Chasing Peace Read Free Page B

doesn’t seem to trust the
people who want to be friends. I think they usually want something from her.”
    Lyla didn’t say anything for a minute and then she did. “Maybe
she thinks you need a friend.”
    “Yeah, except I don’t. I’m not looking for friends. I don’t
care if I meet anyone. I don’t even try. Besides, I’d make a terrible friend,”
I say, thinking about past relationships and how devastating their ends.
    “You’re a great friend Sterling and I’m old. Just imagine
how much fun it’ll be to have a friend your own age.”
    My gut crunches when I realize that while Lyla has been a
great friend to me, I’m sure I’ve never returned the favor. I confess my
mercenary thoughts thinking maybe I should. “As we parted, Annie told me she
had a car and I thought she might be a good friend to have if I ever need a ride.”
    “Maybe you really do need a friend,” Lyla says, shaking her
head, censure in her piercing gaze, “someone who will teach you what it means
to be a friend.”
    “But Lyla, I have you and you’re all I can handle right now,”
I jest.
    My attempt to make light of the situation falls flat so I
don’t say anything more. Lyla really understands people and if she thinks I
need a friend, there might be something to it.
    The glassware is ready and I move on to restocking the
garnish, slicing lemons and limes, fishing olives and onions out of the jar and
such until I hear the piano. We haven’t had a piano player since May and it’s
nice, a little cheesy, but nice. The piano is on the other side of the bar and
I look to see who’s playing.
    “Checking out our new piano player I see.” Lyla’s back and
she’s nudging me in the ribs with her elbow, making fun of me. “What do you
think?”
    “He’s good.”
    “Yep, especially for his age.”
    I’m trying to slice fruit, but my eyes stray to the piano
man.
    “He looks young and that’s a really nice suit.” I’d worked
at a dry cleaner before and after school my senior year and I could spot an
expensive suit a mile away. I wonder why he’s working here.
    “Here they come,” Lyla says, moving away from me as
customers begin to pour through the door in waves.
    Lyla serves the bar while I mix drinks for the cocktail
waitresses. I lose track of time and the piano man.
    “Hello ... Hellllooooo.” She is loud and brash, but she
really captures my attention because her voice is over the top sarcastic. I
look up to see a woman in her mid to late thirties sitting at the bar waving
and hollering. I hold up one finger, no not that one. I’m scrambling to keep up
and ask for a minute to finish my current drinks.
    Lyla has twenty-two seats at the bar while I have more than
a hundred on the floor. She provides backup for me when it’s busy and I cover
the bar when she runs back to the stockroom or ducks out for a smoke.
    “Don’t you put me off. I want a drink and I want it now or
you’ll be looking for a new job.”
    I turn her direction as I place the last cocktail on Trish’s
serving tray.
    “Good luck,” she whispers, grabbing the drinks and scooting
away.
    “What can I get you?”
    “Singapore Sling and don’t use any of that bathtub swill. I
want the good stuff.”
    I know this woman, with her severely tailored red suit that
calls for attention among the darker suited men. She is successful, but not
because of intellect or compassion or skill. She’s successful because she’s a
bully. I pull out a tall glass as she turns to the man next to her to grouse
about the service in this place. I half listen, imagining her employees working
long hours with little recognition while she uses their paychecks, their
livelihood, to bend them to her will. I imagine she hollers, demeans and maybe
even hits her employees, while cozying up to the business leaders and taking
credit for her team’s work and preferential treatment for herself. She uses her
womanhood to get ahead when necessary and she uses gender discrimination to