Hamilton / Lams Oneshots

The Bartender (Plat. Lams) [modern]

Hey guess what. I wrote something way too long with no ending. Enjoy the pain.

Everyone always tells me that things happen for a reason, but nobody seems to know what reason exactly.

The church in my hometown told me that it was God's will, the sweet lady from the shop told me it was destiny, and when I was starting to get older my teachers told me that I'm responsible for my actions, that it was my fault when things didn't go their way.

To me, it never made sense, and it just told me that nobody really had a clue, or they didn't care for me enough to tell me the truth. With that in mind, I had a bully good time making my way through life, note the irony, with everyone on my back about meaning and taking things seriously, it was so very hypocritical that I almost couldn't take them seriously.

I came to thinking about the whole spiel again one Saturday night, I was 26 at the time and had just left my horrendously expensive New York apartment to go to the local bar. The bartender, a guy my age named John Laurens, knew me well. I was quite the pessimist, and that mirrored itself in a few of my unhealthy habits, not that he cared as long as I kept on bringing my credit card.

I sat on one of the bar stools, the room was fairly empty apart from a few college students at a table in the back drinking away their stress about the upcoming tests, as their chatter told me.

"Alexander, back so soon? How's work doing?", I heard a voice from behind the bar, and a couple of seconds later the bartender's freckled face appeared from underneath the table, holding up a handful of pushpins triumphantly. "Got 'em! Sorry 'bout that, someone must've left those on the counter, and somehow they fell all over the floor..."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You're the only one who works here..."

He swiped his fingers over his mouth as if closing a zipper. "Let's keep that our own personal secret. Now! What can I get you?"

"Usual, please."

I watched as the man turned and got a glass from the shelf behind him, starting to prepare the drink with swift motions. There was something a bit more cheerful about him than usual, the first name basis, the jokes, the way his accent was more noticeable when he spoke than what I was used to.

"Won the lottery or something? You seem awfully happy."

He shook his head, grinning like a little schoolboy on the first day of summer break, it was endearing. "Nope, my sister's in town, she comes by every couple of months when work allows, I love her very much."

"That's amazing."

I had almost forgotten he had a sister. Patsy is what he called her. I've been told about other siblings as well, but I couldn't remember their names if I tried.

John Laurens always loved to talk about this and that, mostly about others, though he seemed to apologize after every sentence, saying 'where are my manners' or 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't judge', as if they were in the room with us and could get offended at what he said.

He set my drink down in front of me, and I slid my card over the counter. "Keep it open", I told him, and he gave me a look that I couldn't quite place, somewhere between concern and curiosity.

"Bad day?", he asked, and I shook my head. "I just feel like talking."

Looking around the room, he checked if any other clients needed his attention before sitting down in front of me with a sigh. "Talk away, my friend."

"I'd rather you tell me about yourself a little. You know all about my job and life, it's only fair if I learn about yours."

By his expression I could tell that he didn't expect the answer. Fair, I thought to myself, I didn't usually ask any questions, or show interest in him, I realized. There was a pang of guilt in my chest, and so I smiled at him apologetically. "What? We're friends, aren't we?"