Chương 14: Not All Bartenders Are Stupid, You Know

My inexperience in painting buildings quickly became apparent. Somehow, I thought it would take us most of the afternoon to paint the building. Oh, how wrong I was. As it turned out, there's never such a thing as a simple side quest. I should have known better. It took us most of the afternoon to get the front ready to paint. Apparently, prep work was a big part of the painting process. The rough surfaces needed sanding, and all the existing peeling paint needed chipping off.

On the bright side, I had no intention of working without hydration. A quick trip to the kitchen and a flash of Wynnie's frozen powers gave me all I needed to work some real magic. Quick bartending gave us more than enough punch to fuel us while we worked. I tried to make sure we didn't go overboard; if we got drunk, our productivity would plummet. No need to stretch out the painting process any longer than necessary. It wasn't irresponsible. It was research.

"Why doesn't this taste the same as last time?" Wynnie furrowed her brow and took a second sip, staring at her cup like it might turn on her at any second.

"It's spicy."

"That's the hooch. It's super high proof. Tastes hot, right?"

"Yeah. And the mouthfeel is all thin this time."

"Also the hooch. But probably because the oleo saccharum didn't have as much time to settle." She frowned.

"Sugar oil, you mean?"

"Ahoy, mateys!" A gruff voice interrupted our break.

"Spare a cup for a thirsty traveler?" Apparently, the sailors from the docks had found us. Or maybe they followed the volatile scent of high-proof goods right to our doorstep.

"We're closed," I replied.

"Sure. Stay closed. I don't need a place to sit. Just need a drink." Wynnie nudged my arm with her shoulder. Her voice came low.

"It's not happy hour anymore, right?" Somehow, she'd remembered the specifics of my quick thinking at the docks. Who knew Wynnie was the rules lawyer type? Every table needed one.

"It was two cups for three copper, right?" The sailor held his tricorn hat in front of him with both hands.

"Unless you want to cut a deal."

"No deal. Take him for what he's worth!" Wynnie hissed. Then, seeming to realize she sounded a bit cutthroat, "We could really use that money." Her pleading look immediately broke through my defenses. Her tangled mess of brown hair fell loosely in front of her face, but her gaze cut right through. I would've given her anything she asked right then.

"Three copper per drink," I told the sailor.

"Two copper?"

"Sorry. We only do happy hour at the docks." I turned my back to continue working—and to let him know the negotiation was over. Yet, according to him, I'd just made the terms clear.

"Fine. Three copper."

"Yes!" Wynnie pumped her fist. After the first sailor stopped in, a steady stream wandered through. Each stuck around for a bit, joining us for overpriced, small, ice-cold cups of punch. The negotiations were mostly short and monosyllabic, and each resulted in at least three copper filling our pouch. A couple of sailors even stuck around to help us peel paint while they drank. It wasn't like they had much else to do. Within a couple of hours, a good deal of the old paint was stripped completely.

Not only that, but we'd made back almost everything we'd spent that day. We even had plenty of punch left to continue serving. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Finally, the sun hung low in the sky, preparing to kiss the horizon. A cool oceanic breeze blew over us, carrying the briny scent of the sea. The gulls crowded around the town, waiting for someone to accidentally drop their roll from the market or a fish from the wharf.

We'd stopped working on paint prep and shifted into impromptu serving. Somehow, both Wynnie and I had gotten our way. More than a dozen sailors lounged around the front porch of the Breakwater Inn. We brought chairs outside to give people sitting room, and tables too, at Wynnie's insistence. I'd argued that if we didn't give them tables, they would have to hold their drinks, making them more likely to consistently sip from them. Yet I was unprepared for the alcoholic appetites of medieval-aged seafarers.

Yes, they cursed like sailors, but they drank like them too. Finally, I understood where the phrase and the stereotype came from. They needed no extra nudge to keep drinking. Resting their mugs on tables didn't slow them down in the slightest.

"Should we make another batch of punch? I bet these fellas could drink all night," Wynnie whispered to me, taking an appraising look over the state of our guests. I shook my head.

"Honestly, I'm a little concerned. I haven't been tracking their intake as well as I should have, but some of these guys have definitely had more than ten drinks."

"I know! Isn't it great?"

"For our pocketbooks, yes. For the attention and approval of Lady Talia, I'm not so sure."

"Oh, who cares about what that uptight scale-butt thinks, anyway?"

"I might." I shrugged, unsure of how worried I should be. She'd been a small but steady thorn in my side since I'd arrived here.

"She keeps threatening to throw me in jail. And although it doesn't sound that bad, I think I'd rather stay on her good side." Wynnie ladled another cup of punch and handed it to a sailor. He slapped three copper pieces on the table, grabbed his drink, and promptly spilled half of it. He didn't even seem to notice. His eyes appeared too crossed to have registered anything, and his hands were likely sticky enough from previous drinks that it wouldn't matter.

When he left, Wynnie ladled another cup, dropped a few ice cubes in, and took a sip. I picked up the thread again.

"All I'm saying is, back in my world, bartenders have a professional obligation to not get people too drunk."

"Boo, that's no fun."

"How fun is it to clean vomit out of a rug?" I shot back.

"Good point. Let's cut them all off immediately." She grabbed a heel of bread from the table and called back the drunken sailor who'd just ambled off.

"Come back and eat this, you great soggy walnut! No need to get all sick and pukey on my front porch!" We did a last call and sold six more cups of rum punch. Wynnie was getting ready to kick them all out, but I reminded her that just because we weren't selling anything to them, that didn't mean they had to leave.

"Might as well let them stay until after dark. With any luck, they'll be too sick or drunk to wander home to their ship. Maybe we can sell a few rooms for the night." She clapped excitedly.

"What a great idea!" I smiled. As a bartender, not many people tell you that you have great ideas. Sure, they'll tell you that you're skilled, or that you make a good drink, or anything else having to do with your job. Almost nobody compliments your brain, though. Funny, considering so many of us had advanced degrees in useless fields. In fact, there were a lot of smart bartenders back in my world. A lot of really dumb ones too, just to keep the average down, but more than enough smart ones.

Point is, it felt nice to be seen. At least I could be sure that she wasn't merely buttering me up to get preferential service at the bar.

"Actually, I have another idea. Not sure if it's any good, but it's something," I said.

"Let's hear it. I've been fresh out of ideas for years. All the new ones that you've brought are giving me life."

"Do we know how long the sailors are in town?" She eyed me appraisingly, wondering where this was going.

"They usually stay for a day before they go. Why?"

"What if we make a trade with them? We'll make food, supply them with punch, and let them stay here for free. In return, they paint the place." She looked at me, mouth slightly parted. I couldn't tell if she was dumbstruck in a good way or a bad one. After a beat, she finally spoke.

"That… might actually work. Why don't we ask them?" So, I did. All it took was a quick announcement after getting their attention. To my surprise, we had a lot of uptake. Eight sailors agreed to assist us. The only ones who turned us down had duty aboard their craft. I almost felt bad. After all, I'd suggested a paltry offer of free food and drinks to a group of people who were already drunk. Their inhibitions were super low.

It didn't matter that they'd be outside in the mercurial coastal weather all day performing manual labor because— —oh, duh. They were sailors. That was their job anyway. This was almost certainly easier than what they were used to. Better than swabbing the decks. Or climbing rigging during a storm. Or… swashing buckles? If that was even a thing. Not only would the work be easier, but we were going to let them drink while they did it. This was pretty much a vacation for them. Well, win-win.

I guess it was a good idea after all. Every once in a while, I guess a regular guy without a maxed-out casting stat can still roll a natural 20 on intelligence checks. A satisfied smile crept across my lips. In just a few days, I felt like I was already making a difference. Not just on the sobriety of travelers, either, but on the inn where I'd been staying as well. And, judging by the warm look of appreciation Wynnie was giving me, I was having an impression on her, too.

Suddenly, I wanted to have a few more good ideas. Anything to make that impression deeper.