Becoming the manager of Pub 44 marked another turning point in my life. It wasn’t all about sex anymore. Sure, work and drugs were still part of the mix, but now it was about fun, real, wild, unapologetic fun. And I discovered I could have a blast with both sexes. Who knew?
As manager, I was at the bar more than ever. One quiet weeknight, it was just me, the bartender Kim, and the musician Bob. Kim was the kind of bartender who could run a whole room with a raised eyebrow—sharp, steady, unbothered by anything except an empty tip jar. Bob was her opposite: soft‑spoken, guitar‑callused hands, always looking like he’d just stepped out of a dimly lit dive where he’d been playing sad songs to strangers. The three of us stood around talking, the bar humming low, the kind of night where nothing big happens but everything feels a little more honest. One‑Eyed Jack pushed through the door like the bar owed him something. He was a badass biker in every sense — leather vest hanging open, boots heavy enough to announce him before he spoke, that single good eye sharp as a blade. The other was hidden behind a black patch he wore like a warning. Jack carried his reputation the way other men carried weapons: out in the open, daring anyone to test him. Conversations dipped when he walked in, not because he was loud, but because everyone knew exactly what he was capable of.
Back then, the bartender on duty also made sandwiches in the back kitchen, and Jack wanted one. Bob and I sat on one side of the bar, Jack on the other. Kim was in the back preparing his food.
Jack started getting impatient, really impatient. He spewed obscenities, threatening to shoot the place up if Kim didn’t hurry. I stood, ready to calm him down, but Bob gently placed his hand on my arm. “Don’t move,” he whispered.
Good thing he did, because right then, Jack pulled out a gun and fired into the wall — CRACK-THUNK — splinters jumping like they were trying to escape.
I’d never heard a gun go off inside the bar before. In such a small space, I thought I’d be terrified, panicked, frozen. But I wasn’t. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even move. I was becoming hard inside, numb to the chaos. I felt more annoyed than scared, like he’d interrupted the night.
I looked at Bob with a silent thank-you just as Kim walked out of the kitchen, sandwich in hand. She strolled over and asked, “What was that noise?”
When we told her, Kim’s whole body jerked like someone had snapped a rubber band against her spine. Her eyes flew open, her mouth dropped, and for a second, she just stood there gripping the bar as if it might steady her.