The Incredibly Consequential Life of Charlie Zappala

Chapter Two: Where the Drunken Things Are

The bar was only a couple blocks from the apartment, which made it something of an enabler. Charlie often found themself there more often than not during the week. Half the time they didn't even drink alcohol. Rio, the bartender, was kind enough to entertain the habit of putting soda in beer steins and drinking bottles.

It was the atmosphere Charlie liked more than the activity involved in it. Watching people talk and interact provided far more entertainment than what was on TV or HBO or whatever people did for fun these days. They were only called out for it twice—no, wait, three times. The trick was to keep your head down and periodically check your phone. Sunglasses, while they obscure your pupils and wandering eyes, tend to draw more attention when you're wearing them inside.

All in all, the goal was just to watch people.

Getting totally fucked up on occasion was fun, too.

Tonight wasn't a soda night or a get-hammered night, though. Tonight was a carefully selected single beverage night. The kind of thoughtful drink you sip for the sake of looking classy and contemplative, but also hardened and done-with-your-shit. The therapy only played a small role in that decision today.

Charlie sat at the bar, waiting for their drink. The music in the establishment was probably too loud for just-barely-turned five o'clock, but no one there seemed to mind. The place had a bit of a speakeasy feel to it, trying to channel the glamor and excitement of the prohibition era without touching on the less-than-sexy aspects like organized crime and the less-than-stellar civil rights issues that would've affected a near majority of the patrons of this establishment. Even Charlie. Especially Charlie. They made a conscious point of mentioning that to Rio whenever they could. Each time, the bartender offered a haphazard smile and politely nodded along to their ramblings.

They traced shapes on the warped wood as they waited. A few barstools down sat a woman with hyper-straightened hair and extra long false eyelashes. She spoke without reservation or volume awareness.

"--Ya, I really like it here."

Her friend, near faceless behind a cottony mound of dark hair, nodded.

"It's just like--everyone here is so nice, you know? Like, no one here is gross or trying to hit on me. It's so great. It's so great."

Charlie glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 5:34. They wondered how long the record for getting shit faced during happy hour was. Probably shorter than this chick, but she must've been an honorable mention.

They weren't paying attention and missed the drink that magically appeared in front of them. They took a sip. It was terrible, but in the good way, the way they wanted.

Charlie nursed the drink, ears still tuned to the conversation happening up the bar. The woman was still loud, fighting to stay above the music without understanding she was losing. She complimented every detail the atmosphere and the building had to offer, even if it sounded occasionally backhanded at times. The friend was quiet, only opening her mouth to agree or voice a complimentary opinion. She held her hands in front of her, shoulders hunched ever so slightly. She would look over her shoulder periodically to wordlessly check out the scene.

In one of her silent glances, her eyes met with Charlie.

Charlie offered an empathetic half-smile and nodded once before lifting their drink to their lips.

She responded only with her eyes, a look of peaceful resignation, before turning her head half a second later.

That was their signal to not get involved in someone else's story.