Page 3 of Dirty Martinis

“Mm. This is good, thank you.” She gave me a small, polite smile.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” I said conversationally.

“Probably because I haven’t been here before,” she said wryly. “You haven’t been open that long.”

I took the hint and busied myself wiping down the surface of the bar top and filling orders for the other customers seated along the bar. The woman drank most of her drink before she spoke again.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” she said when I came down to see if she wanted a refill. “I’ve had a hard day, but that’s no reason for me to take it out on you.”

I threw the bar towel over my shoulder and moved closer. “I’m all ears if you want to talk.”

When she didn’t respond, I stuck out my hand. “I’m Michael, by the way.”

She studied my hand for a second before sliding her fingers into mine. I felt a little jolt of something that felt a lot like attraction, but I pushed it away. Whatever was going on with this woman she didn’t need some bartender hitting on her.

Of course the bartender was also the owner of this establishment, but she didn’t know that. I tried to keep my position here quiet when I was working with the line staff so I could get a clear picture of how the business operations and customer service was working.

“I’m Olga.”

Our eyes met and the synapses in my brain started to fire with memories from long ago. “Olga Pavlenko?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, do we know each other?”

“Michael Kobylarczyk, we went to grammar school together.”

Her face lit up. “Oh my God! Mikey? I can’t believe it’s you!”

She jumped up on the foot rail beneath the bar and stretched over the top, grabbing me into a hug. I popped up on my tiptoes to meet her in the middle, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. I caught a whiff of something floral in her hair.

“I haven’t seen you since, what, fifth grade?” she said. “How are you?”

Olga and I had both attended St. Stanislaus Catholic Grammar School back in the day. Neither of us was Catholic. My family was Lutheran and hers was Ukrainian Orthodox, but St. Stanislaus was a highly rated school, and the Catholic teachings had enough similarities to our own faiths that our families thought it was our best option for getting into a good high school.

I first talked to Olga on the playground in kindergarten. It was a hot September day and the nuns had sent us all outside for recess and a snack break. I hadn’t made any friends yet, and apparently neither had Olga, because she was sitting alone on a bench under a tree. I knew who she was since we had a small class.

***

“Hi Olga, whatcha got there?” I asked as I sat down next to her.

Instead of the cartoon themed lunchboxes the rest of us had, Olga’s snacks were in a quilted bag. She took out a pear, then unwrapped some foil to reveal a hunk of thick dark bread with a couple of slices of what looked like salami. She sighed as she unwrapped the final item, a hard-boiled egg.

I wondered why her snack looked like something my grandmother would eat, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I kept my mouth shut.

“What did you bring?” she asked curiously.

I opened my Transformers lunchbox. “I’ve got a peanut butter sandwich, string cheese, a banana, and ooh, two twinkies!” I held up my dessert triumphantly.

“I’ve never had any of those things,” she said. “Other than a banana.”

“Why not?”

“Because my mama only makes Ukrainian food.”

“What’s Krainian food?” I asked, mispronouncing the word.

“Yoo-krainian,” she corrected, emphasizing the first syllable. “It’s the country where my parents came from. It’s in Europe.”

“But you’re in America now,” I said with the certainty of a five-year-old. “You should be able to eat Twinkies.”