The bright sunshine of a June morning, some coffee, and a cigarette. For entertainment, I was watching the chickens out in the yard and trying to rock a rocking chair that resented its designated profession. That chair resented its profession with a skill I couldn’t quite figure out, you almost had to admire the damned thing.

The big old rooster in charge of the flock had apparently gotten himself a case of the hiccups. Now, I’d never seen a rooster with hiccups before, but it was pretty damned amusing. It went well with a halfway decent cup of coffee and a rebellious chair.

Perhaps it all was a sign from the heavens? “The rooster needs a rest. Take a breather, everyone.” They do say that God speaks in mysterious ways.

To be honest, I don’t believe for a second that God ever spoke to me. Heck, if that dude ever got a moment to himself, I’d bet he’d go golfing or bowling or some such. Anything but Lording it up over excessively needy mortals. Well, hell, if God was saying take a day off, then I would take a complete and full day off.

I cast the question to the wind, “How the hell do I manage a day off with everything that’s going on?” Oddly enough Sincere Claire arrived with more coffee and the oddly perfect offhand answer, “Just have Auntie take care of it for you.”

Suddenly Resentful Rocker was my ally. The limping roll I had managed stopped easily on its own and I looked up to see Auntie's time-worn finger pointing at me.

“You, Sir, will take this day as a day of rest!”

“Yes’m,” was the best I could croak in response.

“Your good men will care for things. It might two days or even a week if you don’t behave, young man!!” That wasn’t said in a low or gentle voice; in my head, ‘Granny,’ all eight feet tall of her, had just scolded a very young Zachariah.

Auntie had raised her voice at me and I felt like I was trying to hide in my shoes. I simply looked at the ground in shame and tried to wish myself invisible.

“Come eat, child!” cut through my little wall of self-pity.

I rose to my feet, stood properly, and followed Auntie to the kitchen table.

It was a breakfast to write home about. Hell, write to the papers and post it on whatever social media you can find.

Auntie was gone when I pulled my face up from the plate, but holy shit-fuck, my day had just changed. Yes, I needed almost forty-five minutes in the reluctant rocking chair to digest my food and, yup, I did spend a bit of time in a smelly early summer outhouse to balance the inner inventory. But holy fuck, that was good food! I can’t remember the last time I had good liver, but that meat was still like a wonder drug. Auntie cooked it just right, so tender and tasty that I would assuredly dream about it for weeks.

**** ****

Just as suddenly, I was alone again with a mostly attractive woman and a day off. I could only watch the chickens forage for so long without going mad.

I didn’t have my gear so I couldn’t work on that and I didn’t have a newspaper or a novel to read. I did have S-Claire or whatever her name was, but she was suddenly busy elsewhere. So I went and made coffee.

**** ****

Watching coffee brew wasn’t hugely entertaining but the sudden noise from the next room was. So out into the ramshackle bar area I went. Kegs were being delivered and Patrick was there overseeing the operation. I simply watched as Sinful Claire sashayed around, directing the men during the installation and then seductively explaining to the youngest of the group how to fit the tap…in very slow and precise terms. Let me assure you that those would not have been the words I used to describe tapping a keg.

The young boatman was shell-shocked by the end of it and when she pulled a pint and instructed him to drink it down, he did so without pause. He was a young one and barely aware of his shaving kit; the poor kid didn’t stand a chance. When his trousers grew a small wet spot up front, his fellas laughed him out of the pub. I felt sorry for the boy and yet, was quite sure he would dream of that performance for decades to come.

SinfulClaire simply smiled a naughty smile and started handing out beers and shots to our work crew. These fellas might have complained of the extra duty before, but they weren’t complaining now. Patrick and I joined them for a bit. I got to stand on the serving side of the cheap bar, very close to the suddenly hyper-attractive lady.

After the first beer went down, Patrick explained that the Commodore had designated this as “our” St. Charles bar. This was the place for our crew to drink, gamble, and womanize. SClaire simply grinned. The ‘boss’ in me re-emerged for a second and stated that NOBODY drank in here without eating first. I wasn’t going to have this place trashed by unfed drunkards.

Sincere Claire was suddenly by my side, letting me know that, yup, there was food on the cook right now. Fresh beef, beans, and bread. BTW, you’re an idiot Narrator. Let the people in charge take care of it. Fuck it, I poured myself another beer and continued my day off.

I wasn’t sure who was cooking, but the food wasn’t half bad for short-notice fare. The beans were still crunchy, though; they needed to cook longer. The beef cuts were cheap, but the bread and gravy made up for it. Oh, and the beer, sometimes beer simply hit the spot, particularly when you were on a day off.

Our pub was still just a cheap affair and would need help, but it would be a good spot for our fellas when away from St. Louis. I called a spot on a bar that didn’t exist yet, then took a stool over there, regardless. I’d find a craftsman to set up a decent bar for us and make me a proper spot.

St. Louis was far too much of a hassle for me; I needed a spot here in St. Charles.