Faking Life Page 6
Esther felt a sticky film in her mouth, residue from the conversation with Nico. Yet despite her disgust with Nico's actions, the only thing she'd been able to think about was her desire to see John Gillis. Every time she thought about his words, picturing his face in the photo, so kind yet so unsure, she could see him speaking to her. She needed that, needed to feel something real.
She sipped the cool, lime-flavored beer and curled her legs underneath her. She stared at the faint crack in the ceiling, over the entrance to the bathroom, a scar from the flood in the upstairs apartment that had eaten through the plaster.
Esther rarely went to bars, and never alone. Occasionally she'd go to after hour networking soirees, traditionally held at trendy village watering holes with names like “Lumbar” and “Fresh”. She would chat with other young industry types, mocking the more ridiculous queries and stubborn authors that had come their way, dissecting literary trends and bemoaning the lack of upward mobility within their companies.
She longed for her old, carefree days. Going to bars with girlfriends, flirting with boys while secretly knowing they didn't have a chance in hell. The breezy, stress-free feeling of a world devoid of expectations. She'd loved the thrill of the cat-and-mouse game, but once the real world claimed her, the mouse hole had quickly sealed up and suddenly the cat was too busy to play.
What's the big deal anyway? It's just a bar. They serve drinks. Plenty of people do that without attacks of conscience. Besides, if he's scummy or I don't feel like staying, I'll leave.
And why did she feel the need to overanalyze? John didn't need to know she worked for Nico. If he asked, she'd make something up. If he asked.
If he was interested.
Esther stood up and took another sip.
What did she have to lose?
Chapter Five
John choked down the first buffalo wing down with a swig of Ginger Ale. The second one tasted like asphalt. The third tasted like barbecue-flavored Pepto Bismol. He tossed the rest out before his stomach threw up the white flag.
There was nothing 'atomic' about Sal Marvio's wings, unless salmonella poisoning fell under the title of “biohazard”. He took the remaining nine, made sure nobody was looking, and scraped them into the garbage. He replaced the plate and rubbed his stomach.
“As good as always Sal,” he said, watching the small man nod ambivalently from the kitchen.
“I made them special for you,” Sal said, his voice strangely muffled. Sal had been caught twice smoking cigars in the kitchen. So far, he didn't seem to be learning from his mistakes. Strange too, John thought. but whenever he makes wings for a paying customer, they turn out fine. He makes them for me, they taste like damp cereal. John washed the aftertaste down with water and gave a fake blonde a refill on her vodka tonic.
He was expecting Paul to show up any minute. Classes ended early on Fridays, his direct deposit went through, and after grading a batch of papers Paul came straight to Slappy's. Things hadn't worked out between Paul and the Kendra; two phone calls had gone unreturned and four emails ignored. John had the West Marion Quarterly mag ready to go. Thirty-fourth time's a charm.
John took a breath, enjoying the smell of a nearly empty Slappy's. All the soggy shoes and sweaty bodies made it downright unpleasant late at night. He sniffed the faint cologne emanating from a trio of businessmen, sour silver polish from the heavily bejeweled woman with the twelve-dollar scotch. She'd been sitting at the bar for almost an hour and a half and was only on her second drink. Her eyes stared down at the dark countertop and her finger traced the wood gently, as if caressing the skin of a lover. Her other hand held the drink glass, her fingers barely squeezing the tumbler.
She was clearly uninterested in the drink itself; holding a cold glass by the bottom warmed it faster and, especially in the case of scotch on the rocks, watered it down that much quicker. Every few minutes she would take a small sip, her lips parting ever so slightly to allow the liquid in. Her eyes squinted briefly and her tongue licked remaining drops of moisture from her lip before she put the glass back down. She hardly glanced at John. He wished she would say something, allow him some sort of segue into conversation.
He wished he'd been a bartender in another generation, when customers would gush their troubles to their neighborhood barkeep, drinking their cares away in the company of the world's greatest therapists. Bartenders didn't judge. They listened with the intensity of a lover, and tipping was much cheaper then paying a shrink's bills. People didn't want that anymore. Now, drinking was more about gratification than catharsis. Bartenders were social customs officials; only dealt with so they could stamp your passport and move you along.
John poured himself a soda. He stepped aside as Enzo filled the beer trough with ice. Enzo's three main jobs were to refill the ice buckets, carry cartons of liquor up from the basement, and change kegs when they ran dry. A cork-shaped Hispanic man with close-cropped hair, Enzo's neck was tattooed with a jewel-encrusted necklace that John couldn't believe when he first saw it. The markings were beautifully intricate: blue and red beads threaded around a thin white chain, the ink vivid and colorful. He even had a metal clasp tattooed on the back of his neck. John shuddered to think of the pain he must have endured to get it.
Sipping his water, John noticed a woman enter the bar, glance around furtively, then head towards the counter. He generally remembered the evening regulars, especially attractive women, and was positive he hadn't seen her before. She was about five-eight—with heels—and wore a camel-colored overcoat. Her brown hair was done in simple but attractive curls. She was cute, but not immaturely so. John made an effort not to stare. Her eyes were friendly, her mouth open as if expecting conversation. John held his breath, hoping she'd take a seat. She stopped before the bar and looked around. Dismayed, John's eyes sunk. Her body language said she was meeting someone. Her eyes rested on him for a moment—he thought he glimpsed a discreet smile—then she walked over and sat down. John tried not to smile as he took a cloth and buffed the wood in front of her.
“What can I get you?” he asked, glancing at his reflection in her eyes.
“I'll have a glass of red wine. Merlot if you've got it.” She laid her handbag on the counter, unaware or uncaring of the thousands of wiped-over beer stains and cigarette ashes that had been ground into the woodwork. John took a glass, popped the cork on a bottle and filled it nearly to the top. He felt a tingling sensation in his scalp. The smell of the wine made him lightheaded. He breathed through his mouth until he was finished pouring, then set the glass on a coaster. He took her ten-dollar bill and gave back three wrinkled singles. She put two of them in her pocket and left one on the counter.
John fetched a beer for a man in a white t-shirt and bandana, adding a shot of “Somepin' strong” to the ale per his request. While he poured he watched the new girl in the mirror as she delicately sipped her wine. Maybe, he thought (hoped?), she was here alone.
As he walked towards the other end of the bar, his mind distracted for a moment, she spoke.
“You need a plant,” she said, looking right at him. John whipped around.
“Excuse me?”
She smiled. “You know, a plant. Green thing with leaves. There are too many dark colors in this bar, blacks and brown. The place looks like a swamp. A plant would really brighten it up.” She took another sip and smiled self-consciously, as though her suggestion may have been inappropriate. “Just my opinion.”
“Unfortunately that's not up to me,” John replied, pointing to the other end of the bar where Artie sat thumbing a magazine. “That guy over there owns the place, and if it were up to him we'd be drinking inside a gigantic neon sign.”
“It's not bad the way it is, but a little more color couldn't hurt. But I guess you could say that about a lot of things.”
“A lot more color couldn't hurt. This place is like the black hole of humanity.” He'd meant to be funny, but immediately regretted saying it.
“So how can you live with
yourself, working in such a dreary place?” John's smile faded. He stood up briskly and took a step back. She seemed to notice this and quickly tried to make amends. “I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I was only joking.”
“I know,” John said. “It's not you it's…I'm sorry.” He smiled again, trying to ease the tension. “John. It's a pleasure to meet you.” She offered her hand, which he accepted graciously.
“Esther,” she said. “Pleasure's all mine.”
They shook hands. John was surprised to see she was still grinning. Maybe she genuinely was pleased to meet him.
“So what do you do, Esther?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? You know, for work. What were you doing before you came to my bar?”
Esther paused. “You know, I'd rather not talk about it.” John smiled.
“That bad, huh?” She half nodded.
“It's just, you know you go out at night to get away from all that stuff. I'm sure we can find something more interesting to talk about.”
“Suit yourself, but I think my job's fascinating.” They both laughed.
“So what're you drinking?' Esther asked.
“Just water.”
“Just water? I assumed bartenders sat around drinking all day and stumbled home with dollar bills hanging out of their pants.”
“You're thinking of strippers. Bartenders hang around all day pretending to get drunk, so the real drunk people don't think they're the only ones having a good time. Oh, and we go home with quarters sticking out of our pants, not dollar bills.” Esther smiled.
“Sounds like you really love your job,” she said.
“Hey,” John said. He scratched his ear. “What's not to like?”
“You tell me.” She took a sip of her drink, waiting for a response. John stayed silent. “So tell me John, how long have you worked here?”
“Ugh, don't ask. Too long.”
“Come on, I won't tell anybody.”
“Promise?” John asked. He felt like he was back in third grade making Lucy Mickleson promise not to tell Ms. Williams he'd eaten paste.
“Promise,” she said, crossing her heart.
“Ok. But you're sworn to secrecy. Even if we never see each other again you're not allowed to tell. And you aren't allowed to act surprised either.”
“What makes you think we'll never see each other again?”
John smiled and slurped his water until he sucked air from the bottom of the glass. “Let's just say I've been working here long enough to know that customers have, how should I put it, a high turnover rate.”
“I understand. Now out with it.”
“Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath. Esther leaned forward. He milked it for a moment then said, “almost seven years.” She gulped her wine but didn't look as surprised as he'd anticipated.
“Is that all? I thought you were going to say something like fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years? Do I look that old?” She laughed, a high, easy chuckle that made John want to join in just for the sake of it.
“I'm fooling with you. Let me guess…you graduated college, took a job here, and haven't looked back. Am I close?” John was mildly disturbed and impressed at the same time.
“Yeah, you're pretty much right on the money.”
“So what was your major in college? Philosophy of bartenderism?”
“You're psychic. Actually, I graduated with a three-nine and I wrote my thesis on the development of lagers in the Tri-State area.” She laughed again. John felt like he could really get used to this. He needed more laughter at the bar. Honest laugher, not the kind guys and girls usually did to b.s. eachother into thinking their lame jokes were witty.
“Seriously, what did you major in?”
“Economics. Lot of good it did me.”
“There's still time.” She paused. “Or do you want to do this forever?”
“Forever? Not a chance. If I knew in fifty years I'd still be pouring beers for a living, I'd probably put myself out of my misery right now.” Esther ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. A thin wail of sound played like a violin chord.
“So what do you want to do then? Direct?” John laughed.
“No, nothing like that.” He looked down at the bar, picked up the cloth and wiped away some non-existent dirt.
“So what then? You have a secret dream? Are you a tortured artist aching to break free?” John shifted uncomfortably. He folded the rag and tossed it in the sink.
“Hold on, be right back.” John did a lap up and down the bar, checking to see if any customers needed refills. He poured the requisite drinks, hesitated, wary of talking to her again. She was making him woozy, as if she could read his mind. Artist? Not quite. He wasn't starving and didn't have a stash of paintings hidden away in his basement. And he didn't consider himself a writer, not like Paul was a writer. He was just jotting down notes to sort things out, get his life straight. The title of 'Writer' was strictly for people like Paul whose stories were read and adored. People whose stories were made into movies that grossed hundreds of millions of dollars. Writers had articles written about them in Vanity Fair and owned antique typewriters. He owned a Dell pc and had decided not to renew his subscription to Entertainment Weekly.
Just then, Paul entered the bar, drawing his attention away from Esther. John waved and took a clean pint glass from the shelf, mixed a Tom Collins for a businessman. When he turned back, Esther was gone. Paul walked up and took the stool she'd occupied.
“Howdy barkeep. Canst thou bring me a mug of thy finest ale? Spare no expense.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip. “For this pauper has received his paycheck today, and has a heavy night of drinking ahead.”
“I get mine tonight too. Maybe we can combine our paychecks for the week and buy a sandwich,” John said. He scanned the crowd looking for Esther. Though was never one to get overly sentimental about patrons, he hoped she hadn't left.
“Who're you looking for?” Paul said.
“No, just…nevermind. What can I get you?”
“Your finest Bud Light.”
Paul removed his coat as John poured the beer. “Bottoms up buddy,” Paul said, taking a long sip. “Ah. A perfect end of the day drink. I didn't have lunch so I'd guess in about, oh, four more of these I'll be good and ripped.”
“Excuse me,” Esther said. She was standing behind Paul, handbag slung over her shoulder. She must have been in the bathroom. John should have thought of that. Paul saw the wine in front of him and hopped onto the adjacent stool.
“My apologies Ma'am, didn't know you were sitting here.”
“No problem,” she said. “And Miss will do. Ma'am sound so old-fashioned”
“Then Miss it is.” Paul looked at John and nodded slightly, imperceptibly. John picked up on it and smiled. This was going to be fun.
Paul put on his hardest frown and stared morosely into his drink. John went to the other end of the bar, took an order, and came back. He hovered over Paul until he was sure Esther had noticed. Paul looked up.
“Hey you're,”—John snapped his fingers—“you're that writer guy. Yeah, I know you. Paul something, right?” Esther barely registered this. Paul nodded modestly and raised his head.
“Guilty as charged. Paul Shrader, it's a pleasure.”
“Yeah, Paul Shrader. I love your stuff. Beautiful, really.”
“Can I have a refill?” Esther asked, raising her empty glass. John grabbed the Merlot and refilled it.
“So anyway, I think I actually might have one of your stories right here, hold on a second.” He took out the West Marion Quarterly and held back a grimace. The magazine was getting dirtier by the day and the glue holding the pages together wouldn't last another month. Not that he had a choice. Buying a back issue would probably cost more than Paul was paid for the original story.
Esther finally looked up. She took a look at the magazine's cover and her eyes glimmered with recognition.
Paul obliged and signed his name on page 34.
“Paul Shrader,” Esther said. Their heads both snapped to attention. She clicked her tongue as her eyes flickered, searching her memory banks
“Yeah?” Paul said, a hint of confusion on his face.
“Paul Shrader. That's West Marion Quarterly. Must be Volume nine, issue thirty-seven. The one with the purple dog on front.” John turned the cover, and sure enough, there was the dog in all of its smudged purple glory. He'd never noticed it before.
Paul looked dumbfounded. “How did you…”
“I read a lot,” Esther said, taking a sip, looking away.
“Huh.”
They both leaned back, stunned. In the thirty-three times they'd done this charade they'd seen every response imaginable. The only thing they'd never seen, never even thought they'd see, was someone who'd actually heard of Paul.
“Here,” John said, handing back the ten Esther had given him for the refill. “This one's on the house.”
“What for?”
“Just cuz,” he said. She shrugged and stuffed the bill into her purse.
“It's great that you read so much,” Paul piped in. “Too many people don't give due diligence to great literature. Too busy in front of the T.V. or on the Stairmaster. Myself,” he said, pinching his almost-trim belly, “I don't have to deal with that problem.”
“No, it doesn't appear that you do.” She looked at John. She raised her eyebrows. “Do you have that problem?”
“Let's see,” he said, lifting up his black t-shirt, revealing abdominals that were once chiseled granite, now finely sculpted Play-Doh. All things considered, they were still well above average on the bartender fitness scale.
“Impressive,” she said. “I guess bartending keeps one in better shape than writing.” Paul scowled. John laughed.
“Actually I'm a the starting quarterback for the Giants. This is my day job.” She smiled. Her teeth looked genuine, a nice touch. He'd seen more caps in his tenure than any dentist in the city. Esther looked completely natural, hair didn't seem to be dyed, a slight air of fruity perfume. Not the kind women slathered on like soap that made him nauseous. She looked down, humbly, as if afraid to let her emotions show.