168 The Meadow A Six-Year-Old at the Bar Jaclynn Kiessling As my brother’s boss yells and cusses at him from behind the counter, I climb up on an empty stool where a slit in the faux leather seat scratches the underside of my legs. What the fuck is she doing in here? You can’t bring her in here. She needs to leave right fucking now. My brother stares him down, this man with the greying beard and small watery eyes and tells him that he’s not going to leave his baby sister in the car by herself in the middle of the night. He doesn’t tell his boss that dad lives at his girlfriend’s or how mom is a silhouette under harsh streetlights accepting rides from shadows with expensive cars. Music pulses from speakers hidden high in the ceiling, and I turn away from the 40-inch TVs mounted on the wall to watch the elevator of a man’s Adam apple as he gulps a drink and then gasps against the bitterness. Along the counter, rounds of whiskey, beer, rum, and tequila slosh into glasses that catch a flash of neon green or pink from the strobe lights as they are lifted to welcoming lips. My brother weaves between patrons and the other bartenders, flirting with the stringy blonde down at the end of the bar and slides her an extra drink when she smiles at him. There’s a chorus of groans from the pool table after one of the men misses his shot. The woman beside me slides off her stool and slips away to the door with a man who doesn’t stop rubbing her ass even when she stumbles into him and his head slams into the doorjamb. Instead, they howl with laughter and start talking about some woman named Cassie who hated sitcoms and had a cat she mummified. I locked eyes with the boss across the counter, and he lets me be.
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