“Apple juice for the little girls, grape juice for the big boys,” says the bar lady, setting down the smudged glasses in front of us.
Secretly, so no one notices, I always rub a small spot on the rim with my fingers. Then I make sure to drink only from that part.
I know she doesn’t wash them properly. She just pours a few drops of dish soap into the water, swirls it around with her hand, then dip-dips the glasses and that’s it. The cleaning lady always mutters behind her back that this is anything but washing. And the guests end up drinking from dirty glasses. Once I told Grandpa, but he just waved it off. According to him, alcohol disinfects. In the pub, everyone’s drinking booze anyway. Everyone but me. I always get apple juice. For another twelve years, at least according to Grandpa’s friends. After that, I’ll be “knocking back” wine like any decent person.
I don’t even like apple juice that much. It tastes like chlorinated water. I just sip it half-heartedly. I’d gladly leave it untouched, but I don’t want to offend the bar lady. Grandpa says she has a heart of gold. He claims an entire soccer team could fit inside it. And between her legs, too. That I don’t believe. Especially since she always wears tight miniskirts.
I don’t think I’ll ever learn to like wine. It smells sour and unpleasant. Especially when the men breathe it out through their noses. Grandpa too. When they lean in close to me, I hold my breath. If I can’t get away with a couple of incomprehensible jokes and they keep talking until our noses almost touch, I lower my head and fill my lungs as quickly as I can. Though their clothes don’t smell good either. Sometimes I imagine I’m a prisoner, and I won’t get fresh air until I break free. When I finally manage to escape, I run out to the beer garden and gasp loudly. Too bad I can’t stay there long—it’s the card players’ territory, and you’re not allowed to disturb their concentration. The card players can make noise, of course, that doesn’t bother them. Even though I wouldn’t say a word. I’d just crawl under a table and wait for Grandpa’s “time off” to end. Which is really Grandma’s “me time,” when nobody is allowed in the house. Not even me. Not even if I promised to stay hidden in the pantry. Honestly, I’d do anything not to come to the pub. But me time is sacred. Grandma says one day I’ll understand how impossibly hard it is to serve others all the time.
Rainy days are the best, because then no one sits outside. They’re afraid the cards will get wet. True, I’m not allowed outside either, in case I track mud back in, but at least I can stand in the doorway. Unless there’s a draft—Grandpa doesn’t like that. Then the door has to stay shut. Those outings feel endless. The pub quickly fills up with the heavy stench of all the “booze-breaths,” as Grandma calls them.
The bar lady says that when I’m older, I’ll help her serve the card players and the slot-machine crowd in the summers. I smile politely at that, but my heart always sinks. I’d much rather help the cleaning lady. I’d scrub all the tables in the garden until they shone, just to make things nicer for the card players. I’d bustle around them all day. And they still wouldn’t talk to me—just like now. The game has all their attention.
There aren’t many slot-machine guys. Grandpa’s the only one who sits there for hours every afternoon. He said he’d be happy to teach me, once I’m tall enough to reach properly. But I’m still a little dwarf, craning my neck to see. And honestly, it’s boring. I think even Grandpa gets tired of it sometimes. I told him once, let’s go to the playground instead, but of course there’s no wine there.
When I start earning money cleaning the pub, I’ll buy him a whole bottle from the store. Maybe then he’ll want to sit on a bench in the fresh air while I swing.