by Gage Grayson
“It’s just...two years, Maddie, and I’d never have to work again. Even if I was supporting...a...”
The sight of tears running down Madeline’s cheeks hits me like a freight train. I don’t give a shit about the company, about Switzerland, about any of it.
Right now, the only thing I care about is the pain I see in Madeline’s eyes.
The pain I put there.
It’s not the first time, either. I’m such a fucking asshole.
“Maddie...forget it. I’m not going to do it. I just...I’m so sorry.”
“How could you even consider it?”
Seeing Madeline cry is tearing my soul apart. All I want to do is help her, but I feel so helpless.
I reach out to touch her on the shoulder, but she backs away.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t ever fucking touch me again. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
She’s not yelling, I don’t think anyone else even hears her.
But I don’t care.
I won’t lie—I’m confused. I know it’s a touchy subject, but I didn’t expect her to react like this.
That still doesn’t make me feel like any less of an asshole.
Madeline leaves.
I stay at the bar, unable to speak, unable to move.
Just two minutes—if that—and a few words.
That’s all it took, and I managed to irrevocably fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Ethan
That OutKast song is playing again.
It’s been an hour or so since Madeline left. I’ve been doing very little—okay, nothing—but sit here silently since then.
And Charles has taken notice.
“What’s wrong, Ethan? This song doesn’t get your fuckin’ blood pumping?”
“Not tonight, my friend. It’s a bit too happy for me right now.”
“Interesting. You see this as a happy song?”
“It sounds happy to me.”
“I see.”
Charles already has a shot glass set up. As I’ve said, I think the bartenders here are psychic—although, my mood is probably not very hard to read tonight.
Charles fills the shot glass with bourbon. “Doctor’s orders,” he instructs.
I take the shot.
“This song sounds happy and dance-y to me, Charles. Why do you think it’s not?”
“Oh, you can dance to it. All I’m saying is that it’s not as happy as it sounds.”
“You might need to pour me another shot after that sentence.”
Charles does just that, and I take it down.
“I mean the lyrics aren’t what I’d call happy.”
“I don’t know, Charles. Like this part right here...”
“You mean when he’s talking about being very cold?”
“That’s not exactly how it goes...”
“Well, this bar doesn’t have the licensing for me to recite lyrics, since that’s technically a performance.”
“So...very cold. It doesn’t sound sad to me.”
“It doesn’t?” Charles pours me a third shot.
“I’m going to save that one for later, Charles. If you don’t mind...”
“Hey, we’re open till four.”
I look at the shot and sigh. Going back to my apartment, alone, holds zero fucking appeal for me.
“I know it’s a busy Saturday, but I might just stay until you close tonight...or pretty late, anyway.”
“You can fucking stay after we close if you want. I think you should read the lyrics to Hey Ya sometime, though. And think about them.”
Fuck it—I pour the shot down my throat.
“I might just do that, Charles. Stay after close, that is. I’m not doing any fucking homework, though.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Could I get another one of those stouts? Just put it on my tab.”
“It’s on the fucking house tonight, Ethan.”
I shake my head.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Hey, I have no idea what’s going on. But, I know that when shit hurts, it really fucking hurts. That’s the universal truth.”
My phone, sitting on the bar, starts vibrating.
“The universal truth, eh?”
“Pick up your phone. I’ll get you that stout.”
Charles wanders off, but I do as he says. I pick my phone up off the bar, but I’m too late to answer the missed call from Ryan.
It’s Saturday night, if it weren’t obvious enough from the noise and density of the crowd forming around the bar.
Saturday nights, in recent months, bring an inevitable call from Ryan.
It doesn’t help that a lot of our old crew have moved out of the area.
Or have gotten married.
But, for the most part, it’s the two of us who are still out here every fucking weekend—starting at Lush Republic then moving on to other bars, other clubs.
And fuck, I’ve fallen pretty far out of the game myself lately. These days, even in the middle of the fucking weekend, I’m often working.
Or, for a couple perfect Saturdays, seeing Maddie.
My regretful sigh must be louder than I thought, because Charles takes it as a cue to deliver both my beer and another shot.
I start with the shot. It helps quell a bit of the nausea I’m feeling.
Yes, I’m disgusted with myself for somehow fucking up two chances with the most incredible woman I’ll likely ever meet.
This time, it was quite fucking definitive, too—there’s no coming back from my screw up tonight.
But that’s just it: there’s no coming back, so what are my options?
There’s no going back to my previous existence of the hedge fund manager down the hall, because soon, there’s not even going to be a fucking hall.
There’s a break in the music—which also interrupts my thought process.
I can really hear the Saturday crowd growing behind me, though. It sounds like there’s a ton of fucking people here already.
When Charles’ iPod kicks back on, I take another sip of beer and jump back into weighing my choices.
Even if I can’t be the hedge fund manager down that particular hall anymore, I still have the option of finding another hedge fund, with another office in another hall.
The city had plenty of all that shit—but the idea of just jumping to another fund doesn’t exactly fucking fill me with enthusiasm.
And if I can’t muster the motivation for that, starting my own hedge fund is probably out of the fucking question.
Fuck, I’m getting tired just thinking about it.
And somehow, Charles senses this. He zooms over to pour me another shot before zooming back to his mounting tidal wave of customers.
“Is this helping me think, you think?”
Charles is too far away to hear me, so I just take the fucking shot.
So, Basel fucking Switzerland.
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.
