7 Nights in a Bar

by Jeff Elkins

  7 Nights in a Bar

  By Jeff Elkins

  Find more of Jeff’s writing at VagrantMisunderstandings.com or grab one of his novels on Amazon.

  Cover photo was found on Unsplash.com. It was created by Yanko Iler. To find more of his work, visit his page by clicking here.

  Copyright Jeff Elkins 2016

  Sunday

  “These are good,” the boy said in between bites. He was short with a buzz cut and a high pitched scratchy voice.

  “I’m glad you like them,” I replied.

  The child sitting across from me seemed out of place in the bar. I didn’t invite him to sit. He came to the table with the cheese fries I ordered. I watched him with amusement. I didn’t care that he was eating my food. My anxiety about Saturday had killed my appetite. I ordered the fries, burger, and beer because that’s what I do when I go to a bar. The routine was comforting and saved me from having to think.

  “These are good,” the boy said between bites. He was short with a buzz cut and a high pitched scratchy voice.

  “I’m glad you like them,” I replied.

  “My mom doesn’t let me get cheese on my fries. She says it’s gross,” he said making a face. Two of this top teeth were missing.

  “Where’s your mom right now?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes at me. “At home. Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s at home too?”

  “Where’s that?” he asked.

  “Boston,” I said.

  “I don’t know where that is. My mom is at our home in Baltimore,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Is your home close by?”

  “It’s down the street,” he said. “Do you like fries?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Well, you aren’t eating any. If you don’t get some I’m going to finish them.”

  “Does your mom know you’re here?” I asked.

  “Of course. Where else would I be? Do you always have dinner by yourself because that seems sad? Billy says that people that come into the bar and eat by themselves are probably lonely.”

  “Who’s Billy?” I asked.

  The kid turned and yelled across the room in the direction of the bar, “Billy!”

  A young bartender wearing thick rimmed glasses and a Pac-man t-shirt looked up and yelled, “Little Boss!”

  The kid raised his fists in the air in celebration and then turned back to face me. “Guess what? Yesterday, when I was at recess, we played zombie-dead-tag and I wasn’t even scared, even though Timmy was the zombie and he’s scary because he gets in trouble with the teacher a lot.”

  “What kind of stuff does he get in trouble for?” I said with a grin.

  “Like cutting in line and talking when he’s not supposed to and not staying in his chair when Miss Barksdale said he’s supposed to stay in his chair. And this one time he called Audrey a bad word and it made her cry, but I didn’t cry and I told her it was okay.”

  “That’s very nice of you. Is Miss Barksdale your teacher?” I asked.

  “Miss Bark-en-s-dale,” he said, rolling his eyes at me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Is Miss Barkensdale your teacher?”

  “Miss Bark-en-dale,” he said with increased irritation. “You need to say her name right because she gets upset when you say it wrong and she makes you say it again. One time, Timmy had to say it five times before he got it right and he almost had to be late for recess and she said he was saying it wrong on purpose.”

  “I’ll make sure I get it right then,” I said. “What grade are you in?”

  “First grade,” he said with pride as he searched the pile of remaining fries for the perfect one to eat next.

  “Wow, that’s an important grade,” I said. “Do you come here a lot and eat other people’s food?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “I like going to get pizza more, though. Pizza’s my favorite. But not with all the other stuff on it. That’s gross. Just cheese. And pepper-reponi. And mushrooms. And pineapple. I got pineapple once and it was good. I liked that.” He dug into the pile of fries with his fingers, retrieved one from the bottom, and popped it in his mouth. “These are sticky,” he said examining his fingers before he licked them.

  The bartender delivered my hamburger. “Little Boss,” he said to the boy as the two of them did a fist bump. Billy didn’t appear to be disturbed that a strange child was eating my food. I watched him leave and wondered if giving customers’ food to strange children was a normal occurrence in this establishment.

  “Why does Billy call you Little Boss?” I asked.

  “Because I’m the boss but I’m little. I’m not little in my class. In my class, I’m number four tallest. Timmy is taller than me. And Audrey is taller than me. And that one boy… He has a Superman backpack. Do you like Superman?”

  “I think he’s an unrealistic representation of masculinity and paints an unachievable image of heroism that has developed unattainable expectations for morality in society,” I said. I took a sip of my beer, proud of my answer.

  “I like Flash better. I think Flash could beat up Superman because Flash is fast and Superman couldn’t catch him and Flash would win,” he said.

  “What does Miss Barkendale think?” I said.

  “Miss Barkensrail,” he laughed. “You need to work on that because she won’t like it if you say it wrong. But she doesn’t know Superman kind of stuff,” he said. “But her boyfriend is really tall and he has big muscles but he’s not dumb. Even though Billy says people with big muscles are usually dumb because they can’t lift books and stuff, but I don’t know, because they are really strong so I think they can lift books. Sometimes Billy says wrong things.” Then the boy leaned in and whispered, “And sometimes he says bad words but I don’t tell Dad because I don’t want Billy to go on red.”

  “Go on red?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Like when Timmy is talking in class and Miss Barkensdale moves our frog from green to red and we have to sit quietly for two minutes. I think you are probably smart because you don’t have a lot of muscles.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I said. “So where’s your dad?”

  The boy pointed across the room to a brown door with a small circle shaped window. Through the window, I could see the bustle of the bar’s small kitchen. “He’s going to get Randy fired because Randy made bad food that dad didn’t think people would like even though dad said no.”

  “Who’s Randy?” I asked.

  “He’s the number two cook,” the boy said. “Tony is the number one cook and he will make me whatever I want but Tony doesn’t work on Sundays because Tony is a catholic so Tony takes Sunday off but he works every other day and when he is here he will make me pizza even when it’s not dinner time.”

  “So is your dad that Big Boss?” I asked.

  “Yep,” the child said. “Daddy’s the Big Boss and I’m the Little Boss. I don’t tell people they are fired though because that makes people cry and I don’t like it when people cry. Audrey sometimes cries at school so I tell it is going to be okay even though Timmy is mean sometimes.”

  “It sounds like you like Audrey a lot,” I said with a grin.

  “She’s my girlfriend. But we don’t kiss or anything. I just give her my chocolate milk which is okay because I like the strawberry better anyways. Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked. The pile of fries was almost gone. He pushed a small ball of cheese around with one as he talked.

  “I use to have one,” I said. “But then I made her cry.”

  The boy pointed the fry at me. “That’s not very nice,” he scolded.

  “I know,” I said and I took a long drink of my beer.

  “You should say you are sorry,” he said still wagging the fry at me.
r />   “I did,” I said.

  “It will be okay then,” he said, putting the fry in his mouth.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  Behind the boy the door to the kitchen flew open. A short man with a skull and crossbones tattoo on his neck stormed out of the kitchen, across the crowded bar, and out the front door.

  “Was that Randy?” I asked the Little Boss.

  “Yep,” the child said. “He wasn’t crying, though. When Dad fired Sarah she cried a lot and Dad had to tell her to stop because she was upsetting the guests and we don’t upset the guests.”

  A second larger man came through the kitchen door. He was tall and heavy. He wore a black suit and with a blood-red tie. His clearly dyed black hair was slicked straight back. He called across the bar, “Vinnie. Let’s go. Mom’s waiting.”

  The little boy sprung to his feet. “What’s your name again?” he asked me.

  “Andy,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Andy,” he said. “And no charge for the fries. They’re on the house,” Then he ran to his father and the two of them walked into the kitchen together.

  “Nice to meet you too, Little Boss,” I said.

  Monday

  “Okay,” she said as she sat down in the chair across from me. She looked me up and down. “No name tag I see. So you are?”

  “Andy,” I said.

  The woman was lean with strong arms. She wore a blue framed name tag that read “Hello, my name is Cena.” The tight curls of her shiny black hair perfectly framed her sharp jaw. Her dark chocolate skin made her green eyes shine like diamonds in a display case. She was the embodiment of exquisite power.

  “Alright, Andy. Let’s do this.” She put a small hourglass on the table in front of me.

  I took a sip of beer as I watched the sand begin to run through the funnel wondering how long it would take to finish.

  “Favorite movie?” she said.

  “High Fidelity,” I replied.

  “Huh? I guess,” she said. “Mine’s Baby Boy. Favorite TV show?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to pick one. Right now I’m into Dare Devil.”

  “Season One or Season Two?”

  “Season Two.”

  “Ugh,” she said. “Mine is Luther. Because Idris could have his way with me any day. No words would need to be exchanged. Favorite president before Reagan?”

  “Oh,” I said, searching for names of presidents in my mind. “That’s a hard one.” I took a fry off my plate, dipped it in ketchup, and offered it to her.

  “You do know we are on a timer? Right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I said, glancing at the hourglass again. It was a third-of-the-way finished. I ate the fry, took a sip of beer, and said, “Teddy Roosevelt. I once heard him described as Peter Pan with guns in a grown-up’s body. Sounds like a fun politician.”

  “Do you wish you could be a flying boy who wears green tights and never grows up? You have problems with responsibility don’t you?”

  “Um, I don’t think so.”

  “Any long-term relationships?”

  “Two.”

  “How long was the longest?”

  “Three years and four months.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were on a break.”

  “Yeah, okay Ross,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “What about you? Favorite President?”

  “I don’t like any of those old-racist-white-bastards.” She pointed at the hourglass, which was half empty. “Time for your half-time recap. Right now, you’re getting a C+. Your issues with responsibility and behaving like a grown-up are clear — Mr. High Fidelity-Roosevelt , and you freely associated yourself with Ross — not Chandler or Joey, so points off for that. Finally, you ordered food, which tells me you are fairly oblivious to what is going on around you. Who orders food at these things? But you didn’t say Game of Thrones. If you had said Game of Thrones, I would have gotten up and walked away because every damn guy here has said Game of Thrones, and I’m not into being raped. Also, you have nice eyes, and you offered me a fry before you ate one, which shows some level of consideration — meaning you’re not a complete sociopath, so those are keeping you in the game. Plus, I’ve never dated a white guy before, so I’m curious. What color is your toothbrush?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Tell me first.”

  “Purple.”

  “Interesting. Guys that pick green think they are clever — because of the movie quote.”

  “Geniuses pick green.”

  “Guys that pick red think they are hot stuff. Guys that go with blue are usually boring. A white toothbrush equals no personality. And guys that don’t know what color their toothbrush is are gross because they don’t brush their teeth enough.”

  “Is there a right answer?”

  “There aren’t any right or wrongs here. I’m just getting to know you.”

  “But you are grading me, so clearly there are answers you’re looking for.”

  She smiled and took a sip of my beer. “Purple isn’t bad. Wait,” she said holding up her hand and cocking her head to the left. “Is there some kind of cartoon character on it?”

  “The Ninja Turtles. But not the new ones. I kick it old school.”

  “Goddamn it. You really are just a big child.”

  “That’s not fair. I do adult stuff. I’m responsible.”

  “Okay, prove it. Where do you work?”

  “I don’t see why that’s important.”

  “Oh, it’s important now, after that answer,” she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

  “I own a small business.”

  “What kind?”

  “A store.”

  “And what do you sell at this store?” she said with a knowing grin.

  “Comic books.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “The High-Fidelity-Roosevelt-man-child with a ninja turtle tooth brush owns a comic book store. I should’ve known.”

  “Owning a store is a big responsibility. I employ people, okay. It’s not easy. People depend on me.”

  “How many?”

  “Just two right now,” I said sheepishly.

  “And you probably live upstairs, don’t you.”

  “So.”

  “And your two are probably part time, aren’t they? High school students too, I bet.”

  “Alright, Ms. Responsibility. What do you do?”

  “During the day, I teach high-schoolers math. At night, I paint.”

  “So you’re kind of like a superhero with a secret identity.”

  “No.”

  “What do you paint?”

  “Murals.”

  “Outside? You’re like Banksy?”

  “Yes. Banksy and I both create things that are displayed outside. But he stencils political cartoons. I beautify buildings with images of hope and inspiration.”

  “But you both paint stuff outside, so it’s the same,” I said with mock pride. “What color is your toothbrush?”

  “Purple, because I’m a queen.”

  “So we both have purple toothbrushes. That’s something.”

  “My purple is not the same as your purple.”

  “True. My purple is cooler because it has ninjas,” I said as I took a bite of my burger “What kind of math do you teach?” I mumbled through a full mouth.

  “Nope,” she said pointing at the completed hourglass. “Time’s up.”

  I took a sip of beer to wash down the burger. “So, did I pass?”

  “You held firm at a C-. Your eyes are cute and you asked me questions about me — both positive points in your column. You also didn’t make any references to sleeping with me, so bonus points there. But you are an irresponsible man-child who thinks ninjas are cool, and I teach high school, so I have enough immaturity in my life already. Thus the C-.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said smiling. “A C- is p
assing, and I have a feeling you’re a tough grader.”

  Cena stood and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Andy,” she said.

  “Wait, what?” I said. “Stay. I like talking to you. Can I buy you dinner? Maybe a beer?”

  “I’ve got to move to the next table. Those are the rules,” she said motioning to the other tables around the room.

  “Rules?” I said as I scanned the bar.

  “Yeah. The rules. Speed dating gets all chaotic if there aren’t any rules,” she said.

  “Oh shit,” I said. It occurred to me at that moment that all the other tables in the bar were occupied by one man, one woman, and an hourglass. “I didn’t know. I explained. I just came for the burger and fries.”

  Cena laughed. “Well, I guess I was right about you being oblivious to the world around you. Nice to meet you, Andy,” she said, and she moved on to the next table.

  Tuesday

  “I don’t know why I should tell you. It’s really none of your business,” the mousy man sitting across from me in the bar told me while he cleaned his glasses with his handkerchief. He returned the thin frames to his nose, folded his handkerchief into a small square, and tucked it into his back pocket.

  “I mean,” he continued, “it’s not just any story. What happened to me today is – well, there’s no other word to use, but disturbing. It was disturbing. And I don’t wish to relive it, thank you very much. And I just met you. I know nothing about you. Do you even ride the metro?”

  The intensity of the question gave me pause, causing me to stutter in response.

  “Of course not. I knew it. I could tell. I knew you were a four-wheeler.”

  “A four-wheeler?” I asked, sipping my beer.

  “Yes. A dirty, nasty, polluting, inefficient, four-wheeler. A bedraggled, slovenly, ineffectual personal transportation machine user. A selfish, senseless, short-sighted auto-mobile automaton. A car driver. A stupid, stupid car driver.”

  “I do drive a car. Every day. To and from work.”

  “Jesus,” the small man exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. “Probably a long commute too. Isn’t it? I bet you drive for at least an hour. And I bet you push. I bet you routinely exceed the optimum speed, with no consideration of the consequences to the rest of us. Burning gas like a boy scout burns wood in his first fire. Just wasteful. One log on the fire after another, for no other reason, than to watch them burn.”