Page 21 of Only One Tour Bus

“I’ll take this lot for you.” He winks at them charmingly, very free with those winks. “Why don’t you two head to the tasting room? Help yourselves to a dram or two while you wait.”

“Thank you!” The first time, I took the tour with my group. And the second time. And the third. Somewhere around the eighth, I decided that I could recite it myself and said I would stay in the bus and nap. Fergus started leaving the tasting room door unlocked in sympathy for me, where there is liquor and a very comfortable napping couch. And apparently he does it for Callum, too.

We bypass the distillery while the group goes inside, and walk to the building next door. True to Fergus’s word, the door is unlocked, and we turn the lights on.

“What can I get you?” I slide behind the counter and pull out two fresh glasses from under the bar.

“We shouldn’t take the alcohol.”

“Fergus wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t want us to take it. Plus, I’ve bought Christmas presents here more than I want to admit, so I think I’m due some free drams.” It’s hard to shop for presents when I’m always on tour. The demonstrations and souvenir shops we go to are the only stores I see besides grocery stores and pharmacies for weeks at a time. It makes me feel less bad when the travelers ask if they should buy stuff at these stops, since I get a commission from the demonstration shop sales.

It’s good stuff, and I buy it myself, too. And my salary might be a crime, it’s so low.

I pour myself a glass of a whisky that was aged in barrels that formerly held rum. It’s the sweetest and smoothest they have. “So what can I get you?”

Callum considers the selection and taps a bottle.

“Ah, the twelve year! What a lovely selection, sir. You have such discerning taste.”

“You don’t need to sell me on it. I’ve bought a lot of the stuff over the years.”

“This job is dangerous to my wallet and counter space. I have so many little leaning towers from Pisa. And so many little red telephone boxes from London. And tea towels, piggy banks, and coin purses. And don’t get me started on the shirts. They’re almost my entire wardrobe.”

“I don’t go that far.” He says it carefully, like he’s trying to not insult my love of souvenirs. But he still does. It’s a good thing I’m harder to offend than that. “But I do end up with a lot of bottles of this stuff.” He accepts the glass I poured for him.

“Let’s cheers to a smooth rest of tour.” I extend my glass, hoping that I can will him into a more cheerful tour.

His face does not get the memo, but he does tap his glass gently to mine. And combined with the laugh earlier, I feel like I’m making real progress here. Slow, but steady.

We chat about work, me laughing at (and him judging) each other’s tour stories before Fergus brings our tour babies back.

“Hi, everyone. How was it?” I see some happy faces and nodding heads, so I assume it was another fantastic Fergus original. He is a charismatic tour guide, and a great salesman.

Probably why Callum and I end up with so many bottles ourselves.

He works that same magic in front of us, taking over my spot behind the counter as he describes each of the distillery’s offerings. He liberally pours dram after dram of samples for my eager group. Even a little for the two teenagers before their parents snatch the small tasting glasses out of their hands.

Some of the guests move on to buying bottles, asking for our opinions about the drinks. I try to give them the best advice I can, and soon the shop is emptier than when we walked in.

My tour babies, on the other hand, are weighed down with bags, and a lot looser with the way they walk and their laughter.

The bus ride back is louder than the one to the distillery. The noises of people having fun make me happy, but it has the opposite effect on my co-tour leader.

I lean over to Callum, who’s sitting on the bench seat at the front of the bus across from me. “You look like you have a hangover already, even though I haven’t seen you drink all that much.”

Callum strains to hear me over the raucous conversation, making me repeat myself two more times before he gives up and drags himself across the aisle to sit next to me.

I repeat it one last time, and he shakes his head. “They’re supposed to be jet-lagged. I want to go back to the nice, quiet ride up here.”

A particularly loud cackle pierces the air and we both jump a little in surprise, and at the volume. “At least they’re having a good time.”

“So good it’s going to end with one of them in jail. Mark my words.”

“Not my angels. They can handle their drink.”

I hear a yell that sounds a little too aggressive and pop up to see what’s happening in the back of the bus. James and Thomas are a little too close, but before I can make Callum move and figure out what’s happening, they’re hugging it out. Go figure.

“You were saying?” Callum drawls.