Bartender

An old mentor once told him, “No one has ever died from not getting drunk fast enough.” He believed the words and was certain it was true, but because of the way certain people acted out on the other side of his bar, he wondered if he had missed a recent headline reading: “Local bartender murdered a baker’s dozen in South Hampton with his slow, mindless hands.” If something of that sort had happened, he was certain someone would have mentioned it to him because of his occupation, and he also believed the day would eventually come when someone finally had something interesting to tell him. Daily, a customer would claim, “Haven’t seen a nicer office than this here one in all my life,” and another customer, a few barstools away would nod along. The bartender agreed too, but his mind too often wandered away from all the treasures within arm’s reach, and towards thoughts which cause much suffering in the minds of young people who believe it must, just must, be better someplace else. All twenty-three Barstools seat a faceless crowd; friends of the sitting hover over shoulders and behind the friends of the sitting stand the thirsty and nervous ones who’ve been fiending for a drink ever since they brushed their wine-stained teeth with Colgate. Barstool eight claims, “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes!” The bartender shrugs off the comment but files it away in the back of his mind because he is trapped in the trenches. He’s waist deep in the hole which the service-bar had dug for him; a hole which death couldn’t move him from, no matter whom the reaper held because there is no time for death right now, although he wishes all twenty-three Barstools would just…

A local finds his way to the bar-top and says, “Bartender. Meet my friend John. His son Jake. Jake just returned from Iraq and needs a drink.” “I can imagine. Nice to meet you two; what are you gentlemen drinking?” Barstool Eight interrupts, “Excuse me! Bartender! I’ve been waiting thirty minutes!” You worthless old hag, can’t you tell time with that dense, dense mind? Sit back down and for the sake of all, shut up and tell this young man you’re thankful he has the balls!” The local says, “Sure crawled out of the woodworks tonight, huh,” with a wink, and the bartender slings their drinks together and then addresses Barstool Eight, “I’ll be right with you.” A scoff rips through his ear, boiling his blood with melting steel. Go fuck yourself! Not here of course… save us all from that rancid display of stale pleasure. “Thanks for your service, Jake. These are on the house. Welcome home.” The local and his friends disappear into the crowd and as the Bartender springs towards Barstool Eight, he hears the familiar voice of the local call out, “Good luck!” trailing his self-amusing laughter.

Addressing the issue he says, “Alright, what can I do for you?” and then notices the child to her right. Must be the son; sorry kid.

“Hmm. I’m not sure…” An exchange of words which needs to be only five, ten, fifteen seconds turned into one hundred and twenty, and most of those precious ticks were spent mumbling to herself. For Earth’s sake! Answer the damned question! Thirty minutes you sat there stewing in your own shit without giving a thought to the question you knew would be asked? To hell with you and your poor, helpless son. Meanwhile, Barstool Four looks thirsty, the two Barstools who told the Bartender to give them a minute to look over the menu have hands folded over closed menus, and Barstools Eleven through Sixteen are being filled with a new group.

“Well, what’ll it be?”

“Can you give us one more minute?” Tonight will certainly be the night someone dies from not getting drunk fast enough. I’ll be sure to see to that. The Bartender serves everyone and answers a few futile questions with his smiling mask hanging on by a fraying thread. After all Barstools are taken care of, he sprints over to the service-bar and scoops, pours, and shakes at breakneck speed and the bar quiets down as they watch the master chop away at the string of tickets which endlessly print from his Micros printer. After the final server walks away with her drinks, he takes a breath before turning around to see that most of the Barstools are looking at him with wide-eyes, but there are plenty of empty drinks and few new ghostly figures on the other side of his bar, so, he goes around the not-so-merry-go-round, again.

A gorgeous woman says, “You’re really good at your job.” I know. No. Be nice. She’s got cash. “Thank you. That means a lot. Enjoy the drink.” As he drops her tip into his tip bucket, he can’t help himself to another intrusive thought: Choke on it. Barstool Eight is gone, along with most of the others. The bartender remembers he has off tomorrow; his first day off in nine days. It’s been ninety-eight days since Memorial Day and he feels every one of those abusive days lingering in his bones. He takes a shot with a friend, another with a server and another alone. The skeletons of the Barstools remain but the human-like figures are gone; he counts his drawer and hands the money to his manager. “Good job tonight. Listen. Sally called me and she tested positive… I need you tomorrow.” To hell with this place. I quit. “Okay, Joan.”

- Kyle Bartell-Crawson