Who: Attrition Warfare and Billy Yank What: A warfare deity and an old solider walk into a bar… wait, that’s not it, well, close enough. Where: The Howling Dog in Queens When: 13 August, Friday evening Warnings: Violence, tba
Another manager had quit; it wasn’t much of a surprise, Billy averaged one about every couple months but the call always put him in a bad mood. Not much of a feat, though. And the knowing looks of the regulars – and the surreptitious exchange of wads of cash from the betting pools – just sawed away the sinews of his patience. Fucking managers, anyway. He’d done the job himself when he first bought the bar back in nineteen—well, nineteen something, there’d been a lot of drinks and things like dates and names and deeds had gotten a little hazy. Which weren’t the point, not in the least, the point was what’s-her-name, the manager, fucking managers, had left a message of his voicemail saying she quit.
On Tuesday.
Billy’d never been one for voicemail. What’d ever happened to meetings in person? Quitting on a body’s voicemail was just—just something; something he hadn’t quite had time to find a word for, never mind finding enough words for what’shername while he’d been behind the bar and in the back and taking inventory and doing everything else he’d hired a manager for in the first place. Starting Monday he’d have to start interviewing again – there was a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window already – and the shadow of that chore had had him snarling curses all night, under his breath, at every regular that even glanced his direction.
But that was the Howling Dog, not a place for great service – or service at all, never mind the staff’s best efforts – and the regulars took the owner’s temper in stride, always had. Still, there were nights when it was better to quietly slip out well before last call and the annual running off of the manager was definitely one of those nights. And it was early when Billy kicked his few employees out the door; he’d had enough of people, past enough, and the prospect of closing up shop alone was an inviting one. Something about stacking chairs and turning off lights and counting down the till – routine, ordered things – washed everything else away even better than the end of the day bourbon. Well, close, at least.
The door stayed open, though, an open door with a closed sign so that the fans had something to work with – hot, sticky air, but something – and Billy hummed tunelessly to the night as he put up the chairs.