The Worried Dog

When Starting Over Meets Going Down

What I know about Johnny and Chris — my bosses and the new owners of The Worried Dog, this rundown roadhouse outside of Teesdale — I got from paying attention and keeping my mouth shut. Like I been doing since I was 15 at least.

The real charms of small town life haven’t yet made themselves clear to these two. They’re having a great time.

Buying the bar had been Chris’ idea. Johnny was the more reserved of the two and it was Chris who got all friendly with the current owners, two old codgers who’d owned the joint for some thirty years or more.

I know all this, and a lot more, because I’m the one they hired for the day shift. Old Charlie and Bean never hired anyone. Bean, he’s got this funny shaped head, took the day shift and Charlie took the night, closing whenever he damn well felt like it and clumping upstairs to their rooms over the bar.

Now Bean’s on the other side of the bar, looking confused and grumpy.

“You give the order to the beer driver, Annie?” Like he’s still running things around here.

This is going to get real old real fast, but I just nod and keep washing glasses. I need the work and it’s sure as hell better than changing old people’s diapers over at the nursing home.

Charlie and Bean hadn’t made any money here in ages. They were slowly going down the drain when Chris walked in and Charlie was ready. He set the hook and let Chris do the rest. I watched it all from my usual stool, down by the juke box. That poor sucker never stood a chance.

I see their big sedan pull in out front, the back seat loaded with all the things people who don’t know what they’re doing think a road house needs. They better have remembered to hit the state store is all I care about. I don’t want to be the one to tell the afternoon goons there’s no Windsor left. Here they come. God, they’re cheerful.

“Hey Annie!” Chris, my new best friend, is beaming.

“Hey Chris.” I go over to help, earning my buck two ninety eight an hour.

Johnny used to be an account executive at Chrysler with such soft hands and, lately, a worried look. I keep trotting back and forth between the car…

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