Tuesday afternoon at the bar is quiet. I know Brian will come in as soon as I hit the breaker on the neon, and he does. K comes in a few minutes later because she knows I’m covering this shift. She just finished up at the record store.

Then Skyler comes in and it feels like old home week for a while.

Because I don’t work here regularly anymore, there isn’t an expected routine or rhythm. If it’s an afternoon shift, I take the caps off the bottles, fill the ice wells, cut limes, wet bar rags, set up the glasses and spill mats. That part never changes. What’s different is I’m not the regular guy, only a sub.

Brian leaves, then Skyler, then K. It’s an ordinary, slow, weekday shift. I listen to Connolly’s Lou Reed tribute record, then switch to Boards of Canada. Two couples from out of town commandeer the photo booth. One couple from Minnesota, the other from Ohio; they’ve met in the middle in Chicago. One of the women proposes to her boyfriend while the camera flashes. They all leave happy.

Tom comes in and insists I pick a drawing from his tiny sketchbook to take for myself. I tell him that’s generous but he insists that it would be his honor and that no one’s ever accused him of generosity.

A young woman comes in and orders a cider. She looks like she’s waiting for someone. A few minutes later another joins her. She orders an amaretto sour.

I’ve been coming to this bar for over thirty years. It’s my favorite by a wide margin. But if I have one beef with the place it’s that the male-female ratio of the clientele is all out of whack. Most afternoons it’s a sausage party. Deborah used to call it a meat market. Maybe so. But only if you’re looking for a man.

Another young woman walks in and looks around. Clearly her first time. She asks about what we have, if it’s like a dive bar. I tell her it’s cash-only and she goes to the machine. Her friend comes in and they order a vodka-soda and a gin-and-tonic and take one of the booths. Then another woman comes in, orders a beer and a glass of water, then opens her Octavia Butler book. Camille comes in, orders a Tito’s-and-soda and opens her own weathered paperback in the corner. Two very young women rush in, order shots of tequila, and run back out.

For a couple of minutes, there are eight women in the bar and no men, except for me. Never seen that before. I want to tell one of them but don’t want to ruin the moment. A guy comes in a minute later, breaking the spell, complains I’m not Andy.

I tell Andy about the women when he comes in to relieve me. He jokes that it’s because he’s working. As I wheel my bike out it’s just him and six women. I tell him to have a good time.

K and I talk about the Ross brothers’ Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets (2020).