"So, how long have you been bartending? Where did you work before?"
His eyes blinked like guillotines.
"Three years," I lied, "and before I was at Kennedy’s in Cambridge for a year," I continued my lie, although this one was paler, as I did work at Kennedy’s, yet only for a week.
He looked up to search his spacious skull.
"Hmm… where in Cambridge is it?"
"Harvard Square, right on JFK Street," I said, quavering. "It’s an upscale cocktail bar… very crafty… it was a great experien—"
"Right, never heard of it. Do you have good wine knowledge? We sell a lot of wine here, all of them Italian, and you’ll need to be able to describe them to our guests."
"Of course, I’m great wi—"
"Describe a Cabernet for me."
"Uh… it’s a red… deep, bold flavors… pairs well with red meat or… pasta…"
"What about a white, say… a Vermentino?"
"It’s… uh… a dry white… medium-bodied—"
"Okay"—he stood—"thanks for comin’ in, we’ll call ya."
He gripped my hand as if he sought to crush it, then abruptly started for the kitchen. The bartender nodded as I scraped by and finally found the fucking exit.
◆◆◆
"No, you need to shake it longer, dude. I just told you this. C’mon, man, sharpen up," David said, his forehead freckled with beads of vodka-infused sweat.
"All right, I got it," I said feebly. My long sleeves covered fresh track marks—pinpricks on an alabaster canvas. With five hours left in the training shift, I was ready to give up. Aches attacked my atrophied body. My heartbeat was irregular. Erratic. Spineless. I couldn’t stand straight. One moment I’d be freezing, goosebumped, and shivering, the next I’d be universally damp, wiping my face like a fogged mirror. If I hadn’t had a habit, or if I was simply high enough, I would’ve had no problem. But my clumsy, slippery hands shivered as I seized the shaker, balanced the jigger, and swirled the spoon.
"You good, dude?" David said.
I stared at him dully, inhaling his vodka breath.
"Yeah, of course. I’m just feeling a little under the weather…"
"You said that yesterday, dude. You sure you’re good?" He burped Tito’s.
"Are you? I can smell the booze on you, dude," I retorted.
"Just makin’ sure, man, just makin’ sure. What’s in The Aqueduct?"
"Muddled basil, three-quarters of lemongrass syrup—"
"No, dude, it’s half an ounce. This is what I’m talkin’ about, you need to memorize this shit… I thought you were a real bartender."
"Okay, David. Half an ounce of lemongrass, one of peach, one of lemon, and two of gin."
"You’re forgetting something… c’mon, dude…"
"Two dashes of lavender bitters."
"Yup. Shaken or stirred? What type of glass? What’s the garnish?"
"It’s shaken, double-strained into a coupe glass with a basil leaf garnish."
"Yup. I guess you’re not totally hopeless." He grinned and hit me again with booze fumes. "Do the ticket that just came up," he demanded, walking to the end of the bar to confer with the manager I interviewed with.
That’s when the puke came. Swift. Unrelenting.
"David, I needa go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back!"
I sprinted off the bar and bulldozed into the bathroom to let it fly. The spike stirred from my apron. "Fill me! Fuck this place! You don’t need these fucks!"
"Shut up!" I shrieked, rinsing my mouth in the sink and recoiling at my haggard visage. At six foot one, I was 125 pounds. You could’ve splintered my ribcage with a flick. You could’ve killed me. I wanted to die.
I needed to.
My only hope was that heaven had high mountains of heroin.
The manager was waiting when I returned.
"Joe, let’s talk in the office," he said, and I knew the rest, but I followed him anyway, catching David’s glare and spitting it right back, deafened by the din of my blossoming dread.
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THE BARMAN© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO WET BRAIN
VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO TRIGGER WARNINGS
Great narration, James! I hung on your every word. I've been meaning to catch up on your stories. I love it when people narrate their stories! I'm not that brave yet :)
Brilliant dialogue. And scene. Boom! Love it!