Casual Duty - Chapter 9 Dyke or Whore?

March 1981
Scottie’s Pub
Twin Lakes, WI

Bridie balanced on the edge of the stool with her toes hooked under the support bar, her thumb rubbing the callous on the inside of her ring finger. She watched as he rinsed the rag, squeezed out the excess water, folded it and wiped the top of bar. He’d move down a few feet, five strokes, rinse, repeat. The walnut surface gleamed. She took a deep breath. “Dad?”

“Congratulations, he tells me. Said he’s read in the papers about you.” Rinse, fold, wipe. “How’s that? I ask him? My daughter’s in the papers.”

“Dad, I tried to tell you. On Friday.” Bridie stared at the clock. The Snack Shack – Open til Midnight! Click. Flip: Larson Electric – Big Jobs/Small Jobs. “You wouldn’t listen when I…”

“Didn’t know… A dyke…my own daughter. Or a fuckin’ whore, is that it? Which one?” He flung the rag into the sink and slammed his fist against the bar. “’…cause I would like to know myself, for when they ask me. Which is it? A dyke or a whore?”

Tears welled in Bridie’s eyes, overflowed and leaked out. She refused to wipe them off, allowing them to drip off her chin and onto the bar. Her father thinks she’s a whore. She had no idea what the other one was, a dike? What the hell did that mean? She just wanted to get out of here. Out of the bar. Out of the stupid, small town. She just want to go to school, to get a real job. She sniffed. Great! Now her nose was running! She unglued a hand from underneath the bar and reached across for a couple of cocktail napkins to wipe the bar, and then one to blow her nose. Click. Flip: Stuck? Miller Towing - Up to 3 Tons!

“Your mother, may she rest in peace, your mother wouldnae’ have this talk. She’d have it across your back with the strap for this!” His voice broke. He held the bar with both hands, his head hanging down, his body rocking back and forth. “She…your mother…” He sobbed, then gave up.

…nineteen…twenty…Click. Flip: Koca’s Tool & Dye.

The bell over the front door jangled. Her father fumbled for his handkerchief and blew his nose. “What’s the good word, old friend?” he asked as he dropped a coaster on the bar in front of the new customer.

Bridie pushed back from the bar and walked back to the kitchen. The conversation was over. Conversation? There was no such thing as a conversation with him. It was always the same. He talked and she cried.

Well, after next week, she wouldn’t have to worry about what he thought. She’d be in Basic Training. Then he could just forget all about her and . . . and what, she wondered. What would he do when she left? She walked straight through the kitchen and out the back door without talking to anyone. She cut through the grass on her way to the beach, avoiding the early dinner customers strolling through the parking lot.

What difference did it make what he did after she left. She wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. She wouldn’t have to get his coffee. She wouldn’t have to do his laundry. She wouldn’t have to work in the kitchen for free. She’d finally be out of this place. She sat down on the bench and wiped her nose again. So what would she do, she wondered. The brochures showed pictures of soldiers marching in formation. It was probably a lot like marching band. From what the recruiter said, it sounded like going to college, but with a lot of exercising. Running, push-ups and sit-ups. And shooting a rifle. Bridie wasn’t looking forward to shooting. She’d never seen a real gun, except for the ones the cops around town wore. And hand grenades. And camping. The recruiter said something about bivouac, that it was like camping. She’d never been camping, either. She hated bugs. And dirt. And being outside in the cold.

She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and wondered, what the hell have I done?