There are men who walk into a bar, order their drink, and fade into the background, content to enjoy their whiskey in peace. Then there was Scott Wicklund, the human hurricane, a man who entered a room like a goddamn event. If you were within a fifty-foot radius, you were getting pulled into his orbit, whether you wanted to or not.
Scott wasn’t just a guy at a bar—he was the bar. The minute he walked in, women clutched their drinks a little tighter, bartenders braced themselves, and my waitresses gave each other knowing looks, already preparing for whatever fresh brand of Wicklund bullshit they were about to endure. He was an agent of chaos wrapped in a real estate agent’s polo shirt, fueled by whiskey, bad decisions, and the ever-present need to prove that, yes, he still had it.
The problem? He never had it to begin with.
Owning Amalia’s was supposed to be my escape from all this. A clean slate. No more late nights at strip joints, no more questionable business deals made over cocktails with morally bankrupt men in dimly lit back rooms. But Scott caught wind that I had a place of my own, and suddenly, Amalia’s became his new playground.
Every Friday night, he was there. Drinking like a man trying to kill something inside himself, flirting like his life depended on it, tossing out drink orders for women like some Arabian prince, only without the money or the charm.
The only issue?
Scott didn’t have a tab.
But in his mind, he had found the ultimate hack: just say “Put it on my tab!” with enough confidence, and people assume the tab actually exists. And because he was my friend, and this was my bar, the bill somehow always ended up in front of me at the end of the night.
So, like any good friend, I plotted my revenge.
One night, I called a staff meeting. From now on, if Scott wanted a drink, he was going to get exactly that: a drink.
A special drink.
A Scott Wicklund Special.
Now, what exactly was a Scott Wicklund Special?
Oh, it was a masterpiece.
See, when the waiters clear tables, all the half-drunk cocktails, abandoned beers, and forgotten shots get dumped into a single five-gallon bucket before the glasses go into the dishwasher. A vile, swirling cocktail of everything people didn’t finish. Margarita remnants. Backwash from whiskey sours. Vodka sodas tainted with lipstick stains and regret.
That bucket? That fermented abomination? That was the only thing Scott Wicklund was allowed to drink.
For three weeks straight, that’s all he got.
And for three weeks straight, he drank it.
The night it all went to hell was a Friday. Scott arrived already three sheets to the wind, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, his confidence unwavering. He was in full form—touching shoulders, grinning too wide, making every woman within arm’s reach question their life choices.
The staff, sick of his antics, decided to push him over the edge.
Shots.
Round after round, they poured, smiling sweetly, encouraging him, fueling the downfall. And every single one of those shots?
A Wicklund Special.
By the time the night was winding down, Scott was barely standing. His words slurred together like an old cassette tape warping in the heat. He was sweating like a man on trial, his head bobbing, his entire body swaying like an inflatable tube man in a stiff breeze.
And then he decided to leave.
Now, we might have been assholes, but we weren’t monsters.
We tried stopping him.
“Scott, don’t drive, man. Just sit down.”
“Scott, give us your keys.”
“Scott, for the love of God, at least try walking in a straight line first.”
But no. Scott was a man. Scott had pride. And Scott was determined.
He staggered out, fumbled his way into his BMW, revved the engine, nearly backed into a lamppost, and then sped off into the night.
We waited.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
No sirens. No crash. No sudden calls from the hospital.
Somehow, against every law of physics and probability, Scott had made it home.
The next morning, as I was working on my Bronco, my phone rang. Scott Wicklund, caller ID.
I answered.
It wasn’t Scott.
It was his wife.
And she was on fire.
“YOU DEVIL.”
Excuse me?
“YOU ARE RUINING MY HUSBAND!”
Oh. This was going to be good.
“You have brought SATAN into his life! You and your drinking! Your black shirts! Your MORMONISM!”
Mormonism? That was new.
She screamed about the evils of alcohol, strip clubs, and how I was leading her dear, sweet Scott directly into the fiery pits of hell. I held the phone away from my ear and let her burn through the full list of grievances.
“STAY AWAY FROM HIM! I DON’T WANT YOU AROUND MY FAMILY!”
And then, in the background, I heard Scott.
“Give me the phone!”
“NO, SCOTT. HE’S NOT YOUR FRIEND!”
“GOD DAMN IT, GIVE ME THE PHONE!”
There was a scuffle.
Then, Scott, panting, finally got on the line.
“Dude… she found my phone.”
And then, the real reason for her breakdown:
Scott had saved my name in his phone as ‘Mormon Boy.’
And apparently?
She hated Mormons.
That was the final straw.
Scott was officially on lockdown.
No more boys’ nights.
No more Portland.
No more “business trips.”
No more strip joints.
No more Mormon Boy.
Jesus was going to save him.
For the next few months, Scott was put on strict wife-imposed rehab.
He was only allowed at Amalia’s during daylight hours.
He had to be home by 9 PM.
He had to attend Bible study.
And every time he showed up at Amalia’s, the staff barely acknowledged him.
Like a fallen emperor.
He had once been a king. The life of the party. The self-declared owner of my restaurant. Now, he was just some guy drinking water at the bar.
He tried making jokes about it.
“Hey, maybe just one drink?”
The bartender just stared at him.
“What about a Scott Wicklund Special?”
And that’s when he knew.
The game was over.
Scott Wicklund, tamed by Jesus.
For now.
