Store of Shorts

Scotch on the Rocks

There are people who fall into categories. That's how I recognize people. Each and everyone of them fall into a stereotype whether they wish to admit it or not. An apple never falls far from the tree, and no one ever reads a book without seeing what the cover intends to have inside. People are all part of their biological nature. There is no nurture, because even the nurture of one's parents is based on a natural cycle of their genetics. Follow the history, and you can pretty much figure out how one will end up from the time they're 10 and so on. Only way one will even get close to a different outcome is if they're adopted. Guess that's why I know I will forever be unmotivated and unsuccessful no matter how much I try to not follow in my birth givers' footsteps.

"Hey! Watch it you son of a-"

CRASH

I turn from my sketchbook just in time to see another brawl fight. A beer glass topples over as one of the bartenders attempts to hop over the counter to get in between the chaos. Contently, I bring a bubbly glass with ice to my lips. A squish of skin contact and a load crash as wood hits the ground. My hand begins to move as I trace the scene in my eyes to the parchment in front. Limbs. Glass. Floor. Each piece is just as diligent as the other.

"Sounds, like a fun night," a soft voice next to me brings a chill up my spine.

I turn to the voice to see two arms crossed in a denim jacket looking at the scene that unfolded in front of us. A painted nail clinks against a glass in the hour-glass body's hand. With a scoff I reply, "Nothing new here. That man manages to get into a fight nearly once a week."

"Oh I know," the person chuckles, "I have been here drinking with him since the day I could walk in."

"Regular?"

The girl chuckles, "One could say that."

So, just another Drunky with an overzealous man with violent tendencies. Told you. All down to repetitive nature. With an eye roll I go back to my dead trees in a book.

It takes a little bit before I realize the shadow that had entered my vision had yet to go away. I look up to see the girl's face practically next to mine, "What are you drawing Old Man?"

"First off, fuck you," The girl just chuckles at my response, "Second off, just day to day life of same ole shit different day."

The girl leans away and uncrosses her arms, "Seems like a good way to get still-lifes if you ask me."

"You draw?"

She shakes her head, "Not in your wildest dreams. Unless those dreams are stick figures."

"So, you're just another person who bucks into others' art."

"If you wish to view it that way. Sure."

There is a pause before the girl responds again, "Tonya."

I feel my eyebrow muscles rise, "Excuse me?"

"My name. Tonya. Most people would respond back with theirs."

"I'm not most people."

Seriously, does this girl not get a hint. I close my sketchbook and turn to her. Oh. The girl has royal blue hair and piercing brown eyes. She looks no more than twenty or so, but her eyes. Yep, nailed it. Pretty girl, with an abusive past. Hides it through outward openity and eccentric outer flourish. "Let me guess," I continue, "drink to erase the pain. To feel something in your emptiness."

Tonya laughs and nearly spills her drink, "And you're a moody artist grouching because you're past your time of prime."

"I definitely am not!" okay, being called out is not so fun when on the other side of the spectrum.

"Whatever allows you to sleep at night Old Man," The girl places her orange red liquor-topped drink on the table next to my sketchbook.

I sigh, "Xavier, my name is Xavier."

Tonya runs her long fingered hand through her hair, "I think I'll stick with Old Man. Sadly, I need to get my friend home. Another time maybe."

With a grumble I watch Tonya leave. She puts cash on the bar counter and walks to her friend still laying on the floor. Quickly she grabs a pair of keys from her pockets. That's when I notice odd shaped keychains attached to the keys. White, green, yellow, blue. Small plastic tabs. She leans over the gentleman and offers a hand. The man slowly grabs it and burrows his head into her shoulder. Before she walks away she gives a look behind and meets my eyes. Her piercing brown ones cause the hair on the back of my neck to rise. She is gone before I realize I am starring.

Slowly, I look at the drink Tonya left on my table. Lowering my nose I smell the contents. No burn hits my nostrils. I sip it only to realize it is citrusy with not even a single hint of the normal burn of a drink sold at the bar.

"I see you have finally met Tonya," a gentleman with dark black hair and a gray vest walks over. I nod and look past where the girl had walked out the front door.

"Sure she should be driving after being here with this," I raise the citrusy glass up to the man.

The man laughs, "Pineapple juice with some Grenadine? Yeah, she is a-alright buddy-o. After four years of coming here, not once have I seen that girl drink."

"You don't find that odd?"

"No more than finding a man who comes in asking for scotch the rocks with a sketchbook nearly every night," He begins to walk off, and turns around. "She designates drives for people. Otherwise, I've never even seen outside of this building."

"What's with the plastic tabs then on her key chain. Aren't those sober tokens?"

The man rubs the back of his neck, "Believe I heard her say once they belonged to her mother. Maybe she learned from experience not to follow the same path. Who knows? She never has brought up much about herself. Maybe you could use a friend like her."

With that the employee returned to his work, and left me wondering how a person could stray so far from what nature had intended. I moved my pencil and cursed as the glass I had been drinking fell to the ground. All shattered glass left at my feet.