Chapter 8: Quiz Night

The door wheezed shut behind her.

Nobody moved for a second.

Then the mailman lifted his glass and said, "To the bartender," and the whole room drank to me.

I went into the back and ran the dish machine for no reason until my hands stopped shaking.

"I'm not," I said to the steam.

The steam didn't believe me either.

The next Tuesday was pub quiz.

It's the best night at the Lamplighter.

Eight tables, six rounds, a twenty-five dollar bar tab for the winners and a ceramic owl for last place.

The owl is ugly. People fight to avoid it.

I was setting up the microphone at seven-fifty when the front door opened and the room went quiet.

Gannon walked in.

Behind him came eight men in work jackets and steel-toe boots, sunburned and grinning, the biggest one carrying a case of pretzels.

"Table for nine," Gannon said. "We're a team."

"This is a neighborhood quiz."

"We're your new neighbors. Long Beach is in the county."

The regulars turned in their chairs and looked at the tug crew.

The tug crew looked back.

It was like two dogs meeting at a park.

"What's your team name?" I asked, because I'm a professional.

The biggest one said, "Tilda's Stepbrother and Some Guys."

The regulars booed. The crew cheered.

Marva took the mic out of my hand.

"Change of plan," she said. "Tilda's playing. I'm hosting."

"Marva, I always host."

"And you've never once been allowed to win your own owl. Sit down with your people."

So I sat down with the nurses, the mailman and the sports guy at the table by the jukebox.

The regulars renamed themselves The Last Word.

Gannon's crew loved that.

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