It’s Super Bowl Sunday at the Almost Home Bar and Grill with the hometown Broncos playing for their second championship in a row, and the already busy night is about to get busier. When the bartender walks off, she leaves the remaining staff to the chaos of the night—and with the real question. Not why did she leave but why do they stay? After closing time and on a school night, Colleen’s 14-year-old daughter is no stranger to the Almost Home. She’ll do almost anything to leave, to move her life forward or somehow return to earlier, better times, anywhere but here. But it doesn’t matter; there seems to be no way out.

For one night, we follow all of them as they make their cash, close up, and then linger into the after hours, as they always do, their lives colliding, past and present, in the dark back corner at table 14—drinking, talking, and, now, in the wake of Marna’s absence, facing questions: Where did she go? Will she return? Why do we stay? How dangerous is restaurant love?

Smart, provocative, and flawlessly on target, Tara Yellen’s revealing debut offers keen insights on a group of people left to put the pieces of their own lives back together in the wake of a friend’s disappearance. After Hours at the Almost Home will put you in an altered state—it’s got kick and goes down like a shot. But its effects might be far more lasting.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

after hours at the almost home

By tara yellen

unbridled books

Copyright � 2008 Tara Yellen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-932961-48-5

Chapter One

JJ was in the way. The aisles were crammed, people bumped into her-there was no place to stand. "Excuse me," she said. She squeezed her elbows close to her body, then tripped through a jangle of chairs. She'd never waited tables before, and so far all they'd had time to show her were how to change the soda syrups and where to find napkins. Customers grabbed her arms and asked her for things she couldn't hear or didn't understand. "Go Broncos," she said.

"Do something," a tall waitress hissed as she passed, her ponytail whapping JJ in the mouth. The waitress was carrying a tray of drinks high in the air and was moving fast without looking like she was moving fast. People got out of the way. JJ tried to follow her, to ask what it was exactly she should do, but the waitress was already far ahead, the crowd filling in behind her, the tray of drinks traveling over heads the only proof she hadn't vanished entirely.

JJ did her best. She handed out napkins, refilled waters. Tried to keep track of the servers. There were three of them: the tall blond waitress, another waitress who was older, in her thirties or forties, and a waiter who'd given her a quick tour earlier and told a funny joke about a goat that couldn't spell. His head was shaved and he was big. Really big. Tall and overweight both. He wasn't the type you'd imagine waiting tables-maybe not even someone you'd want around food. But the customers seemed to like him. One table applauded when he brought them pitchers of beer, another chanted his name. As for the bartenders, JJ couldn't see the one working now, way back there behind the swarm of customers-and had only briefly met the lanky, dark-haired guy who'd been behind the bar when she first arrived. He hadn't had time to say much.

It was fun, JJ decided. Or it looked fun: the activity, the purpose. How the servers all held their mouths in the same fixed manner. The way they balanced trays and carried plates across their wrists and up the insides of their arms. The food slid a bit on the plates, and the ketchup bottles that they stuck heads-down into their aprons waggled dangerously with every step, but nothing fell. Not even with the tall blonde and her cloppy heels. Amazing, JJ thought, watching her swoop a tray of bottles over someone's suddenly raised arm.

Something good happened in the football game. People jumped up and cheered. It was a strange mix of people. A woman dressed like a witch stood up and covered her ears. Across the room, at the midpoint of the long, boomerang-shaped bar, the big waiter-Keith-waved his tray and hollered for the bartender. "Order up!" The servers got their drinks there, at the wait station. It was marked by two silver handlebars curving into question marks. Like the kind you saw going into swimming pools.

Customers yelled, "Beer!" "Shots!" "Grandma," a woman called and held up her glass. Grandma. Maybe JJ'd heard it wrong.

The older waitress came up and touched JJ's arm. "This way," she said. Her face was wet and splotched, and her short orange hair stuck out in funny horns like she'd been yanking it. "I'm Colleen," she said, catching her breath. "Here-please-follow me."

JJ helped Colleen bring food to the tables. It wasn't as easy as it looked. The plates were hot and the cooks expected you to grab three or four at a time-which, for JJ, made it just about impossible to move, let alone cross the room. It proved far simpler to take things off the tables than to put them on, so she slipped away and busied herself with clearing used napkins and dishes and glasses, scooping them up and depositing them into plastic tubs by the kitchen doors. Just as she was getting the hang of it, though, just as she was starting to enjoy the stacking and weaving-it was almost like a sport-she went and dropped a chicken wing into someone's full mug of beer.

The beer's owner held it up. "What's this? Whatcha twin' to give me? A wet boner?"

Laughter from the rest of the table.

"No," JJ said quickly, without thinking.

More laughter. In college, they were the type of guys who'd never given her a second glance: backwards baseball caps, smirky smiles. She resisted the urge to touch her hair.

"And where're my cheddar fries? It's been, what, hour and a half since we ordered? And now I don't even have a freakin' beer?"

"I'm so sorry," JJ said. "Maybe I could-"

"On the house." The tall blond waitress reappeared out of nowhere and set down a fresh mug and a full, foamy pitcher of beer. "See," she said to the guy, laying a hand on his shoulder, "we got you covered, sweetie"-then she pulled JJ away by the wrist and backed her against a wall. "Who told you to come in?"

"I don't remember his name," JJ stammered. "I think he's a manager-"

"He said tonight."

"Yeah."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Wonderful. That's just terrific." The pendant around her neck read Lena in gold block letters. That seemed right: sharp and direct, like her voice. And her stare. And her breath-she was so close, JJ could taste the menthol of her chewing gum. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's Super Bowl Sunday. Welcome to Madison fucking Square Garden. If you're looking for a Girl Scout badge, try some other goddamn place."

And she was off.

She could be a beauty queen, JJ thought, still frozen there, getting an image of one of those frosted dresses with tight shoulders. Or maybe not the queen but a runner-up, a very close second.

Then it struck her: maybe she did have the wrong day.

Maybe she'd heard it wrong or written it down wrong, and really she was supposed to come in next Sunday. Or maybe-oh god-even yesterday. JJ tried to rethink the conversation and remember exactly what it was the manager had said.

"More beer," a nearby table hollered. "More everything!"

Game music blasted from the TVs: dah nah-nah-nah, dah nah-nah-nah....

Of course, it was too late anyway. It no longer mattered. It wasn't tomorrow or yesterday. She was here now.

Across the room, Lena was charging toward the bar-her spine straight, her chin up, like she was wearing that pageant gown. Like she was off to beat up the queen.

JJ squared herself. She took a breath. She could do this.

Lena ducked behind the bar, leaving Colleen and Keith to work the floor. Why is it, she wanted to know, that when something goes wrong, I'm expected to fix it? She poured beers, poured drinks, slammed off taps just in time.

"Hey, we got a bartender," someone yelled. There was a spatter of applause.

"Right here! Another round!"

"Six kamikazes!"

She didn't look up. She tipped the vodka upside down. One two three, across to the next glass of ice, one two three, next.

Where the fuck is Marna?

Keith came barreling behind the bar and started knocking things over in the beer cooler. Lena swatted him away. "I'll do it! Just get your tables."

"Seven Heinekens, pitcher Bud, pitcher Coors, double Jack and Coke." He hiked up his jeans and pushed himself out into the crowd, toppling a stack of napkins with a beefy elbow. "Who's thirsty?" he bellowed.

"Hey, Lena." Colleen grabbed both handrails. Her face was gummy with sweat. "She's not in the bathroom and I checked downstairs. Can I get two Long Islands? Also four ciders? Please? I'm in the weeds."

"Oh service," someone singsonged down the...

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