Serenity

2. The Bartender

"Guess you'd be wanting to close up now, Clay?"

Old Bill swayed slightly on his barstool, rocking like a stagecoach with crooked wheels.

Clay swept back his sweaty fringe and gauged the depth of drunk he was dealing with.

A sway to the left with a kick up of the boot usually meant too much for Bill to be capable of walking out unaided this evening. However, a pair of sure-footed boots, toe curling round the lower bar of the stool, indicated an uneven path across the hardwood floor and out into the night with no assistance necessary.

"Hey, Hickey, get your grabbing mitts offa my damn drink. Get your own."

Clay watched half in amusement and half in fear. It made him nervous anytime old Bill started talking to his dead drinking buddy. What had it been? Three years now? And still, still the old fella couldn't let it go. Always bringing Hickey up at the wrong time, spurting out ridiculous speeches of how Hickey Harrison had been sent to his grave in the most inhumane and indecent manner.

In this, yeah, he had to agree with the old soak. Being shot with your pants down while availing yourself of the once most beautiful piece of ass this town had to offer, sure was a terrible way to clock out. But man, on the other hand, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go, right?

Boy, he wouldn't admit it out loud, but he could lose himself in the ample bosom of good ol' Molly Stockholme himself. But as luck would have it, Clayton happened to be the first man to admit that he had lost his touch with the ladies. Exactly when, he couldn't remember.

There used to be a time when he helped out upstairs with more than changing the bedlinen and bathwater. Those were the days.

His mama had run the girls for the rich, faceless owner back in New York. His father had been the manager. Clay's childhood memories consisted of hoisting laundry up and down the street to the river ladies, and washing away tobacco spit from the floor boards. Occasionally, only occasionally mind, as his mother ran a tight ship and tolerated no such violence, dark stains of blood came to be in need of eradication.

Clay remembered every single mark. Every position. Each patch of bloodied faded floorboard, along with every fake smile on the girl's equally stained red lips.

He lost count of the number of times he'd wanted to run out into the night. Scream down the cowards as they strode away, all cocksure, self-satisfied and generally inebriated.

Young Clay could have changed the Saloon. Might have transformed the lives of the young women who lived there. Lived there? No. More like survived there. Either way, he could have made a difference. If only he'd possessed the strength of conviction he held now.

Thirty years gave a man something. Knowledge.

Sighing to himself, Clay raised an eloquent eyebrow and caught his reflection in the gloomy mirror behind the bar. The opportunity for change had once again crawled in closer.

He held his own gaze while his body went through the motions of wiping down the sticky ledge of walnut that ran along underneath the collection of bottles.

"Hey."

Old Bill interrupted his thoughts, by craning his neck sideways to match Clay's eyeline in the mirror.

"You gonna pour me one for the road, or stand there making googly eyes at yourself?"

Yawning, Clay dropped his shoulders and got on with business.
"Sure thing, Bill."

He flicked off the stopper of the whiskey bottle and emptied the dregs into Bill's well-loved glass of the day.

"That's the lot, old man."