The Bartender

Chapter 3: Fight at a Bar

 "What did you just say to me?"

"I said that you need to pay for my poem! Do you know how much effort I put into this? It took me days—days—to write this and look at what you've done!" Taking the soaked sheet, I brought it up to his face. The alcohol dripped from my hands. "It's soaked. The ink's even bleeding!"

He tore it from my hands, eyed it, chuckled, and dropped it. I watched it fall. "Sorry to hear that man, but so what? It's not like you're the next Shakespeare. This poem sucks."

Eyes darting back at him, I stated, "I'll have you know that I'm a Shakespeare in the making. I have plenty of fans who support me!"

He smirked and looked down at me. "Still not Shakespeare. You're talentless."

I jumped to my feet. Making use of my body, I body slammed him, making him crash to the concrete. With my scrawny body, I laid on top of him. I punched him until my knuckles turned white. No, I punched him until they bled. They bled a dark red, a red that matched the stain on my paper. They bled down my hands until they reached the dirty cuffs of my shirt and smeared with his own blood, mixing it to form a gradient on the floor below.

Quickly, I was taken off of him. I struggled but was pulled off. And then, before I knew it, I was knocked out.

Before me, I heard the sound of pouring alcohol. Behind me, there was a loud electronic beat. Well, beats. They were scrambled, mixed and arranged in some sort of trippy, irregular pattern that made my head hurt. I guess this is what I get for coming to the club to write, huh?

I held my poem in my hands. Through my swollen eye, I stared at it. My heartfelt words were now just blurs on a stained piece of paper. Sighing, I placed it on the counter and looked at it with solemn eyes. Maybe this is God's way of telling me to quit this fruitless hobby of mine. Though I had fans, there were hardly any of them—likely none of them would want to actually support a man during his mid-life crisis, either. I wasn't writing smut. I wasn't writing comedy. I was just writing my poor excuse for romance. 

I probably couldn't even get a dime from my son, wherever the hell he is now. Probably on stage somewhere, acting or something... he always did have that kind of star talent. Probably came from her.

Hearing the sound of a glass behind set in front of me, I glanced up to see the bartender standing before me, smiling, seemingly unfazed by the mark on my face. He had rested his mixing cups—still intact—in front of me.

"What are you reading, sir?" he asked, his voice had just the slightest spark of interest. Or was that my hope speaking? "A letter?"

I shook my head and softly smiled. "No, it's a poem that I wrote. Well, what remains of it." My face fell.

Leaning his arm against the booth, head tilted, he asked politely, "Would you mind telling me it?"

"The words are illegible now," I murmured with a sigh, "it's a shame... I was going to post it to my blog today."

He frowned. "That is a shame." He brought himself back up and went back to make drinks. "You don't remember it?"

"I mean, I do...roughly."

"Can you tell me what you remember?"

Breaking into a smile, I asked seriously, "Do you really want to know?"

He smiled. "It's always my pleasure to learn more about my clients."

I chuckled and my smile widened. "You're the nosy type of bartender, aren't you?" He just kept his smile. Putting my sheet down, I rested my head against my palm, looked at the ceiling, and recited: