6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

Well, that’s children for you.

  * * * * *

  “Buddy! What does it take to get served in a low-rent, backwoods joint like this?”

  The shrill nasal invective pierced the happy hour din of Frisson just enough to catch my attention as I moved through the crowd. Christine was too busy flirting with a group of baby lawyers at the far end to care that she’d left Ian drowning in a sea of drink orders.

  What a piece of work.

  Grimacing, I touched Ian on his shoulder to let him know I hadn’t abandoned him to Christine’s tender mercies… not entirely. I got megawatt dimples in return, which was nice.

  “Can you get me a triple Corona for Simone? Man, she freakin’ scares the piss out of me—I keep thinkin’ she’s gonna shiv me, right? Ever’ time I look at her, it’s like I killed her dog, ya know?”

  I hid my eye roll behind Ian’s back, popping the first cap off his beer order.

  “Seriously? Shiv? What are you, twelve?” I shook my head. The kid looked like he was about to make a break for the door, and I needed him to kick it into gear if we were going to last until the end of shift. The entire week had been a hot audition for my rookie, and it was only going to get worse tomorrow.

  “Do yourself a favor: lay off the HBO, forget the bar bunnies for a sec, and don’t make Simone wait for her orders. She can smell fear a mile away, so don’t give her any reason to make your life hell. And cut the racial stereotyping—she’s too smart for prison and prefers a switchblade,” I leaned in. “Blake gave her one for her birthday.”

  He turned back to handle the rest of Simone’s order.

  “What about them?” I pointed to a couple of cougars waiting expectantly, their heads on constant swivel as they rotated between staring at Ian like he was an ice cream cone left out in the sun, and checking out the rest of the men milling around.

  I didn’t recognize the woman seated halfway down the bar, but I recognized the ‘type’. Her turquoise tank dress, teased red dye job, and tan-from-a-can were trying too hard just like her drink order.

  “Oh, yeah… Blondie’s got a cosmo and the redhead….” Ian pulled a scrap of yellow paper out of his apron pocket, handing it to me: strawberry margarita ‘rocks’ was scrawled in smeared blue ink.

  “Really, Ian?”

  Ian shrugged and melted away, happy to leave me to it.

  She saw me coming… waiting until I drew closer before giving me the look. She probably spent hours practicing it in the mirror. Too bad she was wasting precious pout time on me. Perhaps if she’d used the same care on the rest of her, she wouldn’t have to settle for the gay bartender. From where I stood, using a shovel to apply her mascara and blue eye shadow wasn’t the best choice, but what did I know? It had been years since I bothered with eyeliner before going to a club.

  “It comes blended.” I waved the note to get her attention, yelling over a conversation about the Tennessee Volunteer’s front line between three guys who certainly looked like they might know something about it from firsthand experience.

  “What?” She fluttered one set of lashes—the others appeared stuck together, so I tried to focus on the one eye, already slightly bloodshot. Not her first bar of the night.

  “You asked for Strawberry Margarita rocks?” I asked a little louder, tempted to look over my shoulder for the guy from ‘Punked’.

  “Yes! Mmmm! That’s the one!” Both sets fluttered freely, and I shook my head, knowing my next words were going to spit us right back to the top where we started.

  “It comes blended.” I waved the note again as if Ian’s smeared chicken scratch were the bartender’s bill of rights: I have the right to refuse service to anyone too stupid to order their drink correctly. I have—

  “Why?” Her buddy was too busy flirting with one of the hurlers to help explain, and likely there was no point in me trying—they both appeared to have left the house without a clue between them.

  I gave it a shot anyway.

  “We don’t stock strawberry liqueur so it’s made with frozen strawberries which, by definition, makes it a frozen margarita. And unless you prefer straining chunks of berry through your veneers, it’s blended. ”

  She pouted, flipping a product-saturated strip of hair over a bare shoulder. “Isn’t that just like a strawberry daiquiri?”

  “I’ve always thought so,” I muttered, turning to catch her friend while she was looking my way. “What’ll you ha—”

  The redhead leaned forward, pressing her breasts against the edge of the bar, cutting me off. “Well, then what do you recommend?” Her lashes looked like they were trying to escape, and her friend giggled.

  I sighed.

  Women.

  I really didn’t get the attraction some times.

  No wonder Ian lost control of the orders.

  Pulling out a bar menu, I turned to the specialty drinks and handed it over. “Check these out and I’ll be back to take your order.” Never.

  “Hey! Sasquatch!”

  The squeaky noise was back. Too bad it didn’t include a visual aid. I pivoted in place, trying to match a face to the voice without luck.

  This night kept getting weirder. I’d have to check and see if it was a full moon later—it had the crazy feel of one, like the bar was full of half-turned werewolves. One wrong move and they’d all tear open their clothes to show off their hairy chests—even the women.

  The noise came again, relentless.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you, man-in-black. What’s with that anyway? You in mourning over the death of good service or just harboring dreams of being the next Johnny Cash?”

  From between the press of suits and the tanned elbows of the gym bunnies, I could make out a pair of hazel eyes glaring from under the brim of a gray felt fedora, the hat adding just enough height to break the plane of the bar top.

  Ah. Of course. It’s going to be one of those shifts.

  Not werewolves, but close.

  “Hey, Craig.” I leaned over the bar to get the attention of the group threatening to swallow the new arrival under a wave of Brooks Brothers pinstripes. “Go take your party to a table. I see Simone’s got one for you—” I waved to catch her eye, then pointed to the cluster of corporate attorneys I’d just served, ignoring her frown.

  She’d figure out a way to squeeze the lost tips for this latest round out of me before the end of the night.

  Finally, I had a little more room to work with. “What can I get ya?” I asked the hat, clearing away the empties and scraps of beer labels and peanut shells left behind. Lawyers were pigs.

  Apparently, so are gym bunnies.

  I picked up an abandoned margarita glass sitting in a puddle of… something, and inspected it. There was pink frosted lipstick marks perfectly spaced around the entire rim.

  That can’t be accidental, can it?

  I stuck it in the bin for prewash.

  “Are you finished, Mr. Clean?” the man snarled, struggling to climb onto the barstool.

  “Need a hand?” I asked, continuing to wipe down the bar.

  “Are you blind as well as deaf and dumb? How insulting do you intend to be?”

  “Just as insulting as I need to be. You’re not the first dwarf to walk into my bar.” I smirked.

  “Little person, you moron! Don’t you watch cable?” The little person settled himself with a huff.

  “Nope.” I took a moment a pull him a draft. “Here you go. It’s on the house, for the dwarf crack. You look thirsty.” Raising a brow in challenge, I pushed the glass across to him.

  “What’s wrong with you? I’m a protected class!” The forefinger stubbed emphasis into the air between us.

  “Yeah? Me too. Well… not around here so much. Nick-the-Fag, pleased to meet you,” I introduced myself, laughing at the dumbfounded expression on his face.

  “Come on, I don’t have cooties.” I wiggled my fingers at his wavering hand, chiding, until the limp fingers firmed up and he gripped mine in a brief parody of a handshake.

>   “Darrell-the-uh-Little-Person… and, um… neither do I. Have cooties….”

  Darrell slid a pristine white linen business card across the bar to me. I picked it up, watching him drain his glass of free ale in one long gulp before turning to inspect the card. In black formal font were the words: Darrell Hammett, Grand Officiate, Fraternal Order of Little People. Flipped, it revealed a Chicago address and a Twitter account for ‘DwarfNoMore86’.

  Huh.

  I leaned a hip against the bar and waited. “Is there a blood ritual we need to do first?” I waved his card. “Or can I take your order?”

  Obviously the wrong thing to say.

  Darrell retrieved his card briskly, tucking it into a black leather wallet conjured from the inside pocket of his jacket. He looked like he wanted to say something, possibly to the detriment of my forebears, but just shrugged.

  “Vodka rocks. Grey Goose if you’ve got it.”

  “Coming up.” I turned to grab a bottle from the wall.

  “So, what brings you to our humble little bar?” I finished his pour, adding a twist of lemon to the drink.

  Now that Darrell was kneeling on the barstool, I could get a better look at him. He was wearing a double-breasted gray suit that screamed 1940s Hollywood detective meets nearsighted tailor. The padded shoulders were wildly optimistic—like someone had cut down a larger suit, rather than sew one to fit.

  “Do you always call yourself that?” Darrell sidestepped my question and took a drink. Half the vodka disappeared like magic. It was like he was a drinking savant.

  Picking out the lemon twist, he flicked it over a shoulder at the back of a frat boy standing nearby.

  “Pardon?” I watched the peel land, craning slightly to see if anyone else noticed it clinging to the back of frat boy’s neck like a yellow limpet.

  “That word. Use it often?” Darrell drained the glass and motioned a refill, which I obliged, including the twist.

  This time he missed frat boy, instead sending the peel bouncing off the shoulder of a busboy, who missed nothing—I shook off his dirty look with a wave of my hand before responding to Darrell.

  “What, Fag? Never. You?” I asked, watching Darrell polish off his third drink in the space of five minutes.

  “Never…” Darrell handed his empty over and raised a fuzzy brow when I didn’t move. Apparently, the reorder was implied.

  I hadn’t bothered returning the bottle back to the wall after the last round so I poured him another vodka rocks, this time omitting the peel from the equation.

  “You opening a tab?”

  Darrell flipped me a black American Express card, then proceeded to stare at his drink until I dropped another twist into his glass. Without a pause, Darrell fished the lemon peel out.

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered, grabbing the man’s raised arm before he could get his shot off. The peel dropped to the bar.

  With a shrug, Darrell took another slug of vodka, then waded back into our conversation. “It’s not very ‘PC’. Besides, I’m too smart for that…” He continued, belying his words, “Any Nancy-boy around could pound me into paste before I got to the really good insults.”

  “Probably even the straight ones,” I deadpanned, sweeping away the lemon peel.

  I left Darrell to ponder a comeback and went to swipe his credit card. By the time I’d returned, he was vibrating enough to levitate off his stool—apparently, he was Happy’s cousin Cranky when drunk.

  Slugging down the last of his drink, Darrell rose onto his fists, leaning against the bar top to call me on my last comment. “Why would you even say that? Cuz I’m short? Cuz I’m a freak? You don’t think I can handle myself in a fight cuz I’m a dwarf?”

  I found him oddly appealing. Befriending him would be like putting a collar on a wild honey badger and calling it domesticated; the temptation to pet him was almost irresistible, no matter how many fingers I’d likely lose in the attempt.

  “Nope. I’m certain you can hold your own—at least verbally. But that’s not what we’re talking about, is it? I said ‘it’ cuz it looked like you needed a little social lubricant—and by ‘lubricant’, I don’t mean more vodka, just something to ease that boulder off your shoulder for a few minutes, lighten you up. It must be a drag.”

  “So to speak.” Darrell scoffed.

  “So to speak,” I agreed. “I’m a bartender. It’s what we do… at least the good ones do. It’s called relatability. You might try it sometime.”

  “Tend bar?” Darrell jeered. He lapsed into silence, sucking the last traces of booze off an ice cube almost thoughtfully. He was probably imaging himself in action, hopping up and down, trying to see over the bar to take the customer’s drink orders—I certainly was. I smiled.

  “Funny. But no,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest. I couldn’t wait for the next salvo.

  “Oh, by ‘relatability’ you mean cuz we’re ‘protected classes’ we should stick together?” Darrell snarked, puffed up in real offense like a Thanksgiving turkey on parole.

  “Something like that…” I gave him my grin, no longer trying to placate him.

  A glance along the bar told me Ian was in control of his station, so I picked up a glass and began to polish it while a muted Darrell swirled the dregs of melt water and booze together, and brooded.

  A thought popped into my head. “You know, between the two of us, all we’re missing is a priest and a duck and we have a quorum for at least a dozen bad jokes.”

  Darrell sniffed, pushing his empty glass away, unamused. And I felt a twinge at the thought that I’d pushed our play a little too far.

  “We’re nothing alike. You have no idea—”

  Leaning across the bar, I looked him square in the eyes and spoke seriously.

  “Darrell, we’ve both lived long enough that we could probably shorthand each other’s pain with a minimal amount of imagination. I don’t need your bio—your story is written in your body… but mine is a little more subtle.”

  I waved a hand the length of my torso as if to invite him to get a good look at what I was, and wasn’t, presenting to the world. “Without invading each other’s privacy, I figured I owed you at least that much information to even up the score…”

  “By calling yourself a fag?”

  “First time for everything.”

  “So I’m your first?” Darrell was leering now.

  “Apparently so. Be gentle.” I swiped the empty vodka glass and replaced it with mineral water, hesitating briefly before adding a wedge of lime.

  I gave Darrell another wicked smile—the one that usually got me the best tips from both sexes—and passed the glass over. “Just don’t forget, lubrication is key.”

  Anything he was going to throw back at me was lost in the commotion at the door.

  FatBoy had arrived, parting the crowd lingering in the doorway like he was Moses—or the fire marshal—ushering Lorcan and his Leprechauns deeper into the bar.

  Trailing along in FatBoy’s wake, Lorcan waved like a beauty queen. Or a drag queen. He had the height for it, and I knew a couple of guys who’d kill to have his natural hair made into a wig.

  As he passed, I caught a glimpse of the rest of his outfit: another skintight Leprechaun T-shirt—this one a lurid red, the cartoonish figure on the front bent over mooning us—and hopefully, a pair of white faux leather pants tucked into scuffed Doc Martens.

  I’d been so pissed at them all the night before that I never really looked at any of their faces—especially not Lorcan’s, which was surprisingly delicate, almost pretty, above a precisely trimmed beard hugging his jawline. So I really wasn’t prepared for him to drop out of the procession back to the stage and make a beeline for me.

  “Nicky, right?” Tonight, he’d pulled himself together—his accent sounded spot-on to my untrained ear. No longer a boy from the Windy City, he was now presenting as 100 percent Irish Blarney.

  “Uh… No.”

  “That’s not what Davis said.” Lorcan’s ton
e was insinuating, his use of FatBoy’s proper name, like nails across the chalkboard. I reminded myself that I had nothing to be jealous of. Darrell chose that moment to choke on his drink, spewing mineral water across my shirt.

  “Ssssorry,” he rasped.

  “At least you waited ’til you switched to water…” I dabbed at myself before mopping up the mess.

  “Hey, don’t I know you?” Lorcan leaned in to check him out, like a vulture not quite content to wait for the last death rattles to quit rocking before tucking in for a quick snack.

  Darrell rose to his knees, taking every inch of height he could gather from his perch on my barstool, and addressed the crowd around him.

  “As if. But we know you, Lorcan Boyle—or should I say Eddie Kowalski!” he confronted Lorcan, the staccato beat of his fingers driving every syllable of the new name into the smirking Leprechaun’s rosy rear end.

  “We—?” My mind had gotten hung up on Darrell’s throwaway pronoun. Maybe he was some sort of Little Person Royalty.

  Neither Lorcan nor Darrell were interested in my grammar problems, too busy with their own drama.

  “You’re one of those…” Lorcan sneered. And I could see FatBoy wading back in our direction, the rest of the band safely deposited on stage to plug in or light up or drop out—whatever a band did these days to prepare for a gig.

  “You have a problem with Little Persons, Eddie?” Darrell sneered, and I took a step back. Everyone around them did—even if it was only a small one.

  Lorcan seethed. “I have problems with fascist organizations that refuse to allow the fair unfettered access of artistic commerce in the marketplace without illegal interfer—”

  “Says the dropout from Northwestern, Eddie,” Darrell broke in. “Too bad you didn’t take any sociology courses along with your Economics of Minority Repression 101!” Darrell’s face was as red as Lorcan’s shirt. “I bet you aced that one!” By the time Darrell was finished, Lorcan was grinding his teeth.

  “My mother was sick, you little shit. There were medical bills.” Lorcan kept his voice low, fighting to retain some of his cool, rocker demeanor. For the most part, it worked, only a few of the suits were keeping half an eye on the action, everyone else was oblivious.