I Dont Ever Want That Problem To Go Away…

There are pros and cons to running a dive bar in the middle of downtown Pittsburgh. 

Pro: It’s easy work. Never really busy, but with enough steady foot traffic and loyal regulars that help you make ends meet. 

Con: It’s a shithole. That’s why it’s never really busy. 

Pro: It’s close enough to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center that sometimes the unbelievably pretty medical staff grace you with their presence, and most of them tip quite well. 

Con: It’s close enough to PTMC that more often than not, patient’s stressed partners and family come in to take a load off, to have a drink and clear their minds. They typically do not tip well. 

For the most part, you enjoy the monotony of the job. Pour some beers, twist open wine coolers, serve up a burger that is so wet with grease you’re not sure how they’ll keep it together. Pour more beers, drop off a load of dishes, if you’re lucky make a cocktail or two. Offer some kind words to a stranger with sad eyes, clean up a spill, and pour a few more beers. It’s all second nature after bartending for over a decade, and despite the lack of tips from the hospital crowd, you are usually happy to offer a distraction or a reprieve to any soul that ends up in one of your barstools. 

If anyone asks you, though, you’d gladly tell them that the regulars are your favorite part. The regulars, who celebrated with you when you got promoted to manager a few years back. The regulars, whose names you sometimes may not know, but whose order you have committed to memory. The unhoused man who comes in for an order of fries and shelter from the cold, paid for with a couple of scraped together quarters and a grateful smile when you sneak a foil-wrapped hot dog in with the order. The young couple who rent the shoebox apartment upstairs, who have date night at the table below your favorite neon sign every Friday and ask for updates on your cat whenever they can. Dr. Robby from the ER, who you lovingly refer to as Dr. Damn (because damn, are doctors allowed to look like that?) and who orders burgers to go on his way home from a long shift. Sweet Louie, rest his soul, who preferred to do his drinking at home most of the time, but liked your company so much he would stop in for a few on occasion. 

Like a mother asked to pick between her children, you could never pick a favorite regular…but also as you imagine all mothers do, though you would never admit it out loud, someone does come to mind when you’re asked. 

November 

Winter chill has officially settled upon downtown Pittsburgh, the first snowfall of the season dusting the sidewalks and scaring away the rest of the already dwindling foot traffic outside. Not that you usually see a ton of business on Tuesdays, but it’s almost too quiet even despite your thinning crowds lately. There’s a man that looks to be in his early seventies nursing a scotch at the end of the bar, but he’s made it quite clear that he only wishes to talk when he needs a top-off, so you’re busying yourself with dusting off some of the less used bottles of liquor on the top shelf when the bell on top of the door rings. 

A chill blows in with the wind when man you’re certain you have never had the pleasure of serving before comes in. He’s bundled in a well loved wool overcoat and matching olive green beanie, cheeks pink and wind bitten beneath barely-there stubble. He offers a polite smile as he approaches the bartop with a confident sway in his step and points to one of the many, many empty stools. His eyes wrinkle in the corners with the hint of a laugh at his own joke when he asks, “this seat taken?” 

He’s in his late forties if you had to guess, but the years have treated him well. Yeah, you’d definitely remember if you’ve served him before. 

You try to stamp down the flutter in your chest when you catch his eye and grin back, gesturing to the same seat. “I think you’re safe.” Turning to reach for a menu behind the register, you ask over your shoulder, “what can I get you to drink? There’s no official drink menu but I like to think I can make just about anything you throw at me.” 

“Coffee?” He barbs, rough voice lifting at the end as if he knows the absurdity of the request. 

The Budweiser branded clock on the wall above the door tells you that it’s just past 6:20 PM, and as your eyes shift back to the customer in front of you, his assured face tells you he doesn’t really care. 

You chew on the inside of your lip before sighing and accepting defeat. “In my defense, I did say just about anything. Best I can offer you is a Red Bull, though that’s usually accompanied by a vodka or tequila ‘round here.” 

He shakes his head, slowly, but with a growing smile. Then, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the chair beside him, he asks, “I take it you don’t have a breakfast menu then?” You know he knows the answer, the broad grin that finally breaks out across his features tells you that he’s messing with you, but still, his persistent stare begs an answer. 

Placing the single sheet of laminated printer paper that passes as a menu on the bartop in front of him, you tap one manicured finger against the short list of items. “Nope.” 

While his eyes scan the menu, he continues to shed his winter layers, leather gloves joining the coat beside him and then he removes the beanie, revealing a once-tidy crop of salt and pepper hat hair. A hand absent mindedly runs through the curls a few times, trying to tame it before tapping heavily on the counter, outstretched finger pointed at a burger on the menu called The Hangover. 

“There!” he says, triumphant, “you can put eggs and bacon on a burger, what’s stopping you from skipping the burger part?” 

“The rules!” You exclaim with a laugh, setting an ice water on a worn coaster in front of him. Crossing your arms across your chest, you lean heavily on the counter behind you and narrow your eyes at this stranger – though the corners of your mouth twitch enough to betray the hard gesture. “If I let you play fast and loose with my menu, what’s stopping everyone else in here from making substitutions and asking for special treatment!?” 

The dark grey tee shirt he wears stretches tight over a broad chest as he leans back in the chair, mirroring your crossed arms. He looks around the room with one raised brow, neck craning, lips pursed, then back at you. A challenge. 

You kick off the counter with heavy shoulders and a roll of your eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Over easy, if you care.” He chuckles out in lieu of a thank you. 

Passing through the double hinged doors that lead to the tiny kitchen, you can't help but laugh at yourself. You’re not quite sure why you’re putting up this much of a fight…only that this man seems to enjoy picking back at you just as much as you enjoy giving him a hard time. 

It doesn’t take much of a fight to convince the kitchen staff to go off-menu, mainly because the “kitchen staff” is just one linecook (high) and one dishwasher (17, also high). Before you know it, you’re exiting the kitchen carrying a plate piled high with fried eggs, grilled bacon, and even a burger bun sliced thin and toasted on the cooktop. You have two different hot sauces tucked into the pocket of your bistro apron, and in your other hand you hold the canned cold brew from your lunchbox as a potential consolation prize for the lack of a hot coffee. 

It’s with a chest-deep sigh and hands clasped in gratitude over his heart that he practically croons, “you’re a hero.” 

The plates clink against the polished counter when you set them in front of him, joking, “It ain’t much,” another clunk, thump from the hot sauces, “but it’s breakfast.” Lastly, the cold brew, held out toward him, an offering rather than set on the counter. “This isn’t for sale, but it’s yours if you want it. I can have a Red Bull instead.” 

“Those energy drinks are awful for your heart, you know,” he mutters, but reaches for the can regardless, continuing, “but I guess the same could be said about my three cups of coffee a day. So. Thank you…” He eyes the name badge that you scratched out and covered up with the label maker long ago, after a particularly annoying regular felt like knowing your name made him entitled to much more than customer service. The man in front of you now clearly doubts the made-up name. “...Delores?” 

“Happy to help,” you hum, nose wrinkled, “gave me something to do.” 

You leave him to eat his breakfast for dinner, top off the old man’s scotch, and find some busywork. All the while you feel a pair of eyes on you, a tingling sensation at the base of your neck that makes you blush even with your back turned, until he calls you over to request the bill just before 7 o’clock. 

“$8.99,” you say, sliding the ticket toward him, “there wasn’t really a way to ring it in. Didn’t think it would be fair to charge you twelve dollars for a burger – hold the burger.” 

“Well I do appreciate it,” his voice is like honey as he pulls his coat back on, reaches for his wallet, and throws a twenty on top of the bill. He taps it meaningfully before sliding it back in the same way you did, and when you begin to turn to make change he puts a hand atop yours to stop you in your tracks. “It’s all set. For being so accommodating.” 

His fingertips leave goosebumps in their wake as they brush against the back of your hand, and suddenly you’re stuttering, tripping over your words in what should be a simple transaction that you do every day. “Oh, n-no,” you breathe a nervous laugh, and it’s music to his ears, “no, that’s over a hundred percent tip, I couldn’t accept that, sir.” 

“Jack,” he corrects, eyes dropping to where your hand is still hovering awkwardly, stunned from his touch, and then his smile falters into a smirk. He turns to leave before you can attempt to give him any change again. “Keep it. Please. Maybe instead of menu substitutions, next time I can convince you to give me your real name.” 

_____

The next time Jack visits, it’s a little busier. Still nothing crazy, but as the holidays get closer, business picks up more and more. 

Two men sit at the bar and chat, coworkers you assume, as they talk about spreadsheets and  numbers and Karen from Accounting over cheap light beer and loosened ties. A group of friends take up two of the small tables by the window and catch up on what everyone’s missed since they last talked. Three middle aged men take turns shooting pool in the back, and one of their wives has set up shop next to the jukebox with a small stack of quarters. 

The sounds of traffic filter in with the cold when he enters, almost looking apologetic that he let the winter in. Wool coat. Leather gloves. Tired eyes and friendly smile. You hate to admit you missed that smile. He’s only been in this place one damn time, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his visit, that you weren’t quietly hoping for his return.

Jack takes a seat at the end of the bar closest to the kitchen, shedding his outer layers once more, and he notices something behind the bar that makes him huff a harsh laugh. “That for me?” He asks when you approach, pointing behind you at the single cup coffee maker that now sits next to the garnish bar.

“Not just for you,” it’s hard to hide the delight in your voice, an almost musical quality that strikes him deep in the chest. His request for coffee a couple of weeks ago definitely was the tipping point, but you aren’t about to give him the satisfaction of that information. “But, I don’t make a habit of lying to customers, and I mean it when I say I can make just about any drink…you just happened to help me realize that I was missing out on a whole sub-section of drinks without the proper equipment." He’s amused with your answer, arms crossed again and a clear focus on trying not to grin wider. “So thank you, Jack. What can I get started for you?” 

The look on his face can only be described as smug, and he leans forward with an elbow on the counter to deliver his next practiced, teasing line. “Can you make me a matcha?” 

Your face falls flat and he poorly stifles a laugh, but you recover quickly. “I can make you a green tea shot or brew the coffee through a handful of grass from out back, take your pick.” 

“Black coffee is perfect,” he leans back in the chair again, “hold the grass.” 

“There he goes, ordering off menu again, I gave you two clear options and you choose neither!” You tease, finishing and mixing a round of the aforementioned green tea shots for the group of friends in a tin shaker. You pour them without dropping his gaze. “If you must, I’ll get that going for you. You eating tonight?” 

One of the young girls from the group takes the tray of shots from you with a nod of thanks and wanders away to her friends. 

Jack studies the menu for a long while, and after a thoughtful pause, orders a burger. 

“Oh you’re not going for your usual?” You tease, taking the menu back. 

“Is it considered ‘usual’ if I ordered it one time?” 

You snort, “I was going to name it after you and call it The Jack Special, but it didn’t pack as much punch without a last name…I’ll get this back to the kitchen for you.” 

With more business this visit, you leave him to eat in peace, pouring a few more drinks, making a pitcher of margaritas for the group of friends that are growing louder as time goes by. After putting in and delivering an appetizer sampler for the billiards players and making sure everyone else was attended to, you busy yourself by the garnish tray, peeling and cutting lemons. 

The woman at the jukebox has queued up a few of your favorite songs that are available on the aging machine, and you find yourself humming along with Celine Dion’s famous cover of It’s All Coming Back to Me Now without even realizing it as you work.

It hits you again, that feeling at the nape of your neck that tells you someone is watching. Your cheeks heat, but you remain focused on the task at hand. The last thing you want on a shift is a trip to the ER down the street for stitches. Under your breath, a few soft lyrics pass your lips as you try to ignore the feeling of eyes on you, of Jack's eyes on you, if your suspicions are correct. 

If you touch me like this, and if I kiss you like that– It was gone with the wind, but it's all coming back to me– 

There’s a scoff behind you, but it feels light, not unkind. 

“Were you even alive when this song came out?” 

You turn back to study him again with a scrutinizing squint, your gaze lingering on the silver in his sideburns, the gentle crows feet that you know deepen when he smiles – which he is not now. He’s waiting, patiently but with raised brows for your response. 

“I think? Probably. Barely.” You can’t stop yourself from saying what you do next, framing the playful remark with both elbows on the counter in front of him. “Why? Jealous ‘cause the radio was already invented in time for my childhood, old man?” 

You normally wouldn’t be caught dead trying this kind of banter with anyone after only meeting them one and a half times, but you savor the way his eyes light up at your teasing, how his jaw ticks and he leans a little too far into your space with a mischievous glare and holds your eye for a moment before relenting. 

“You wound me, sweetheart.” Hand to his chest, napkin tossed aside in faux drama. 

Working in the service industry, you’ve been called your fair share of pet names, including ‘sweetheart,’ by all sorts of patrons…but there’s something in his low tone, the roguish gravel of his voice when he uses the term of endearment that temporarily stuns you. 

Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart.  

Warmth blooms in your cheeks and down the back of your neck as you bite the inside of your lip, smile, and blink dumbly. 

“Is ‘sweetheart’ too much? I could opt for honey,” He asks, clearly seeing how his words affected you, but there isn’t an ounce of hesitation. Frankly, he enjoys the way his affection tripped you up. “I was just trying it out, you know, since I never got your name.” 

You shake yourself back to Earth and fix a more collected, calculated customer service smile onto your lips, then scoop the pile of his dishes onto the bussing cart to go back to the kitchen. Turning the thought around in your mind a few times, you consider telling him. There’s a reason you don’t often share your real name with customers, but you’re certain there isn’t much you wouldn’t do if it meant Jack would keep looking at you like that. Hopeful smile, fondness in his eyes that weighs on his lashes, eyes never leaving yours even as he stands to don his coat and hat again. By the time you’ve told him your name, he’s already tossed another wad of cash on the counter, not even bothering with the bill. 

He repeats the name with a small nod, and shakes your outstretched hand with both of his own in a warm and secure embrace. 

 It’s almost an after thought — “Abbot, by the way!” – the comment tossed over his shoulder as he turned to leave, hands now shoved in his coat pockets. You make a noise of inquiry and he adds, “my last name. I expect to see the Jack Abbot special on the menu next time I’m in.” 

As you watch him leave, making a mental note of the slight uneven lilt in his step, you murmur, “I’ll get right on that.”

December

Jack Abbot missed his favorite diner.

That’s how he found himself in your bar a few weeks ago, at Robby’s suggestion.

The run-down diner was never the healthiest choice, and more often than not he would have his evening breakfasts in the solitude of his apartment where he could whip up his own egg white and spinach concoction that doesn’t need a name because it’s healthy, okay? 

But sometimes with a four PM wakeup call and a long night shift ahead of him, the best and only pick-me-ups are greasy diner breakfasts and the strongest, blackest brew that an industrial coffee pot can muster. When the diner around the corner from his apartment closed down, he tried his best to just do without, even tried a couple chains, but the Waffle House and Denny’s didn’t hold a candle to the heart and comfort of his diner. Eventually, Robby got tired of hearing him complain. 

“You want me to get breakfast…before my twelve hour shift…in the emergency department…at a bar.” Jack had said, incredulous at the suggestion his long time friend had given him at patient handoff. 

“Your breakfast time is the average Joe’s dinner, man,” Dr. Robby replies with a sarcastic laugh, “they’ve got good burgers, it won’t kill ya to enjoy one for breakfast once in a while.” 

Abbot sucks his teeth, scanning the patient chart in front of him and ignoring the pestering from his friend and coworker. 

“Obviously I’m not going to force you, Jack, but the food is good, it’s right down the street, and the bartender is cool.” Robby claps him on the shoulder, tired eyes tracking something behind Jack’s head. When there’s a desperate call for extra hands in Trauma 2, Robby starts to jog that way, calling back to Abbot, “You’ll like it, is all I’m saying!” 

Damn Michael Robinavitch. He knows him too well. 

The very first visit drew him in. The place had a certain charm to it, the dingy lighting, cracked and peeling wallpaper that - while stained and faded with time - was visibly clean. A real jukebox sat in the corner, modernized of course, but not one of those app-controlled wifi monstrosities…it actually ran on coins and flipped through disks to find the chosen song. Something about the place kept him coming back, and wanting to do so often. 

Not the food, though it was thrilling that he was able to still somehow charm an off-menu breakfast out of you. No, it wasn't the food that hooked him at all, but the woman who served it with a smile and a little bit of bite. 

It’s after his third or fourth visit in early December that he gets called out at the shift handoff. 

“Somebody’s perky today,” Dana observes, looking meaningfully overtop the reading glasses perched at the end of her nose, tracking Jack’s movement as he passes with a pep in his step the don’t often see. 

“Somebody’s been perky a lot lately,” Perlah adds with a suspicious grin as Princess mumbles something in Tagalog that only she hears. 

“Not sure what you mean.” Jack avoids eye contact, and instead fixes his attention on Robby barreling down the corridor at him, iPad in hand and eager to pass his patients on after what seems to have been a hectic day. He turns to meet Robby halfway, hands clasped behind himself in militant posture as he does, “if you’ll excuse me ladies.” 

He’s grateful for the reprieve when Robby starts, all business as soon as the pair are within earshot, though he isn’t lucky for long. 

“Alright brother, your asthmatic pneumonia patient, real comedian that guy, he’s still in five. He’s stable enough, but still waiting on a room upstairs, and he isn't doing himself any favors triggering his own laughing fits that spawn even worse coughing fits. There's an abdominal GSW in twelve that– why do you look like that?” 

As far as Jack is aware, he was listening intently, ready for a rundown of what he needs to know before starting his shift, but as he continues walking toward the lockers to drop his bag and winter layers, his colleague stops dead in his tracks. There’s a few feet of space between them when he turns back, nurses and hospital staff flitting between them as if the two men weren’t even there. A rough hand runs down Abbot’s face, wiping away any trace of glee that may have been there before. Absently scratching at the stubble along his jaw, he finally lets out an incredulous, “look like what, Robinavitch?” 

“Ouch,” Robby guffaws, once again falling into step beside his friend. “Full naming me after all these years.” 

“Yeah, well, you earned it.” Jack mumbles, forcefully arranging his belongings in his small, hospital-provided locker. He slams the door, gives the combination lock a twirl to secure it, then faces Robby, both hands on his hips. “Can’t a guy just be happy to start his day at work?” 

“Not here,” Dr. Ellis snorts from a few lockers down, slamming her own door and meandering off. 

“See? The peanut gallery agrees. You’ve practically got hearts in your eyes, man,” Robby points after the resident, a smug hike in his brows before they fall and a thought dawns on him. If it were any more obvious, Jack would say an honest-to-god lightbulb appeared over his head in time with a gaping, shit-eating grin. “Oh I see! You went and saw your girl, didn’t you? I thought I smelled bacon on you.” 

“Not my girl, Michael.” 

“Yikes, that’s worse than Robinavitch.” 

“Catch me up on my patients, please.” Abbot huffs and shoves the other man toward the door lightly. The pair make their way back out of the locker room and into the hustle and bustle of the ER. “It’s almost past your bedtime old man.” 

_____

It’s a Christmas miracle when one late December evening Robby and Abbot are able to end their shift together. A Christmas miracle, or perhaps some lucky combination of shift rotation and Dr. Al-Hashimi’s desire to work the night shift once every few months to get a deeper understanding of the inner-workings of the PTMC emergency department. 

The day was not a calm one, full from start to end with the usual revolving door of chaos and bookended by two rather difficult patient losses; a former Vietnam combat medic in end-stage liver failure with whom Jack swapped horror and valor stories alike while he awaited a bed upstairs, and a car accident victim who spent so long out in the cold, she barely made it from the paramedic’s hands to the Pitt crew before succumbing to her hypothermia. Despite it all, the night shift all trickled in soon enough and they began the process of patient debriefs and handoffs. That is, until the red phone cut through the chaos with a shrill warning, and Dana answered as she always does, with a sharp focus and baited breath.

“School bus rollover accident.” Was all she said, the threat of tears that she wouldn’t let fall until far later prickling her tone, “the Pittsburgh Perry High marching band was on the way to play in the goddamn holiday lights parade and some fucker blew through a red and t-boned the biggest, brightest, fucking yellow target ever. Asshole.” As she explained, Robby and Abbot shared the same look, an unspoken promise that their post-shift plans were most definitely on hold until further notice. She went on to continue, most of the students fortunately only had some superficial wounds and a great deal of panic, but one poor girl and one parent chaperone were pronounced dead on arrival, three more students were soon to arrive via Medevac in critical condition, and it can only be expected that some of the less critical but still emergent victims will follow. It’s not a mass casualty event by any means, but it sure does shake things up enough to keep the day shift on the edge for an additional four hours. 

So by the time things calm, at least on an emergency room standard, and the night crew practically force them out the door, the nurses and residents are already tittering about a debrief in the park. 

And two tired attending physicians are asked to join. 

And two tired men share another knowing look before declining as politely as possible. 

After almost getting busted with open containers a few months back, Robby decided his after work debrief drinks would be from a licensed establishment moving forward. Jack, however, usually prefers to take solace in his bed after a long shift, but this is a rare occasion and they agreed to go for a drink or two after the shift when they clocked in, so they find themselves at your bar before long enough. 

It’s a decent Saturday night for you. Busy enough to utilize your rare second bartender (a sweet girl named Leslie,  who helps out when she is home from college on winter and summer breaks), but not so busy that both of you feel frantic. The holidays always bring extra business, families coming in from out of town and looking for a cheap drink, if anything can be considered cheap these days. 

“Heads up,” Leslie says, cracking open two White Claws and leaning in as she passes so that she doesn’t have to say the rest of her warning too loud, “Dr. Damn just walked in, and he brought a friend.” The tone of her voice when she says friend is suggestive enough as is, but when you look up to her, she raises her eyebrows excitedly and directs your attention with a subtle nod. 

You expected another too-handsome colleague, the way she said it, or maybe a date? You’ve never seen Robby with a companion, but it’s nearing 11:30 and it’s much too late for his post-shift bacon cheeseburger, so it makes sense that he brought company. 

Who you don’t expect to see strolling up to the counter beside him – wool coat next to leather jacket, tired eyes next to even-more-tired half smile – is Jack Abbot, the man leading the campaign for your favorite regular as of late. 

“He- hey!” You beam, unable to stifle your excitement at seeing the two men, despite the shock of seeing them together. Robby holds up two fingers in a cross between a peace sign and a wave, thumb still hooked into the strap of his work bag, and Jack’s smile seems to grow warmer at the sight of your eyes flicking quickly between the two men. You try to regain composure and set a menu and a couple of coasters out in front of them before settling your hands on your hips. “If it isn’t Dr. Damn and my favorite pain in my ass! What’re you two doing here at this hour?” And together, you want to add, but bite your tongue. 

They sit at the bar, coats abandoned on the back of their stools, and they both look bone-tired. You’re used to this look on Robby, but Jack looks particularly wrecked – eyes dark, hair a riot, lids heavy with sleep. You’ve learned over his last few visits that he works the night shift, that’s why he always comes in begging for breakfast at dinner time, but he never mentioned where he worked overnight. 

Despite his weariness, Jack doesn’t let the nickname go unnoticed, smirking at the remark and eyeing his friend, amused. “Dr. Damn?” 

Elbows heavy on the wooden bartop, palms scrubbing over his face, Robby lets out a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Don’t ask. At least not before I have a Yuengling in front of me.” 

You raise your brows at Jack for his own order, but he only holds up two fingers with a single quick nod, indicating he wants the same. 

When you set the glass bottle in front of him, he speaks up. “How come I don’t have an objectifying nickname?”  His eyes light up just a little when they meet yours, lifting the bottle to his lips and smirking. 

“He may have gotten a nickname,” you tease and shove the menu a little further towards him, “but his name isn’t on the menu.” 

Not all of them, of course, but you have one paper menu that you stash behind the register for whenever he comes in, his order scrawled in permanent marker along the bottom.

THE JACK ABBOT SPECIAL Two fried eggs (stolen from the Hangover burger), side of bacon (burnt), choice of french fry hash or brioche (bun) toast…………….$8.99Black coffee……..…………………………….$1.99Sass………………………………………………..FREE

You can tell he’s trying not to smile, but he still puffs his chest as he leans back in the chair and crosses his arms, protesting, “I do not order my bacon burnt.” 

“The amount of times you’ve asked for it to be crispier than the last time would disagree.” 

“Well I would say I didn’t order the attitude, but,” he quips, a low gravel in his voice you only get to hear when you’ve pushed his buttons a little bit. He gestures to the last item on his menu, “I guess if I’m not paying for it you go right ahead, sweetheart.” 

There’s that damn nickname again and you hate it just as much as you love it. 

If there’s one thing Robby has learned in his years of friendship with Jack, it’s when to keep his mouth shut, but he’s never been good at making sure his face doesn’t convey every thought he doesn’t vocalize. He observes the conversation, feeling like he’s watching a tennis match, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Jack animatedly. His chin rests in his palm, watching his friend carefully with a smug expression. 

A customer at the end of the bar waves her hand for your attention, and you tell the men you’ll be right back, mumbling a soft, “oh, you’ll pay for it, alright,” under your breath as you go. 

“Don’t start,” Jack warns his friend once you’re far enough away, voice firm, and rubs his own tired eyes. 

They don’t stay long, just a couple of beers each and a shared plate of fries between them, but you chat with them long enough to confirm your suspicion that Jack does in fact work the night shift at PTMC. They relay tales of their tough shift, how they worked four hours past their off time, how Jack is especially tired because he still hasn’t adjusted to his week of shifts when the sun is up. They obviously can’t go over details due to HIPAA, but when you ask what made them stay over, they share enough that you feel your heart constricting at the thought of what they had to deal with. When Jack mentions losing someone a little too close to home to start the shift, you can’t stop yourself from reaching out in empathy, hand covering his own, squeezing his fingers with soft round eyes and a watery apology that betrays your typical aloof persona at work. His thumb brushes the side of yours in thanks, and you can feel Robby’s eyes follow the motion, so you withdraw your hand quickly with a blush. If you hadn’t turned around so quickly to avoid any questioning from Robby, you would find that Jack’s cheeks hold a very similar color to your own. 

January

For all the business the holidays have to give, New Year’s resolutions and the ever-present slush of a blustery Pennsylvania winter always take it all away. There isn’t a soul in sight when Jack returns at his normal hour in the first week of the new year. 

You’re scrubbing underneath the wells when the bell above the door jingles for the first time all evening, and you stretch up on your knees to peek over the bar. 

Jack gives a low whistle, hands stuffed into his pockets as he saunters casually toward you, looking around the room. His eyes linger on the dark jukebox for a moment before finding the bluetooth speaker you have set up behind the bar, then finally land on your own. He chuckles at the position he finds you in, arms folded on the edge of the wells, chin resting atop them, grinning cheekily up at him. 

“This place even open?” He teases, plopping his work bag down on one empty barstool. “It’s starting to look real bleak ‘round these parts.” 

“You said it. It seems we’re officially in the slow season until further notice,” you sigh, then groan as you lean back on your heels and push up onto your feet. There’s a satisfying pop between your shoulders when you stretch upon standing and mumble, “yeah’m getting too old to be sitting on the floor like that.” 

He huffs a single, bitter laugh and parrots you. “You said it.”

Though you would have been grateful for any human interaction, you find yourself particularly pleased with the familiar back-and-forth that comes so easily with Jack Abbot. You go through the motions with him, banter about his order, flirt a little bit before you realize what you’re saying, overthink his responses because is he actually flirting back? You pop to the back to make his food, because when it’s this slow you can’t afford a full staff on a random Wednesday, which he definitely teases you about, and when you return, his next question catches you off guard. 

“You’re surviving it though, right?” He says it in such a way that he could play it off as a joke if the need arose, but the concern is still there in the grit of his voice. “The slow season, I mean. I know how easy it must be to fall behind when nobody’s coming in.” 

The lungful of air that is forced from your lips ruffles the hair framing your face, and you cock a hip against the bar just to his left, one hand rubbing at the back of your neck. 

“Yeah, I usually do.” The food sits uneaten between you, and the longer he stares, the more you can feel your walls breaking down. “I mean- yeah, I barely tread water when the tips are good, so I wouldn’t say January is great, but…bills are paid, got some ramen in the cabinet, y’know...” 

He holds your gaze but pulls the plate closer to himself, lips pursing in thought as he studies your response. All he lands on in return is a soft, “uh-huh.”

_____

His visits become more frequent following that conversation.

What was once every other week – maybe one more in between on a rough day – turns into multiple times per week. Sometimes it’s just a coffee and some conversation, other days his usual breakfast or the rare item ordered from the real menu, but one thing they all have in common is the far too generous tip –something that you always try to refuse but he always finds a way to either convince you to accept it, or hide the cash somewhere you don’t notice until after he leaves. There’s even a slow trickle of new faces, all of them claiming that their colleague or their loved one’s doctor in the ED sent them your way for a break from the stress and sterile fluorescence of the hospital. 

He starts coming earlier, too. Not by much, but slowly over the weeks, 6:20 turns into 6:00 turns into 5:45, and you enjoy the quiet of the month that allows your conversations to flow past surface level. 

Over a few rounds of pool late one afternoon, you learn that he’s a veteran, and that he’s suffered some astounding losses because of it, though not many details past that. When it comes up, his eyes cloud over and he makes a clever quip about therapy, but follows up by saying he’ll tell you more about it some other time. 

 While you kick his ass at darts another day, he learns that you dropped out of college and that there’s definitely more to the story that led you here, but you don’t share that story easily or often, and he can tell it’s not an issue to press. 

A few days later, you double down and challenge him to another round of pool. With half your points still on the table and only the eight ball left for Jack, he takes pity on you and offers some pointers. In the close quarters of his instruction, his hand pressed gently to your lower back, gentle encouragement whispered into the space between you, it’s clear that he holds no stake in the outcome of this game. Over coffee following that game, he tells you about some of the student doctors and new interns he’s been working with lately, and that’s where he shines, wearing his pride for them in the dimple of his cheek and soft wrinkles in the corners of fond eyes. 

You play your favorite music on Spotify, different themed playlists or your likes on shuffle and on the rare occasion he makes grabby hands for your phone so he can put on classic rock and old blues music. 

It’s comfortable and exciting at the same time and you almost forget that this man is a customer. You’ve gotten so used to your alone time with him that you’re almost glad he doesn’t show on the busiest day you’ve ever seen in a January in years, it wouldn’t feel the same if you couldn’t devote all your attention to him. 

It’s Friday night, the last of the month, and the Penguins have a home game. Quite the important game by the looks of it, though you haven’t followed sports since your last big breakup. PPG is sold out, and the sports bars are overflowing with patrons, which means your plucky little dive bar gets the leftovers. The one TV behind the bar and the tiny one in the corner by the restrooms are both tuned into the game, and five or six large groups decked out in black and yellow have crowded the bar to get a good view. Leslie is back to help, and between the two of you it’s still hard to keep up. Your wallet will definitely thank the universe for tonight, but your feet, lower back, and shoulders will surely beg to differ. 

By 11:30, it’s the end of the third period and the Flyers are killing it, kicking Pittsburgh’s ass with a three point lead and two minutes left on the clock. Tensions are high, but the drinks are flowing, and the tips are good. 

“Hey, can I get another Sam Adams over here?” A voice cuts through the chaos, accompanied by a few harsh pounds on the bartop, the patron’s attention not leaving the screen. You nod to the man to acknowledge that you heard him, but hold up a finger suggesting it’ll be a minute and tick off the laundry list of priorities in your head. 

Another round of PBR’s for the group closest to the kitchen, easy. You crack them open and pass the tray off to Leslie to deliver. 

Shake up a round of whiskey sours for the table by he window, annoying in the moment, but you admire the change in pace. 

Tequila shots for a pair of friends already mourning the loss of the game that isn’t quite over. 

Then the Sam Adams for Mr. Sunshine. 

Except there’s no clean pint glasses. So you hold up another finger with an apologetic smile and retreat to the kitchen to grab a rack from the dishwasher. 

Emerging from the kitchen, you’re surprised to see Jack has appeared in the empty space left by fans crowding closer and closer to the TV. 

“Hey!” You exclaim, holding the crate against one hip, “what’re you doing here so late?” 

“And I’m so glad to see you too, sweetheart.” He bites, hand to pearls in faux offense. “It’s my day off. Thought I’d see what this place was like after 7 PM. Not following an all day shift, that is.” 

“Different,” you laugh, “but I think that’s the NHL’s fault tonight not ours–” 

“How fucking hard is it to pour one beer?” 

“ – Have a seat wherever, Jack, I’ll be back in a few.” 

He nods graciously, waving you off toward the impatient remark.

Setting the crate of pint glasses down where you hope they won’t be in the way, you grab one and wave it at the red-faced man with a sickly-sweet smile. “Samuel Adams coming right up, sir.”

Barely an ounce of the amber liquid makes it into the glass before the line sputters and spits foam and you feel your heart sink. Foam fountains up and sloshes over the edge of the glass when you slam it down with a clang against the grate. 

The pathetic grit of “fuck” barely passes your lips before he’s caught on and is at your heels again, taking the pain of a Penguins loss and his frustration at the lack of a drink out on the only person directly in front of him. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” the man grunts, one hand pressed to the bar as he leans in as close as the countertop allows. “Look babe, I don’t think your job is all that difficult. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty and make sure my glass doesn’t stay empty for too long, and whatta’ya know?” A stray drop of saliva hits your cheek as he bellows and punctuates his complaint by slamming the base of his empty pint glass on the bartop.

But you’re no stranger to angry entitled patrons, it’s part of the territory, so you pluck the glass from his grip mid-pound with another sickening smile, despite the drop in your chest. 

“Listen, babe,” you seethe, gathering all of your remaining patience for the night and mimicking his tone. You know better than to do so, and partially regret the mess you’ll have to clean up, but to further emphasize your point you pull on the tap again and send more foam flying. “The keg is out! And I don’t know how things work at whatever big fancy job you have that makes you think you can talk to me like that, but here in the bar industry we have this really cool equation where an empty keg equals no more beer!” He flounders in front of you, mouth agape, the hamster wheel in his brain working overtime, but there’s still steam coming from his ears as you continue. “So either you can be patient while I change the keg, or I can get you another drink in the meantime, take your pick.” 

“Make. It. Fast.” 

You swallow the bitter feeling that claws at your throat and reply with a sarcastic curtsy before retreating to the back room to change the keg. 

Or rather, to discover that Sam Adams is the one barrel that was missing from last night’s delivery. 

It must be written plain on your face when you return, because there’s a sardonic laugh and the thorn in your side is pushing his way up out of his barstool once again. 

“You better have some damn good news for me, sweetheart, or I swear I’ll–” 

The endearment is sour on his lips. Of all the times you have been called sweetheart over the last few months, you’ve come to associate it with the warm, soft grit of Jack Abbot’s timbre, not the dripping vitriol of a man who feels so entitled to use it. Speaking of Jack, you’ve been so hung up on allowing this stranger to belittle you that you didn’t notice him approaching. Neither did Mr. Sam Adams. 

“Finish that sentence,” Jack says, sidled up next to the man, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind himself. His jaw is set, a sharp line that you’re not used to seeing on him, and despite the few inches of height that the man has on him, Jack still finds the perfect posture to look down his nose at him. “I beg you.”

The rude man snorts, shakes his head, and mumbles into the lack of a drink in front of him. “Not your battle, buddy.” 

“No, please,” Jack tilts his head to further scrutinize the man, “you’re making it everyone’s battle, the way you’re making a scene. So please share, what do you swear you’ll do?” 

“I’m- I just-” 

It’s as if Jack’s mere presence is enough to dampen his bravado, and the room around them grows quieter as some people filter out into the cold and others linger to observe the dramatics for themselves.

“You’re just being an asshole,” he finishes for him. With a firm hand on one shoulder, and the man’s clearly embarrassed friends at his other side, Jack manages to cut the rest of the way through his tough guy facade. “And I suggest you settle your tab, apologize, and hit the road before I make things uglier than you were about to.” 

Petulant mumbles fall from the angry man’s lips, ending in a childish, “fuckin’ hands off me, man,” and he shakes Jack’s hand from his shoulder. Tab be damned, he turns heel and storms out the door half escorted and half encouraged by his friends, one of which at least has the decency to throw a couple of loose bills on the counter in hopes that it covers everything. (It does not.) 

You mumble your thanks to Jack while biting the inside of your cheek, unsure if you should feel touched by his act of defense or embarrassed to be made out like a damsel in distress. 

Jack immediately softens, ducks his head to hold your eye. With his gentle nod and careful, inquisitive look, you decide on the former. 

“You okay?” He asks quietly, almost too quiet to be heard over the white noise and sports chatter on the TV above you. 

He deserves a proper thank you, a real answer, but you can hear Leslie calling for you somewhere in the crowd, and the kitchen bell rings to signify another order ready to go out, and duty calls as it always does. So you press your lips together with what you hope is a coy shrug while reaching for a bottle of Yuengling Black & Tan – a label you’ve come to learn as his favorite over the last few months – and mumble, “on the house.” 

Though he doesn’t persist, you can feel the weight of his stare following you through the chaos for the rest of the night.