Gallaman surveyed his bar, his dad’s really, the one he had inherited, and knew he had lived a charmed life.
The Ensign Industries second shift was just leaving after their lunch break; Flora, Nick, the new guy with the limp and the rest of ‘em, as the LabCo crew was heading in; Sierra, so friendly and well endowed, Mike the Committeeman, Ginny the shuffleboard queen, done for the day and ready to drink their profit-sharing checks. Gallaman always read the financial section, had since it was assigned as homework in a community college accounting class.
All the places in the industrial park they built when he was a baby had survived recessions, had staggered shifts, and he was the closest booze by four miles. His dad had been real tight with the zoning board.
He was never not crowded, six days a week.
They came in waves, they came thirsty, and it seemed that all of ‘em hated their bosses.
Gallaman eavesdropped constantly as he strolled through. He was a tavern owner, figured it was one of the perks.
Today, at Table Seventeen, EradTech, company sold equipment for the pest control industry, roundtop in the corner by the golf game, slamming Fireballs and screeching about their new supervisor. Doesn’t know his ass, can barely speak English, came from Quebec, well send him back to Quebec...in a bodybag… They laughed, but some of ‘em seemed less than mirthful.
Gallaman picked a bottlecap from the ground and walked back to the service bar.
Rainey was cashing out Table Eight, and Gallaman sidled up next to her.
“You guys go out after soccer on Sundays, right? Pretty much the whole crew?”
Rainey nodded, shoving a weak ten percenter in her burgundy apron.
“Yeah, Gallaman, we play soccer… we’re pretty good ya know...and then we all go out to Brandel’s, eat shrimp and get drunk.”
“Can I ask you a question and expect an honest answer?” Gallaman said.
Rainey scratched her sweaty second toe with her big toe, inside her shoe.
She thought she might be getting her period and she prayed to her Zappa poster that Gallaman didn’t ask whether or not Evan was stealing, because he was.
“Sure, I guess, I mean, if it’s appropriate.”
“When you guys go out drinking together, do you ever say mean shit about me?”
Rainey’s toes kept scratching each other. She thought about her ethics class, and about the country club that was hiring, seasonal.
“Yeah, we do talk about you. Not always. But often. And it’s rarely good.”
She turned and slid past Gallaman, her butt jostling the bottles in the speed rail.
“The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” -Oscar Wilde.
The big toe line was great.
Hahahaha