by Gage Grayson
That’s my other option.
I could’ve avoided all this by rejecting this option earlier, but it ain’t earlier anymore.
This is now—and now, it might be my best bet.
I fucking hate that it is, but…
Another little tremor of nausea starts to creep its way in, so I take another sip of stout to keep it at bay.
Charles’ iPod is playing some old-school hip hop, the type of stuff that came out before most of the patrons here were even born.
Fuck, I’m not old enough to be feeling old.
But I am old enough to at least try to make the right decision, even if it’s a decision I never wanted to make.
Basel fucking Switzerland.
I could go there for two years, and I’ll never have to deal with any of that shit again. If I need to channel my workaholic tendencies into something after I retire, I guess I could learn to fucking paint or something.
Whatever hobby I decide, I’ll have a big head start on most of the other retirees. With thirty years of practice, I might get decent at painting.
Or I could extend my time in Basel by four or five years. Then I could just buy some original Rothkos and Klimts instead of trying to be the next Grandma Moses or some shit.
Fuck, I hate that I’m fucking thinking like that.
If I go, it has to be two years. No getting greedy.
Two years, and it’ll be over. That’s more than I can say about any other job.
It’s going to fucking suck no matter what, but that’s true of all my options now anyway.
Goddammit.
“What’s up, Ethan?”
Charles is hovering right in front of me, ignoring the giant crowd everywhere else in the bar.
“Isn’t it a busy Saturday?”
“They can wait, and we’ve got some other staff. Seeing your face right now, I think you could use someone to talk to more than you could use another shot.”
“You’re a good man, Charles, but it’s fine. And you’re too fucking busy for that, anyway.”
“I’ve got a minute. Sometimes a minute can help.”
Doing a quick scan of the room, I catch a glimpse of Stacia expertly pulling a pint at the bar before flitting back to waiting tables like some sort of magical sprite.
Maybe Charles does have a minute.
“I’m just weighing some options, that’s all.”
“Can I make an assumption”
I can’t stop myself from sighing heavily. “Sure.”
“They all suck, right?”
“Do you have to be psychic to work here or something?”
“No, but you do notice things. And I’ve been there…well, I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’ve got an idea. And…yeah, it sucks.”
“What idea’s that, Charles?”
“I don’t want to make any more assumptions…but yeah, it’s the fucking worst, and it hurts like hell, but it gets better.”
Yeah, but…
Maddie.
“I appreciate it, Charles. And, well, I don’t know.”
“I know it’s hard to believe right now, but believe me: you’re going to be fine. Of course you will. You’re Ethan fucking Barrett.”
Charles disappears right after his pep talk, and I’m left staring at my warming pint of stout.
At this point, it looks like Ethan fucking Barrett’s going to Basel fucking Switzerland.
Ethan
My phone’s vibrating across the bar again. I can’t put off answering it forever. I mean, I could, but…
“Hello?”
“Yo, you hitting up the bar tonight?”
“Who’s this?”
“Dude, you know who it is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Who did you say it is?”
As shitty as my mood is, I may be starting to smile a bit.
“It’s Ryan.”
“Oh, Ryan! Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because every fucking smartphone has caller ID. Besides, who else would be calling you?”
“Okay, got your name. Now state your business, please.”
“Dude, come on. You going to Lush Republic tonight or…”
“I am at Lush Republic. Didn’t you go to an Ivy League school?”
“UPenn. But that doesn’t mean I’m smart.”
Now there’s definitely a smile breaking through, at least for a moment. As fucking shitty as things are right now, I need to appreciate the things I do have.
“I’ll say. See you here, Ryan.”
I swing around on my barstool to take in the whole room.
It’s fucking Saturday, alright.
I’ve known this spot for years—I can’t even remember when I first started going here—and its popularity must’ve doubled or tripled in the past couple months.
Or, judging by the crowd tonight, the past couple weeks.
I’m sitting in Ryan’s usual spot right now. I sure as fuck hope that he’s as good at finding me in a crowd as I am at finding him.
Not that it’s difficult, but…
On a night like tonight, he might never find anyone.
Maybe he’ll find someone else, though. This place is getting packed, and the crowd is mostly women tonight—I’d say sixty percent, at least.
It’s the irony of fucking ironies that meeting someone—for a fling, for a date or anything—is as low a priority as could be for me.
On the other hand, if Ryan’s priorities are what Ryan’s priorities usually are, then he would be smart not to find me this evening. As much as I’d appreciate the company tonight, it’d be nice to see Ryan find some happiness.
It’s not like he hasn’t dated, but I can tell he’s searching for something more than just a date or a hookup. Something that’s all too hard to fucking find—and some people never find it at all.
And some people who are lucky enough end up fucking it up.
Twice.
“Charles!” I wave my hand.
Charles is busy, naturally, but he makes time to quickly pour me another shot before going back to making industrial-strength cocktails for the Saturday crowd.
“Is this really gonna help?”
Charles is well out of earshot, as is everyone else. I’ll have to make this decision on my own.
The shot sits unused and unloved on the bar. I’m sure I’ll take it eventually, but there’s no reason not to space things out a bit tonight.
And what happened to the music?
Okay, there it is…wait.
Fuck.
Really?
Sleepwalk. By Santo and Johnny.
The one goddamn song I associate with Maddie. Except for Hey Ya, but I already fucking heard that one tonight.
Do I have any choice but to take the shot now?
I gulp it down—but seriously, what kind of music is that for a downtown bar on Saturday night?
Hell, I’m one to talk. I’m sitting here by myself on a Saturday—although these aren’t exactly ordinary circumstances for me.
Fuck, why does it have to be that song? This is some Casablanca shit.
“Charles!”
By the time Charles has poured me another shot—and I’ve ingested said shot—that mournful, slide guitar instrumental is finally over.
“And not a moment too soon.”
“What’s that?”
I spin around at breakneck speed, mostly because I’m so startled that somebody heard my fucking comment. Before spinning around, I knew it wasn’t Ryan, because Ryan doesn’t sound like a woman in her mid-to-late twenties.
“Oh, nothing,” I respond to the woman with short, blond hair and leather-patched jeans in front of me.
“I’m Josie.”
That was out of nowhere. I spot Ryan waving to me from the middle of the growing sea of bar-goers.
“Excuse me, Josie.”
Josie points to her jeans as I walk away. “Bad-fucking-ass, right?”
Ryan keeps waving me over as I throw a thumbs-
up in Josie’s direction.
“This place is fuckin’ pumping tonight!” Ryan remarks when I reach him.
“Yeah. So, what are you talking to me for?”
Ryan looks confused, and I realize how much of a fucking jerk I sound like saying that to my best friend.
“What can I say, Ethan? You’ve got that magic…when you want to have it.”
I spin around the room on my feet, just like I spun around on the barstool earlier, to absorb how fucking crowded this spot is getting.
Josie is still standing by my barstool. She points to one of the leather patches on her jeans when she notices me looking.
Turning back to Ryan, I nod subtly in Josie’s direction.
“Do you see her jeans, Ry? What do you think of them?”
“They’re pretty cool, I guess.”
“You should go tell her that they’re bad-fucking-ass. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Ryan ignores that last part and rushes over to introduce himself. From what I can tell from where I am, Josie doesn’t seem to mind, and she enjoys Ryan complimenting her jeans.
Maybe all those shots are catching up with me, but I start to feel fucking tired—and a little disoriented.
The bar is loud and raucous, and, as usual, it seems like everybody here is having fun.
Except me.
But walking around by myself, I’m starting to notice other people by themselves. People who don’t seem to be waiting for anyone—or at least, not anyone specific. Just little, scattered pockets of desperation, trying to lose themselves in the communal glimmering of a Saturday night.
I’m only noticing them now, because I’m one of them.
It isn’t that we’re not supposed to be here. Everyone here is contributing to the culture of the bar, whether they’re widely noticed or not.
But I don’t want that to be the rest of my life—even if it is who I am tonight.
I’m not completely alone, not yet. I’ve still got friends like Ryan—but even he’s going to move on eventually. Not from the bar necessarily, but from the searching way he approaches being here.
The same way I’ve approached many a Saturday night at this bar and others: not to have fun and enjoy the company of people I care about, but to find something or someone.
It could be a phone number or a date, someone to have a drink with or hookup with or just hang out with. Or it could be something less easily definable, something not easily found.
Like someone who understands you so deeply that you want to share your life with them.
Or, in some cases, something within yourself that you don’t even realize you’re searching for.
Or all of the above.
I love this place, but I don’t want to come here searching anymore—not in the way that I’ve been. Not in the way that Ryan still is.
It’s not about the bar—it’s about me. I need to find my place, and that won’t happen through meaningless sex anymore.
It’s fun, and I’ll miss it, but I’m going to lose myself completely if I don’t get my fucking shit together.
And, if my place was with Maddie, then I’ve fucked up my chance—and there’s nothing I can do.
But I still fucking love this place. And, for some people, it may hold the key to what they’re looking for.
Like Ryan, who’s still talking to Josie and laughing.
As for me, I’m just happy I have a decent watering hole that I know will be here no matter what.
The Monkees are playing through the speakers again. It’s that fucking eighties song of theirs.
Eh, I don’t mind it.
It seems like Charles’ iPod has taken up permanent residence here, though. I guess he’s earned it by working all the fucking time.
Although I don’t see him now.
“Yo.”
But now Ryan’s right in front of me, and Josie’s still standing by the barstools…checking her fucking wristwatch.
“What the hell are you doing, Ryan? Go back and talk to her.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What does that mean? It looked like you were having a great time.”
“Yeah, it was fine, and we exchanged numbers.”
“Oh. Then why are you leaving?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah. Please.”
“I just kind of feel like going home.”
“Okay. I’ll see you around then.”
“Yeah, I’ll be around this week.”
Ryan leaves with that non-reason, but he doesn’t fucking need one.
He’s probably done with searching, too. At least the way he’s been doing it.
“Hey, need another shot?”
“Charles. I was wondering where the fuck you were. Why aren’t you behind the bar?”
I guess I am kind of tired, and maybe a little drunk, because I’m just now noting the older couple standing next to Charles.
“I’m sorry, Charles, are these your parents?”
The balding man and kerchief-wearing woman are in their early-sixties—far from the typical age of the patrons here.
“Ethan, since you’re one of our most loyal customers, I wanted to—are you guys sure you don’t want to do this back in the kitchen or something?”
“No,” says the woman. “I just want to get out of here.”
“Anyway, these aren’t my parents—this is Matilda and Bill Barna. They own this place. And this is Ethan Barrett, loyal customer, et cetera.”
The couple could not look less comfortable, not that I blame them. I get the distinct feeling they don’t want to shake hands, so I don’t try.
“Wow. It’s an honor to meet the owners of Lush Repub—”
“Lush Republic!” Matilda interrupts. “I still can’t believe we went with that.”
“It works, doesn’t it?” Bill adds. “Better than Café Kiev, anyway.”
“Did you buy this place from the Café Kiev owners?” I ask.
“We are the Café Kiev owners! Forty years,” Bill says.
“So you’re the founders?”
“Yes, and it’s actually been forty-two years,” states Matilda.
“Not that it matters. We’re not renewing the lease again.” The first thing I catch is Charles’ downcast face. I think he just got this news himself.
Wait. “Does that mean Lush Republic is closing down?”
“My apologies, loyal customer,” Bill begins, “but yes. And no offense but we need to get out of here.”
Charles stays behind as the Lush Republic owners make themselves scarce.
“What’s going on, Charles?”
“Five weeks—that’s all we’ve got.”
I look around. It looks like no one overheard us. Or they just don’t care.
I fucking care, though.
“But this place is as popular as ever! Can’t they pass it on to someone? To you?”
“Hey, I just work here. I’ll take it as a compliment, but no, the rent keeps going up. By the end of next month, this is going to be a luxury tobacconist.”
“A tobacconist?”
“A luxury tobacconist. The kind of place where you finance guys buy your cigars.”
The jovial atmosphere around suddenly feels like a fucking horror show.
“But where are you gonna go? Where will I go?”
I know I’m not always the most eloquent fucking speaker, but I usually do better than that.
It’s just all too much for one fucking night.
“Ethan. You’re gonna be fine, and so will I. I’ll find another job, and you’ll find another fucking dive.”
I walk away—because I’m getting too upset to talk anymore, and because he’s right.
It’s a bar. Eventually, I’ll most likely find some other place to get overly attached to—some fucking fondue place in Basel, most likely.
Look, I’m sure it’s fucking lovely there.
But goddamnit…
I guess it’s time to say goodbye
to a lot of things.
Ethan
I could be enough of a whiner and go through everything good that’s fallen out of my life over the last, oh, twelve hours or so.
But I think even mentioning that yesterday fucking sucked—and that today continues that pattern—is enough complaining for now. So, thanks for bearing with me.
There is one potential shitty thing that I’ll try to frame as a positive: compared to everything I lost yesterday, losing the chance to spend a nice, quiet weekend day at the office is not that bad.
Okay, it’s still kind of fucking annoying. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry these days.
Like losing this office altogether.
But, like Lush Republic is just a fucking bar, this gothic Woolworth Building beauty is just a fucking office.
There’ll be others. Oh boy, will there be others, I’m sure.
I can’t start getting sentimental about the concept of offices.
I’m not too sentimental about this office in particular, anyway.
Well, maybe just a bit.
The elevator doors open with a ding to a nearly empty lobby.
I take a careful step into the elevator, which I have all to myself.
Staying as steady as I can on my feet as the cat lurches upward, I settle slowly down to the floor as the vestiges of last night’s boozing re-emerge.
I’m going to miss those Saturdays and Sundays, with an upper floor of a skyscraper all to myself.
Did you know that this steel and terra cotta motherfucker was the tallest goddamn building on Earth for twenty years? It all started in 1913, with Woodrow Wilson—that’s President Woodrow Wilson—smashing a remote control button in the freaking White House and illuminating the floodlights atop the Cathedral of Motherfucking Commerce for the official goddamn opening.
Fuck. I might be swearing more than usual, because I’m tired—or it might be because I’m feeling patriotic.
At least in a historical sense. Tallest fucking shit in the world.
Just a mere fucking century ago.
Yeah, I’m a tad sentimental about this office. I can’t deny that any longer.
It’s been an escape for me, especially during that half-decade bridge between my honeymoon on Hawaii and my brief odyssey with Maddie.
That odyssey ended yesterday, but it’s feeling like a fucking lifetime ago already.
Hanging out all night at Lush Republic will do that. With all the time I’ve spent there, I never knew how hard the staff liked to party after the doors close at four.
