He slams back a shot of whiskey. And then another. And then another. And then another. In quick succession, in the wink of a hummingbirds eye, he burns through forty dollars worth of booze. He wipes his sleeve with a mischievous grin, looks up at me, "another."
I set down the bottle of Kentucky's finest and ask " And why shouldn't I cut you off? In a civilized world, you'd have been cut off a long time ago."
Without saying a word he whips out a wad of cash - I can only surmise a roll of hundreds - he carefully peals one off and gingerly sets it on the bar next to the half empty bottle and the row of empty shot glasses. He looks me square in the eye and replies: " Because the gravy train has rolled in... and I'm the conductor."
I match his gaze for a split second, feigning thought... feigning internal struggle... but it's for just but a second and it's just for show. I deftly snatch the bill off the counter like a coked-out stripper grabbing a five spot. " O.K, have it your way chief." I pour another shot.
I continue, " So what's your story? You've been sitting at my bar for several hours now pounding drink after drink with no end in sight. Let me guess... assisted suicide?"
He slams the shot of whiskey, pauses, then suddenly coughs... the dry, raspy cough of an unrepentant chain smoker. " Suicide? No." In a hoarse voice. " I died a long time ago. I'm a ghost. A whisper. An afterthought. I'm the cool breeze on the back of your neck. I'm the fading dream you hope to forget."
" Ooh, I love dramatics." I toss my dish-towel under the bar and lean forward, my chin thoughtfully propped up on my fist. " You have a name?"
" Do you have a name?"
I point at my chest. " Says so right here on my tag."
" Marvin? You don't look like no Marvin."
" And you don't look like no ghost."
I pour another shot. His pale eyes widen. " Uh-uh, this one's for me my friend."
8 comments:
i like how you only slowly realize the whole set up of the story.
when i was 17 i worked in the 'worst' watering hole of my little town, my parents didn't even know about that. although it was really shitty paying I couldn't really stop doing it, it was almost like an addiction. I would work until 4 AM and tell my parents I am sleeping at my friends house. I was the only bartender, the boss was some weird musician, old guy, gruffy white beard and would come down for an occasional drink or when there was trouble. The bar was really dark and obscure but I felt like the queen of the ugly and wretched and stranded and lost. The unshaved men hanging in there all day and night, some occasional stranger popping in, the chinese coming over for playing pinball or dart...I learned the story or the silence of every one there.
It was amazing. At day time my friends were wondering why suddenly all those bums and shady persons and alcoholics would wave to me and shout happily 'hey dina!'
it was always a game and it was like nothing i have known before
As a new bartender, I got my ass chewed royal, twice. The first time was for not clearing those empty shot glasses from the bar right away. To keep it looking "civilized".
The second was the time a seemingly put-togethor, but nervous lady sat at my bar. I poured her first drink and chatted her up until she relaxed at which time she promptly vomited three gallons of shit, flooding the bar nearly end to end. The strapping, young bouncer, an ex-military policeman helped me clean it up.
I soon realized that I could not ever know how fucked up my patrons were just by counting the shots and so I slowly began to try and learn each and every one of their given names.
My first bartending job at an establishment called The Last Frontier.
nice!
sounds like me at the bar [sans the wad of bills]
Hermes: I always read and reread your stories. Such a visual your words create.
In this one, the fact that this old man had a wad of cash and then combined witty words such as, "I died a long time ago. I'm a ghost. A whisper. An afterthought. I'm the cool breeze on the back of your neck. I'm the fading dream you hope to forget..." followed by seemingly poor grammar, "...You don't look like no Marvin..." tells me he is probably uneducated, but has worked hard for many years to achieve his success - which would explain his touch of outward bitterness.
I could be way off, but that was the image I had of this character.
Hey...
I know that guy.
We should do shots sometime . . . . but only under the condition that I get to call you Marv.
i lived this...plenty
in my other/distant life as a bartender.
dive bar --
I hope nobody here
knows my name
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