The Fire Pit

Chapter Three

Whiskey Business was a small little bar in downtown Yuba City just off of Colusa Avenue. It catered to the older generations, mostly war vets and retired folk but due to slow business, Rick was trying to attract more demographics with live bands and open mic nights.

Luke had begged Evelyn to karaoke with him—annoyed her to the brink of insanity—until she finally caved. She hated it—or, at least, she pretended to. Evelyn couldn't hate anything that involved Luke. His overly optimistic attitude made anything seem fun.

And it was. For hours, the two belted out excruciating versions of old classics while the crowd of ten people cringed in amusement.

Tonight, Ricky's was hopping. It was crowded like Evelyn had never seen before. She pushed through the line until Sammy came into view. She waved him down and he beckoned her in. Sammy had worked for Ricky for years. An ex-college football player and amateur boxer, Sammy wasn't someone you wanted to mess with. He was tall, broad, and so muscular that his biceps appeared to have biceps.

"He ain't doing so hot, Kid," Sam said tenderheartedly, clearing a path for Evelyn to walk in.

"Thanks, Sammy."

"No problem, Kiddo."

The biceps couldn't fool Evelyn. Sam was a teddy bear, not to mention the only person on the planet who could call her "kiddo" and live to tell the tale.

Evelyn pushed her way through the crowd but it was a struggle. The place was packed and she barely stood over five feet tall. It was hard to find anyone when you were staring at nothing but chests.

Wandering eyes kept landing on her. She avoided all eye contact. She knew eye contact could be misconstrued as an encouragement of sorts.

Get Dad, get out. Get Dad, get out.

She moved through the mob as fast as her little legs would take her. Every so often, a hand would brush up against her body, lingering in places it shouldn't be and she would swat it away before hurrying off.

Evelyn's anxiety was reaching unprecedented levels. This situation was beyond uncomfortable. Much longer and she would consider telling Rick to make the call to have her father spend a night in the drunk tank.

Finally, she reached the bar. She scanned the bar stools and, sure enough, dear old dad was slumped on the bar top, face first.

Clearing the lump out of her throat, she made her way to him. Ricky was behind the bar, making a drink. When she approached, he smiled at her sadly, "Hey, Eve."

"Hey, Ricky. How long has he been like this?"

Her father lifted his head from the bar, pointing a drunken finger. "It's no' of yer goddamn binness, girl. Git the fuck outta here."

"Shut up, Dad."

Ricky shook his head. "About thirty minutes. I switched him to water about an hour ago but I'm guessing he was drinking before he got here. I'm not sure how much he's had."

"That's okay, Rick, it's not your fault. He never stops drinking." Evelyn grabbed her father's arm and slung it over her shoulder. "Can you walk?"

He grunted and stood up, wobbling. Leaning heavily on her, she mumbled a goodbye to Ricky and took off half-dragging her father to the car. It took nearly 20 minutes to get him through the crowd, out of the bar and into the car. He wobbled the whole way like a newborn fawn just learning to walk.