Page 3 of Baby, It's You
I used to feel alive watching someone attempt a trick that they’d daydreamed about and then, when they finally pulled it off: magic. It was the greatest feeling knowing that I was the one to capture that moment in time for them. The electricity that hummed off the skater, the pride everyone else around watching had as they smacked their boards on the concrete in congratulations…there is no way to describe that feeling to someone that hasn’t skated before.
“No problem,” I let him know. “Hit me up later. I might want to go out with you guys tonight for Eddie’s birthday.”
Wes turns back from walking to his car. “The old manactuallywants to leave his place and go out? I think hell will freeze over first.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head and accept his playful jab. “Don’t give me a hard time or I will change my mind.”
He chuckles and waves goodbye.
I am not known as the most outgoing. In my younger years when I first started filming and traveling with proskateboarders, we would go out and party. But even then, I was the more introverted guy, never going out of my way to get attention and always too shy to ask a girl for her number.
I’ve always been told I’m conventionally attractive. I am tall and have a “luscioushead of hair,” my mom’s sixty-five-year-old hairdresser, Barb, always says. I don’t have the self-assured nature to back it up, though. I have always been shy and have decided it’s usually easier to just be quiet than to say the wrong thing. It’s rare for me to feel comfortable with people quickly; it usually takes years to show my true self.
I take the lens off my Sony FX6 and load it into my backpack, along with my extra battery pack and light. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I look up into the unforgiving heat of July and vow to take an ice-cold shower when I get home. Is that something people do? It’s got to be. I feel like I’ve seen a TED Talk about it being good for you.
I manually unlock my old crew cab navy blue Ford F-150 that I restored a few years back with my father, and slide into the driver’s seat. Dad always had a huge passion for cars but was never able to spend the money or time restoring them. When we found out that he was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer when I was twenty-four, that changed quickly.
I luckily had the financial means from my success on YouTube to buy an old truck he loved. I made it my mission for us to fix it up together. We spent a year working on the car every time I was in town and not traveling for work, customizing the steering wheel and restoring the old leather seats.
It was the greatest gift, the time I had with him before his passing. The truck really brought us together in the end. Every time I sit in the front seat, I can hear him muttering, “You got your good looks and your taste in cars from me. You're welcome, son,” in the playful way he always did.
I plug my phone into the aux cord attached to the new stereo we added and then shuffle my playlist. The soulful sound of “Just Dropped in” by Kenny Rogers begins to flood from my speakers. I roll all my windows down and take off along the winding, tree-lined road, back to my house.
Chapter 3
Olive
Ihave a slow start to my day after my eventful night. I can’t help but continuously hit snooze on my alarm until a whole hour of ten-minute reminders has gone by.
When I finally get out of bed, it’s almost noon and I’m about to be late for work. I jump up, realizing I completely overslept, and throw on my work uniform. Then I run to my bathroom to put my hair in a bun, brush my teeth, and apply a quick coat of mascara. I grab a banana and fill my water jug, knowing I will be making and consuming a liter of coffee once I get to work to cope with my tiredness.
Stepping outside, my breath is at once taken away by the thick, muggy heat of Tennessee in the summer. I think humidity was invented to keep us humble. I would like to meet one person that looks good after two hours outside on a humid day. News flash, they don’t exist.
I spot my car parked all the way at the outskirts of the parking lot. That’s the problem with working late—by the time I get back to my apartment at 2:30 A.M., every nearby spot is taken by already snoozing residents.
Jogging over to my bright purple old Chrysler Sebring, I click the unlock button on my keychain three times, hearing nothingin response. Ugh, my battery must be dead again. I unlock my trunk and pull out my portable jump box. That’s how often my battery drains—I had to buy a box to keep it alive.
Popping my hood, I hook up the cables and turn the box on, tapping my foot impatiently as sweat starts to form down my back. After waiting a few more seconds, I rub my steering wheel for good luck and talk to my car. “Come on, Barney, you’ve got this. I’m already late for work and I promise if you just turn on and drive, I will get you a new battery soon. The best battery I can find.”
When I turn the key in the ignition this time, I let out a quick “yip” in relief when it starts. I hurry out of the car to close my hood and throw the jump box in my trunk.
Turning out of my complex, I begin to feel anxious, like I have every day lately. Tripp has been in charge this past month, and I feel like I’m walking on eggshells at work. A place that used to bring me solace and comfort feels like it’s slipping away from me.
Whiskey Jane’s was originally opened by a man named Seymour and his wife, Jane, who he loved more than anything. He always said that every kiss he shared with Jane was stronger than any whiskey ever made, hence the name of the bar.
They opened back in the late ’70s with only a dream and each other. The bar became a local favorite on our side of town, and has been for over 50 years. Seymour passed away in 2003 from an unexpected heart attack and instead of closing the doors on her husband’s livelihood, Jane continued to run the bar like the resilient woman she is.
When I turned eighteen, I was awkward, lanky, and desperate for a job. I went down every strip of restaurants and bars I could think of in town. Eventually, I stumbled upon Whiskey Jane’s and walked in. Jane stood behind the bar looking like a stylish mountain woman. Long untamed graycurls and large chunky teal earrings framed her sun-aged but gorgeous face. She looked like a backwoods Dolly Parton. She had beautiful silver rings on almost every finger and a fitted blue flannel that hugged her frame. I felt myself shrink in her presence and was intimidated immediately, even though she stood at half my height.
I self-consciously cleared my throat and then stepped towards her. I started giving her my pitch about why she should hire me and handed her my perfectly typed-up resume that I’d spent hours creating at the local library. She accepted the paper and waited for me to finish my spiel. Once I was done stumbling over the reasons why she should hire me with no experience, she smiled and crumpled up my resume, tossing it in the trash.
I stared at her open-mouthed, gaping like a fish, till she said, “Darlin’, you’re the first person I’ve had walk in here and apply for a job with a resume, while lookin’ me in the eyes, in the past ten years. If you want a job, it’s yours.”
So that was it, I started the next day. That’s where my bond and love for Jane began. She took me in as an awkward, inexperienced high school grad to fill ice bins and serve food. She transformed me into a confident bar manager. No to-go order goes without napkins on my watch. No Karen leaves pounding a negative review into her phone on Yelp. No piece of gum is found wedged under a table. I take my job very seriously and Jane’s approval has always meant the world to me. She helped shape me into the strong woman I am today, after all.
The past few years at the bar have been the hardest I have experienced. Four years ago, I started noticing that Jane would repeat herself multiple times during a shift. I originally thought this forgetfulness was just her age and being overwhelmed with the many tasks that there were to handle in a day. But her mental state continued to decline and after visits with a doctor, Alzheimer’s was found as the cause.
There is nothing that can describe the pain of watching someone you spent years connecting with, slowly forget you. Every joke and experience you shared together is suddenly a one-sided memory. The past two years tumbled by with Jane slowing down and growing more agitated and confused until it got to the point that she could no longer drive or come to the bar. In the last months, Seymour and Jane’s only son, Tripp, came here from New York to move Jane to a memory care facility since she is no longer able to care for herself day to day. He has never cared about the bar, and through the years, Jane always talked about how he would never visit them once he left town. So, when he walked in one day and told me he was coming back to Clairesville to run the bar, I was shocked.
