The loose hinge caught and the cold air made Bakely wince.
He put down the well bourbon- made in Jersey, not Kentucky- and walked around the bar to slam the door shut.
Just caught a glimpse of the plain brown sedan pulling out of his lot.
Last three digits of the official state government plate were 807.
He’d play that one in the lottery tonight.
Got a 79 out of 100 on the health inspector’s evaluation, got treated to the reek of the guy’s menthol cigarettes on his clothes.
Bakely thought health inspectors were more put together.
This guy was sloppy.
What did Janet use to call him before she left?
Slovenly. The health inspector guy was slovenly.
Bakely grabbed the well bourbon, poured himself a double in his coffee mug.
World’s Best Uncle.
Kerri gave the mug to Bakely after he added her vegan chili to the bar’s menu.
Overnight the bar menu doubled.
For 48 years the plastic letter menu, hanging on the wall, brown from the days when you could smoke in a bar read:
The Caufield Lounge West Side’s Best Chili and the East Side Ain’t Got Any Good Chili and underneath that, Chil Fries, the second i long lost to a scuffle or a door slam.
Scotch-taped to the sign was a handwritten note on the back of an old Lions schedule that said “No Plain Fries. Chili Fries only.”
Bakely remembered Uncle Digger, stubborn and gruff, explaining the chili fry math to him.
Now, underneath the sign was a chalkboard, handwritten by Kerri that read Vegan Chili, made with love, and Vegan Chili Fries (share ‘em!”) with hearts and stars and a little squirrel or chipmunk or some kinda animal.
Bakely hit his bourbon, hit it too hard for 3 pm, squirted some cola from the gun into his mug and finished it off.
Three things to correct in the kitchen before the inspector’s revisit at the end of the month.
Bakely threw his mug in the rinse water. Best not to be tempted to refill it.
The water splashed and a mouse sprinted down the stainless steel sink line, disappearing into a gap where the co2 line ran in.
Bakely snatched up the inspector’s report., ran his finger down the green sheet of paper as though his finger would magically find what he was looking for.
His old, yellowing eyes found it first, near the bottom of the page.
Vermin. The box was unchecked. The notes underneath the box were blank.
The Newport huffing health inspector in the rumply pants hadn’t seen any mouse poop.
Bakely hadn’t seen a mouse in the bar since his uncle used to let him play with his Hot Wheels on the floor underneath the pool table.
He walked back into the kitchen and dropped an order of plain fries in the deep fryer.
Bakely looked at the loose temperature knob he had to replace on the steam tray, pulled his phone out, looked at the playoff schedule.
He pulled his fries, dumped them onto a sheet of wax paper, and lifted the wax paper by the corners, dropping it into one of the oblong plastic fry caddies.
Kerri wanted Bakely to replace them with sustainable.
He wasn’t even sure what that meant.
He squirted some mustard on his fries and walked back out behind the bar, popping a few fries in his mouth as he walked.
The roof of his mouth sizzled from the too-hot fries.
Bakely poured himself another shot of New Jersey bourbon, lifted a mustardless fry out of the plastic basket, blew on it to cool it, and left it on the back of the sink for the mouse.
***
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images.
This one, too, strange, unexpected, original.
Mice n fries. Yeah, this is my kind of bar.