The Corner Table at Mickey's Pt. 01

It had been an exhausting weekend in the Watson house, the relative amity—relative compared to the way discoveries of affairs could go—gradually getting more strained with tearful confrontations when she begged for reassurance and to know how to fix things.

On Tuesday morning, his phone rang. "Hey, bucko."

"Hey, Mallory." His spirits lifted at hearing a friendly voice.

"How are you holding up?"

"It's a relief to be at work."

"Well, I never settled my share of Dutch last Thursday. So, if you want to chat, I'll make it up to you this Friday. There's a spin class I like at five, and some of the girls and I go. You'll want me to shower, so I'll see you maybe six thirty-ish? Gotta go. I'm probably going to have to work through lunch."

He started eyeing the clock about noon. He was hungry. He also didn't want to wait until Friday to have some human contact beyond business. Sitting alone in his office had let some of the depression he was feeling float up to the surface. Most of his friends were unaware of what was going on in his life, and he preferred it that way for the moment.

He figured that, as long as he didn't bore Tom with his troubles, Mickey's would be the solution. Tom knew about the situation and would let him sit quietly, and he doubted any of his friends would happen to stop in.

Mallory gave a mock double-take as she came in after her workout and saw Jim sitting by himself at the end of the bar. "Is it Friday already?"

"I thought you were working through lunch."

"False alarm. The usual, Tom, please," Mallory said as she looked at Jim. His face had a brooding look, and the pouches under his eyes suggested that he wasn't sleeping well.

"Want to join me?" she asked as she moved over to a booth.

"How was your weekend?" he asked after he sat down.

"Mixed bag. Friday night was a fiasco with this guy I was seeing." She waved off his start at commiseration. "Nah, no loss." She took a sip and leaned back. "Friends responded by inviting me out with them Saturday for what turned out to be a fix-up. I should have suspected; it's what they always do. Sunday, I just spent loafing around."

"How'd that evening go?"

"He seemed nice and I had fun. If he calls, I'd go out with him again."

"If? I can't imagine too many guys don't call again."

"Flatterer! You might be surprised."

"Seriously? I would have assumed that your social calendar is pretty booked."

She paused while Tom set a glass in front of her, then said. "Jim, I get my reasonable share of offers. I'm not complaining the slightest bit. But, I'm thirty-four, not some twenty-two-year-old hottie. And, while I'm perfectly willing to be a cheap date, I'm not an easy date."

Jim felt a little uncomfortable at that statement and didn't know what to say. He looked away and went back to his sandwich. The silence stretched a few seconds longer, just enough to become awkward.

Nice going! Mallory mentally kicked herself. You try to be a smartass, and you come out with "an easy date"! Not exactly a good word choice around him right now! Well, girl, you started it, so own it before he sinks back into that funk.

"But my face is reasonably attractive; I've got a nice, although not fabulous, rack; and, thanks to endless workouts, I've got an ass to die for. So, there's usually a man or two—maybe even a woman—who's interested."

Halfway through that sentence, at the word "rack," Jim's eyes had grown wide. By the time it finished, he was choking on the drink that had gone down the wrong pipe.

Mallory burst out laughing. "What's the matter, big boy? You think us nice girls don't know those words?"

Jim was red in the face from trying to cough, cover his embarrassment, and laugh, all at the same time.

"Jeez, don't die on me here! I was just trying to get a smile out of you. Ahh, there it is!"

His somber mood was broken, and amusing-Jim was back. When she finished her salad, she pushed her plate back and said, "It's been fun, but I need to head back to work." She scrupulously counted out her share of the tab. "Don't forget I owe you for last week. Friday."

Friday, Mallory took the stationary bike next to her friend, Robin.

"Dinner after?" Robin asked as they started pedaling.

"I can't. I'm already meeting someone."

"Would this be New Fix-up Forty-Seven or Round Two with Fix-up Forty-Six?"

"Neither. It's a friend from work who's having problems of the my-wife's-a-whore variety. And, well, I'm a good listener."

Robin's eyebrows went up. "That must be a scintillating evening of conversation," she commiserated.

Mallory shrugged. "It's not the most fun I've ever had, but I owe him."

At Robin's questioning look, she explained. "I had a young woman working for me who took over while I was on vacation. She approved a purchase order with a bad mistake in it: fifty thousand containers instead of five thousand. Unfortunately, they were for a limited-time promotion. No way we'd ever use the extras. We'd have been left with a pile of junk worth a serious fraction of her annual paycheck sitting in a warehouse."

"And this guy helped you out?"

Mallory nodded. "When we discovered the mess, she called him to see if she could cancel, but production was in progress. I'm sure she tried to be business-like about it, but I guess her distress was plain over the phone."

At the instructor's signal, Mallory increased her speed, but the pace still allowed her to continue. "She told me he didn't say anything for a bit, then he asked her if the company changed its mind or if a mistake had been made. She was too flustered to lie and admitted what had happened. He called back a couple of hours later to say he was able to cancel the extra and change things to just five thousand units."

"And?"

"Not a chance. We had special foils and inks, et cetera. No, he ate it ... he had to have, even though he denies it."

"Maybe keeping a customer was important?"

Mallory snorted. "He's been doing business with us for years without a single hiccup, which makes the bosses happy. His rates are competitive, which makes them even happier. And to top it off, he and the general manager go back to high school. No way he was going to lose a customer, not with a valid purchase order in his hand, and he knew it.

"No," she said reflectively, "he did it because he knew someone's job might be on the line. These days: fifty-fifty on her chances, and I would have caught my share coming off the fan for leaving it in her hands."

"What's this paragon's name?"

Mallory shook her head. "Just a guy who doesn't deserve the shit he's got on his plate."

"Level 2 folks!" shouted the instructor. "Get those butts off the seats. A little less chinning and a little more spinning."

With a guilty glance at each other, Robin and Mallory dug in.

An hour and a half later, she asked for a Cobb salad, "... and I'll try the new IPA."

"Cheeseburger deluxe, medium, and a Guinness," Jim told Tom. He turned back. "About the same, I guess. I think Lori just wants me to tell her I believe her, forgive her, forget it happened, and get back to our previous life."

"And you don't see it the same way."

"Well, I don't believe her. I'm not ready to forgive. I don't see how one forgets about cheating. Our previous life had me fat, dumb, and happy ... and cheated on. So, no, I don't see it that way."

Their beers arrived. Mallory took a sip and slouched back on her side of the booth. "You don't believe her?" she asked.

"Not for a second. She's still trying to do damage control." He took a sip, shook his head. "Hey, I think I've exceeded my wallowing allowance for this, don't you think?"

"I don't know. My formula is that you can wallow for two weeks at the end of any serious relationship, plus one extra day for every year. How long were you married?"

"A formula, huh? Eight years."

She did the math. "Then you get twenty-two days before you have to move on to just being depressed."

"Then I've exceeded my quota." When her eyebrows went up, he shrugged. "I said before that I hadn't told you the whole story. If you want to hear sometime, I'll tell you. In the meantime, I could use a break from thinking about it, and you're buying me dinner, so it's my job to be pleasant company."

"Deal!"

Mallory had to work a little harder than she normally did at keeping the conversational ball rolling. Her usual gambit of getting a guy to talk about himself didn't produce the usual result. Still, she could tell that Jim was trying. He seemed interested in what she had to say and even had her laughing at his dead-on imitation of her old boss, a man neither of them had particularly liked. It reminded her of the Jim that used to take them out to lunch more than the thinking-about-divorce Jim.

Finally, Jim tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a yawn. "Sorry, I'm not sleeping well, and I feel myself crashing. Thanks for dinner, Mallory. Maybe we can do this again sometime?"

"Fine by me. Mondays are crazy but stop by for lunch any other time in the week. I'll be here."

Tuesday, Mallory came in after her lunchtime workout to find Jim. The problem was that Robin had decided to join her, as she did occasionally.

Her first reaction was irritation. Why didn't he call if he wanted to have lunch together?

Hard on the heels of that question came the answer. Because I specifically told him to come by anytime this week. How was he to know I spaced on that? Now what? No way he'll want to talk in front of Robin. Make apologies to her?

She needn't have worried. As he spotted them, Jim rose with a quick smile. "Hey, Mallory." He stuck out his hand to Robin. "Hi, I'm Jim."

"Robin." Robin took his hand, sizing him up and down, and said, "The Jim?"

Mallory could see a flash of apprehension in his eyes as he glanced over at her, clearly wondering if she was talking out of turn. She hadn't been blabbing ... not actually ... well ... she felt a small pang of guilt that she'd said something to Robin even if she didn't name names. But, before she had time to figure out how to let him know his identity was safe, Robin laughed and continued.

"Mallory says she has this friend Jim who takes her and the girls out to lunch and cracks them up, including blonde jokes even though every one of them except Mallory is blonde. Although," she said with a wink, "I think Mother Nature may have had some help with a few of them."

She grinned and primped her blonde curls. "These are natural, so if you're that Jim, let's hear what you got!"

Jim looked at all bubbly five foot one of her bouncing lightly on her toes while giving him that mischievous look and said, "Maybe that's not such a good idea."

"Why? Come on, one joke. I don't bite too much. You chicken?"

"Nah. It's just that I'm really hungry and don't want to spend the next hour explaining the punchline to you."

There was a beat of silence before Robin burst into laughter. "You'll do!" she declared and plopped herself into the booth across from him.

Robin could take it as well as dish it out, and forty-five minutes passed quickly in laughter. Finally, Mallory glanced at her watch and said, "I need to go."

Everyone reached for the check, but Robin caught it up and said, "I've got this. You both owe me."

While Robin was paying at the bar, Mallory caught Jim's eye. "Sorry," she said.

"For what?"

She realized he was serious. He hadn't been faking it through the meal and wasn't annoyed over Robin's presence. She skirted the nonexistent problem with a little white lie, "For subjecting you to her."

He laughed. "Don't be sorry. I think she's funny. What is she, a professional cheerleader, an infomercial spokeswoman?"

"A lawyer, if you can believe it. Gray suits, briefcase, Volvo, and all."

"Oh my God!" he said, laughing. As they stood up, he asked, "Will you be here after spin class on Friday?"

"Oh, I can't. Mr. Fix-Up called." She paused and sighed. "I shouldn't call him that. His name is Josh. Anyway, Josh called and I'm going out with him on Friday."

"Oh, no problem."

"Next week, this time?"

"That sounds good," he said.

Without any conscious plan, Tuesdays at one o'clock became a thing.

That Friday, with nothing else to occupy him, he found himself back at the bar, sitting on the end barstool, munching on a burger. He and Tom would chat between drink requests from other customers.

At one point, watching Tom make a Manhattan, Jim said, "Teach me to do that."

"Do what?" Tom asked.

"Mix drinks. Tend bar."

Tom looked at him without speaking for a moment and then said, "Jim, I'm sorry, but I don't need any more staff. My payroll's kind of where I need it to be."

Jim shook his head. "I don't want any money. I just want to learn how to do it. I'll pay you if you want."

"Most of tending bar is opening beer bottles or pouring from a tap. If you went to college, I'm pretty sure you know how to do that already," Tom laughed.

Jim chuckled also. "I need a new hobby."

"Most guys take up golf or fishing."

"I suck at golf and I already know I get bored fishing. Come on! What have you got to lose?"

"My customers?" Tom said, but he said it with a smile.

"Bull! Half the people in here know me and won't hold any mistakes against you." That was, perhaps, an overstatement. Friday night was a crowd that he didn't know that well. His usual visits had been mid-week with colleagues or the occasional customer in tow. "The rest will get some comic relief. You can step in any time I can't handle it."

The woman sitting two seats down said, "Yeah, Tom, what do you have to lose? Let him try." She shoved her glass in Jim's direction. "A Bombay gimlet, please."

Tom considered for a minute. "You're serious?"

"Yep!"

"Okay. You still buy your drinks and food in here, but you can keep any tips you make."

"Hell with that!" Jim waved dismissively. "Split 'em among the staff." His face turned serious for a second. Tom saw and understood what was behind the next words. "It's not money I'm looking for."

Tom nodded. "Fine. I'll make an exception for an hour or so tonight but not Fridays in the future. They're too busy and I can't spare the attention, okay? Wednesdays would be okay."

Jim nodded. "I can still come in and eat? It's a Friday tradition now."

"Sure. We're always glad to take people's money."

"All right. Fridays I give you my money. Wednesdays I waste it right back with overpours."

"You do that and I'll cut your pay in half." Most of the people sitting at the bar were grinning now as Tom opened the hatch and Jim scooted through. "Okay, a gimlet is gin, Rose's Lime Juice, a little fresh lime, and a touch of simple syrup. Until you learn how to pour by feel, you make sure there's a measuring pourer on the bottle and ..."

"Another gimlet?" Jim asked the woman twenty minutes later.

"No," she said. "How about a ginger ale with lime?" He nodded and, as he started on it, she said, "You don't remember me, do you?"

He smiled a quiet little smile and held up a finger to say, "Wait a sec," as he figured out which button on the gun dispensed what he wanted. As he finished it with the lime, he replied, "You're Addison. We spent a nice evening chatting about a year and a half ago. I've seen you in passing once or twice since then. You're in sales for ... umm ... something down in Cincinnati." He frowned in concentration. "Welton Controls?" he asked.

She shook her head in surprise. "Wow! That's impressive!" She took a sip and nodded, "Thank you, Mr. Bartender-In-Training."

Jim gave a little half-bow.

"And," she continued, "we didn't spend a nice evening chatting. We spent an evening of me flirting with you with ever-decreasing subtlety until you got a clue and told me—very nicely and gently, as I recall—that you were very married." If she saw the flicker across his face, she gave no sign of it.

He kept his voice light as he said, "Potato, potahto. It was a pleasant evening."

"You're a gentleman," she said, raising her glass in salute.

An hour later Jim ducked back under the counter. "Thanks, Tom. See you next week. Night, Addison."

Jim's life took on a certain routine. The old patterns of his days had been built around his marriage and his work. The former wasn't a determining factor anymore. He'd laid down the law with Lori that he needed some distance while he got his head on straight. A little lie that's nothing compared to her whoppers, he'd thought at the time. Work was still a big part of his day even though he had a sales team now. Maybe I do need to ease off a little. Get a hobby, he thought again.

Tuesdays he met Mallory for lunch.

"How did your workout go?" he'd greet her when she'd drop across from him.

"Glowingly," she'd inevitably respond, teasing him with a joke he'd made to her about women sweating.

"And your weekend?" he'd continue. She'd update him: maybe a get-together with friends or a trip to see her sister. She'd gone out with Josh a couple of times and had a few fix-ups by her friends, and she'd casually mention them.

She never reciprocated with asking about his weekend, well-aware that he welcomed the break from thinking about domestic issues. Instead, she'd steer things to movies and shows in the area—minor overlap in taste; sports—she hockey, he football, united only in a common inability to watch baseball; local bands playing—a surprising amount of overlap.

Wednesdays he'd work the evening at the bar. He still had to check with Tom when someone ordered something unusual, but he was a quick study and could now hold his own with the standard fare. He'd noticed Lori peeking in one evening and embarrassed her by walking out the back door and coming up behind her.

"Did you want a drink?" he asked mildly, causing her to jump.

She flushed.

"Checking up on me?"

She started to deny it, then realized how ridiculous the lie would be. "I wondered if you were meeting someone. You know, getting a little revenge." He didn't say anything, and she went on nervously to fill the silence. "I-I know it wouldn't be fair to blame you if you did, but I hoped not because I want us to try ..." She trailed off.

He stared balefully. Finally, "If you want a drink, I'll serve you like I would any other patron. Otherwise, I told you I needed a little space. Trust me, if I decide to see another woman, there'll be plenty of warning."

"Oh, Jim, please—" Whatever else she was going to say was lost as he pulled open the door to Mickey's and walked back in.

On Fridays, he had become a fixture in the corner table for dinner. There he'd spend an hour or two talking with new acquaintances until heading home to face the tension at home. Every once in a while, when she didn't have another commitment, Mallory would come over after spin class and join him for the meal.

Very occasionally, she'd stop by in something other than her usual after-workout yoga pants and hoodie. "Just one quick drink. I'm meeting someone in a bit." A little while later, she'd glance down as her phone buzzed and say, "Gotta run. See you Tuesday." He'd see her through the window, either heading for her car parked at the gym or greeting someone who pulled up in theirs.

He made a little guessing game out of them. —Clearly some heavy lifting but ankle tan lines above those TOMS. Landscaper. —Employee parking spot, gym rat muscles. Easy. Personal trainer. —Ooh. This is a tough one. In shape, really good-looking, expensive haircut but old car. Wannabe actor working as a waiter? He laughed at himself over that one.

He was just finishing his after-dinner drink one Friday and had been thinking about heading out when Mallory walked in. She saw him and headed for his table. She was wearing a black skirt that was short without being trashy and heels. Her coat was open at the front enough to show a red silk blouse.