Tevun-Krus #62 - Best of 2018

The Tow Job - @jinnis - First Contact

The Tow Job

A First Contact story by jinnis

I discovered my cousin's ruse when it was too late, either too drunk or too desperate to blow his obvious game.

"Running a roadhouse ain't for the weak," he insisted. "Needs guts and a generous portion of shrewdness, not your piece of cake."

I craved to prove him wrong. Only to realise he played me like the idiot I am and tricked me into replacing him during his half-year adventure break. Now, he's climbing Mount Everest, swimming the English Channel, or wrestling polar bears for all I care. Though probably he sips drinks by the poolside, flirts with the ladies, and worries about the perfect tan.

And I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere drawing beer at ungodly hours, cleaning tables, throwing out drunken customers, and filling the icebox. True, I wanted, nay needed, to get out of town for a wee while. But the boring reality is far from the dream job I signed for. All right, the scenery is nice. Nice, lonely, and smouldering in the heat wave of the current drought. The customers—don't get me started about them.

Cheery honeymoon couples, tired parents with cranky kids, bleary-eyed truckies craving a quick coffee fix. Sure, a few regulars drop by to chat, and I make the odd fun acquaintance, but the creeps prevail.

I run a torn, sticky rag along the counter, idly wondering where cousin hides the replacements when the door opens. A gust of hot air invades the empty taproom.

The lanky, dishevelled visitor stops in the doorway and scrutinises the premises. Or at least that's what it looks like, his eyes hidden behind a pair of large, dark sunglasses. I throw the rag into the sink and dry my hands.

"Mac, come in or stay outside, but shut the blasted door. The night is a furnace."

It's a stupid remark, he's the one who enters from the heat. But half an hour before closing time my wits already called it a day. Mac, one of the rare locals, hesitates before he steps up to the bar. He is a semi-regular, living in a cottage thirty kilometres out. What he does there is another question. Illegal mining, perhaps, but it's none of my business.

"How can I help?"

He rests his work-worn hands on the counter and stares at nothing. Or perhaps at the shelf filled with exotic bottles behind me, I can't tell with the shades. Why does he wear them at night? Something seems off. I swallow and pick up a glass.

"What do you drink, mate? Beer?"

The slight movement of a bald head on a scrawny neck could be the nod of an ancient turtle. I interpret it as one and work the tap. When I set the foamy beer in front of Mac, he curls his gnarled fingers around the frosted glass.

"Mike, would you do me a favour?"

"Hm, depends. What kind?"

"There is this stranger. Broke down. Needs a truck to pull him out of the ditch."

"Geez, Mac, sure I'll help. Tonight? Is he fine?"

Another nod. There goes my beauty sleep. But leaving some poor, broken-down bugger to pass the night alone at the roadside is out of the question.

"I'll close shop. Drink your beer. I'll be driving."

He looks too shaken to let him ride his cranky motorbike. What happened out there? I reach for the first aid box under the counter, preparing myself to witness nasty injuries.