The Bartender

Chapter 1: Alone at a Bar

 Music. Everywhere. Red lights lit the room, cascading into the patron's mood. People dancing in the square. Sweat dripped from their foreheads and as they swiped their heads, it dropped to the floor.

Driiip.

Driiiiip.

Driiiiiip.

I would be able to hear the drops fall if only it wasn't for the erratic, eccentric Latin music that was being boisterously played on the loudspeaker. But I guess there would be an even greater chance if I was there: in the center of it all. Where the women swung their hips, the tassels of their dresses swirling like waves in an ocean; where the men moved to the music in their loose shirts, their pants just buckled on by their tightly tightened belts—that was where I was supposed to be. Not here.

Not alone.

But I am.

I grabbed my beer and took a sip. The taste of bitter ale seemingly scorched my tongue. But it was a rather fitting taste—being left here was leaving me a bit bitter.

The bartender, who was shaking a drink, walked over to me. With a surprised look, he asked, "Sir, are you not going to join the others?"

Striking an annoyed look, I wiped my lips and hissed, "What do you think?"

Of all things, all he did was smile back at me and continue shaking his drink. With his eyes shut and his smile stretched, he commented, "I thought you would like to since you keep looking over there."

I glanced back at the crowd. Laughing, I shook my head. "No, no—I'm just thinking about how they're all idiots, wasting their time dancing when they could be doing other things." Raising my glass and with a forced smirk, I said, "You know, I'm a rather successful broker and you don't see me out there, acting like a fool, showing that I have two left feet for my feet." I pointed at one of the men on the floor. "Like that fellow right there—he's a fool for trying. It's clear to see that he isn't suited for this sort of thing. If he stopped, maybe he'd be able to find something better to do with his time than dance."

"And give you that woman to dance with, by chance?"

Looking back at him, I laughed out loud. "Do you honestly think that I'd dance with any woman?" Wiping away a single tear, I rested my arm on my stool and took another sip. "I'm a picky man. Maybe that's why I'm not dancing." Peering over at him, I remarked, "Blame that on the reason why you're stuck with me. It's a shame, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "No, I enjoy your company, sir. I rarely have the chance to be able to hold a conversation with any of the gentlemen or ladies who come to my booth. Most of the time, when they stay here, they're like that gentleman over there." He pointed at a collapsed man who was on his phone, crying—probably sobbing to his ex or mama or something. Shrugging, he added, "They're not the best company if I'd say so myself, but please don't tell them I said that."

Once again, I laughed. Not out of mockery or to hide insult, but out of pure amusement. Patting his back, I exclaimed, "YOU, sir, are hilarious!" Then, looking at him directly in his eyes, I asked, "How is it that you're working the bar here? You could be a comedian—be a bar's best act!"

Nervously, he laughed and shook his head. "I'm honored, but no, sir—there's no way that could happen."

"Have you tried?"

Hesitantly and with more than a hint of regret, he admitted, "Yes." Shuddering a little, he added, "And I will never try it again."

He stopped shaking his drink and walked over to the case with the fancy wine glasses and took one out. Then, he uncupped the drink and smoothly, he tossed it in the air a few times—missing not even a single drop of the bright red liquid or the finely crushed iced—and caught it in the glass. Next, he moved back and pulled back the little area where he kept his liquor décor and taking out a few lemon slices, delicately, he placed them on the rim of the glass. And then, there: he was done. And I had to admit, despite the lack of garnishes, it did look great with the bubbles lightly touching the slices and the ice that was floating on top.