold chain hanging around his neck.
"Yeah, My buddies told me about this. I pay you for a shot and you slap me?" The frat bro asks, the tone of his voice conveying he thinks he’s hot shit. He’s lucky I don’t actually slap the shit out of him.
Wouldn’t want to kill a patron on my second night.
Look at you, deploying survival skills. My wolf snarks, golden eyes hovering at the edges of my subconscious.
"Yep. That pretty much sums it up. Are you buying or not? There are paying customers behind you, if you're not," I say, not giving the douche even an ounce of my energy.
Just the way he holds his head, chin raised, attempting to look down his nose at me tells me everything I need to know about him. I bet his mom asks for the manager for ridiculous reasons, like this douchebag looks to be about to do. Ivy would kick his ass to the curb so fast his head would spin.
"Nah, who's gonna pay for a little bitch like you to slap them?" He says, pushing away from the bar and disappearing into the crowd. I stare daggers into his spine.
Then, I shout "Who's first?" into the waiting line, patrons all rushing up to be the first. "These lovely people will pay a bitch like me to slap them!" I jeer into the crowd, making them laugh.
I feel eyes on me, my wolf suddenly restless in my mind– almost like she recognizes someone . But it only lasts a moment and is quickly forgotten in the clamor before me. Music starts up once more as I begin taking orders, the other bartenders doing the same down the bar from where I stand.
It's around the 15-minute mark that my hand starts to sting, so I swap hands when I smack my patrons. Left, right, left, right. Almost immediately, I realize that offering the full menu for slap shots will be a huge detriment to speed and efficiency. Patrons have come up and ordered a full mixed drink or a pitcher of beer, either not realizing they were in line for slap shots or not caring. Motioning to Ivy, I serve everyone who comes to my end, but she needs to help me separate the lines so I don’t get bogged down.
Oh, and to make a menu or something over here.
Ivy recognizes my issue immediately when she jogs down the bar, hopping on top of a bucket to get the attention of the crowd, separating the lines quickly and efficiently. She also writes "shots only" with an arrow pointing at me on a torn-off bit of cardboard, taping it to the post at my end.
"Thank you!" I shout to Ivy as she gets off the bucket. She gives me a wave as she walks away.
Another hour passes before I'm ready to close the slap booth. My hands are now cherry red, and my stomach is practically eating itself. After one last customer, I move the tip jar to the back of the bar and wipe down the wood surface. More than a few patrons made a bit of a mess when my palm connected with their cheek.
Task complete, I start to walk away when a patron says "Don’t go!" from somewhere in the crowd.
It makes me laugh, so I shout "I’ll be back!" Then I slip out from behind the bar while the others continue slinging drinks. Angel and Ivy are clearly better than the brunette. But it’s time for this blonde to get some grub.
Still, my wolf paces.
The double doors with a circular window at eye level for the kitchen considerably quiets the booming of the music. Combined with the roar of fans, the grill loaded with sizzling meats, and bubbling fryers.
"Hey, Darlin'’," Cook greets as I cross the threshold into his domain.
"Hey, Pookie," I reply, making my way over to the large sink to wash my hands. They smell like gin and cleaning solution.
"Need some grub?" He chortles, flipping a burger on the grill and pulling a basket of fries out of the bubbling oil. I guess he doesn’t mind my impromptu nickname.
"Please," I answer, sitting down on the stool next to where a mound of potatoes is piled high on the table, grabbing the peeler where it had been discarded.
"You ain't gotta do that Darlin'. You just sit there and let ol' Cook fix you some eats." He says as I begin to peel potatoes. Cook effortlessly drops another batch of fries into the oil, turning to grab a roll from the shelf of fresh bread from the bakery in town.
"The way I see it, Pookie, you help me, I help you," I reply without looking at the much older man, not even bothering to hide the wide smile on my face. He grunts but doesn't say anything else.
I manage to peel six potatoes, sending them through the slicer one by one by the time Cook is done with my order— a meatball sub and a handful of french fries. Cook places them down on the table before me, sprinkling the potatoes with a healthy dose of salt and pepper.
" Bone apple teeth ," Cook says with an entirely straight face, though there is a twinkle in his grey eyes. Unable to contain myself, I throw my head back and cackle.