The Bar

Andrew Etheredge, Jason Hershey, Mike Reding, John Showalter, Frank Singleton

Designated Driver
by John Showalter

I made light conversation with the barkeeper. Not much else I could do. If we had gone to a dance club, at least there would be something for me to do. But no, my friends wanted to come to this pub. They’ve been going to this same pub for the last two months. There’s hardly a goddamn thing for me to do here. I could watch the TV mounted above the bar, but it’s constantly turned to ESPN, and I’m not a big sports man. Not that I’d be able to hear it anyway, because either the jukebox is going, or someone is singing karaoke. Right then, someone drunk off his ass was belting out a cringe-inducing rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing,” missing half of the lyrics and all of the talent.

“So, how’s school?” the barkeeper said.

“Same old, same old,” I replied.

“I don’t remember you ever buying a drink in all the times you’ve come here,” he said, handing me a Diet Coke.

“Yup, I’m the designated driver.”

The bartender eyed me strangely. “Seems like you’re always the designated driver.”

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Well, they’re my friends… I don’t mind.”

Truth was I did mind. In all the time I’ve hung out with my friends, I’ve never had a drink. Of course, I didn’t tell the barkeeper why. I hardly know the guy. Despite all the times I’ve been in this bar with my friends, I’ve only had idle chit-chat with the barkeeper.

I had been put on a prescription medication for anxiety a few years back at the start of college. The doctor had told me “to refrain from drinking alcohol when on the medication.” To drive the point even further home, the bottle came with its own warning sticker that said, “Do not drink alcohol while taking this medication.” I figured it was no big deal. It wasn’t like I went to parties much anyway, and I was underage. While at college, I made friends with four guys, who after a couple months of friendship decided to invite me to a party. I explained to them that I couldn’t drink. I just got a pat on the back and told, “That’s alright, you can be the designated driver.”

And it had been that way ever since. On the weekends, I’d cart these guys’ asses to whatever bar or party they felt like going to. I’d hate to refuse… these were the first friends I’d made at college. My twenty-first birthday was incredibly awkward, as I actually had to send back the drinks that people bought for me.

The barkeeper looked a little busy, so I decided to leave him alone for a bit. Fortunately, the karaoke machine was silent and the jukebox was going again. I sat at the TouchPlay machine, trying to bide the time until my friends were ready to leave. In this game, I had to spot the differences between two pictures of a half-naked woman—this one’s missing a nipple, her hair is shorter on one side, that painting isn’t on the wall. After I was finally bested by round thirteen (I had gotten fairly good at this game), I checked on my friends.  They were either shooting the shit with some thirty-somethings in a corner of the bar or performing horribly at darts. Didn’t seem like they were leaving any time soon. I sunk my face into my palm. Damn, there weren’t even hardly any ladies here, and any that were here were way too old for me.

A drunkard stumbled by carrying a pitcher of beer. As soon as he did this, the amber liquid splashed out all over my clothes. “Ah, man,” he said. Just then something snapped in me. Maybe it was the obliviousness of the patron or the poignant fumes of the beer reaching my nose from my lap. I felt I was getting the raw deal. How come they always get to have the fun? Anyway, they put that alcohol warning on practically every medication. It was probably those medical professionals and the collective stick up their asses. A couple drinks couldn’t hurt! What the hell?

I slapped the bar. “Barkeep!” I shouted. “Give me a whiskey on the rocks!” No reason to go into this any way but wholeheartedly, I figured.

“What about your friends and their ride?”

“They can walk!” I replied fervently.

The barkeeper slid the glass down my way and I gulped it down. “Another!” I said. I forget how many times I asked for another or if whiskey was all I had.  Things started getting wobbly, then blurry, then hazy… I didn’t remember anything after that.

When I woke up (at least it seemed like I woke up), I was in a hospital bed with an IV running out of my arm. My friends were there. I guess they had found their way home after all, because they were in different clothes.

“Where… am I?” I asked.

“St. Francis Hospital. You’ve been out for the last four days. I guess the medicine and drinks together must have really kicked your ass. They’ve been doing detox on you.” I couldn’t tell which one of them was speaking. Things were still foggy.

“What happened, exactly?”

“Well, we were getting ready to leave, and we saw you swaying around on the barstool. I tapped you on the shoulder and you fell on the ground. I about pissed myself when you did that. It was when you started convulsing that we thought there might be a problem. The barkeeper called the ambulance, and you ended up here.” He scratched his chin, trying to remember something. “Oh yeah, the barkeeper says he’s never going to serve you a drink again. Ever.”

The nurse (I was pretty sure it was the nurse… the haze) walked in, apparently to take vitals. “How are you?” she asked.

I aimed a phony grin at the nurse and gave her a thumbs up. She went about her business and left. My friends stood there a few moments while I lay in thought. Then I said, “So the barkeeper won’t serve me drinks anymore? That’s fine. Because, frankly, I’m not going to be carting your asses around anymore. We used to be great friends, until you started using me so you could just go out drinking every weekend. You’re going to have to find some other gopher because I quit. It was nice knowing you.” I flipped off in their general direction, and with a hearty “get the fuck out” I was no longer the pack animal for a bunch of jackasses.

*     *     *

Clay Artist
by Michael Reding

What was in this world for me? Nothing, that’s what! No hope for the future and no one to share my hopeless future with. There was only one thing left to do.

My room was dark, the desk lamp, my only source of light. I paced back and forth from the darkness to the light. Under the light rested the end of my life.

“I can’t believe it. Two bad things in one day, two really bad things.” My heart began to sink into my chest as the tears rolled down my sad face. My hands tugged at my long hair as I crumbled to the ground in a ball.

I sobbed and cried like a baby for what seemed like hours. Then I crawled into my chair. I just sat there staring at these two sheets of paper. One was written by my lovely girlfriend of four years telling me that I was no good and that she wanted a man who would not be some deadbeat loser artist but would actually have a stable future.

“I had a future, Katie. I thought I had a future.” My eyes wandered over to the other piece of paper.

“Dear Mr. Wolfgang, We regret to inform you that your application into the graduate program here at your dream art school has been denied because your art sucks and you suck.” That was not what it said, but I felt that was what they were saying.

After reading the letters over and over again, my sadness turned to anger. I grabbed the letters. I reached down and ripped open the middle drawer of my desk. As I began to throw the letters into the drawer a bright object caught the corner of my eye. It was a bright yellow box cutter. I grabbed it. I looked at my bare wrists, and with the box-cutter in my hand, I pushed the blade up out of its sheath. I placed the blade against my wrist.

*****

“A Bud Light, please!”

The bartender looked at me with untrusting eyes. “Can I see some ID?”

I handed him my ID. He stared at it then back at me. “Alright” said the bartender as he handed back my ID. He then reached with his other hand into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Bud Light. He twisted off the cap and handed it to me. I took the beer and without hesitation placed it against my lips. The cold liquid slowly poured down into my mouth.

“Sweet relief,” I said in my mind, as every gulp of beer I took made me forget about my life. It made me forget about what I almost did back at my apartment. I slowly looked down at my wrist, which was covered by a wrist-band. After I took the final gulp of my beer I placed the bottle back down onto the bar. I discreetly peeled back the wrist-band, and as I did so minor cat-scratch-like scratches appeared. With my middle finger I traced the lines of the scratches. A stinging sensation vibrated through my arm with every pass my finger took. They were my reminder of a close call.

I suddenly noticed eyes staring at me. I looked up and saw the bartender looking at me with curious eyes as he wiped out a glass with a white washcloth. I quickly covered my wrist. The bartender’s eyes turned from curious to sympathetic before he slowly finished cleaning the glass and placed it onto the shelf with all the other glasses. The bartender walked over to me and without saying a word he pulled out a bottle of Bud Light from the cooler and he handed it to me. I just nodded as I took the beer from his hands.

After that I just put my head down and stared at the bottle. My mind began to wander off like it always does. Why did my life suck so much? It seemed like I was getting nowhere, but when I did move a nudge something always came and pushed me back or stopped me in my tracks so I could not move any farther.

Like the time when I was a freshman in college, and I had just created this fabulous ceramic vase that had stood fifteen inches off the ground. I was going to display it in the art competition held at the university to hopefully win an $800 scholarship. I thought I had an excellent shot at winning the competition with my ceramic vase, but as I loaded it into the kiln to be fired another art student bumped into me causing the vase to fly out of my hands. The vase smashed to the ground shattering into a million pieces. I had spent days building it. It took me two sleepless nights to paint the glazes onto the vase. With all the hard work, all that I had to show for it was nothing but a shattered vase. On top of that I was unable to enter into the competition to win the $800 scholarship. I worked so hard and nowhere was where I got.

I couldn’t believe you dumped me, Katie. Well, maybe I could. Katie, you wanted security and that was something I could not give you. You wanted a house and a family and I was unable to give you either. I had a dream to become the best artist in the world. My being an artist was what first drew you to me, but as we got older and life became more real, you began to see my dream of becoming an artist as impractical and immature, and I would not give up my childish dream, not even for you.

Maybe you were right. The rejection letter was you saying you were right, and my dream was nothing more then a dream, a dream that would never materialize into the real world. Maybe I should have just put down the wedged up balls of clay and came back down to earth. Maybe I should have finally realized that I was going to have to get a real job and throw away this fantasy of mine.

“I suck at art, anyways.”

“Closing time,” said the bartender as he startled me out of my thoughts.

*****

Walking up the stairs, I had finally made it up to my apartment. I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. As I turned on the light, I saw a wooden shelf with a few of my unfired ceramic pieces sitting on it.

“Crap!” I had forgotten to fire them. The two letters made me forget. I quickly forgot all about what happened earlier and began working on what I should have done that day. I quickly walked into the next room and prepared my kiln and myself for a late firing. As I walked back to grab my unfinished work I noticed my desk lamp was still on in my bedroom.

“The electric bill is high enough!”

I walked into the bedroom to shut the lamp off, and as I did so I noticed the open desk drawer and the two letters staring at me. Then everything that had happened that day came rushing back into my head.

“Fuck it.”

I quickly grabbed the letters and I crumbled them up into a ball.

“I know what I should do with you.”

I began to walk back out of the room with the two crumbled up letters. All of a sudden, without being able to see where I was going, I heard a crunch underneath my feet.

“What the fuck?” I leaned over to turn on the light to see what I had crushed. It was the bright yellow box cutter that I had crushed at the bottom of my feet. The plastic sheath had broken into three pieces. The blade was still intact. I leaned down to pick it up. When I got closer, I noticed my dried blood from earlier on the blade..

“Cheap piece of crap!” I picked up the broken pieces of the box cutter. I threw the broken pieces into the garbage, still holding onto the crumbled letters. I walked into the kiln room and tossed the two letters into the kiln.

Finally I was able to load the kiln, and as I waited for my pieces to fire, I pulled some clay out of the bucket and began to wedge it, getting the air bubbles out of the clay. The clay was cool and soft in my hands. I loved that feeling. I loved the smell of the clay. I loved working with the clay. I loved that I could shape it into any form I wanted. There was nothing in this world I would rather do then work with clay. It gave me the ability to shape my life and my future into any form I wanted. Clay was my reason to live.

*     *     *

The Watcher
by Jason Hershey

John adjusted his tie one more time in front of the simple bathroom mirror, ran his fingers through his light brown hair, grabbed his briefcase, and headed towards the room where his potential clients waited. The suit he had on itched, but so did every other expensive suit he had in his apartment. He had to resist the urge to loosen his plain and rather boring tie. Even the sound of his shoes echoing through the halls made him uncomfortable.

He grabbed the handle of the door. He knew that as soon as it turned, his mind would blank. Not a bad blank, but he would never know what exactly happened in the room. His mind would hide away somewhere inside of him while his face put on a false smile of its won accord, extended a hand to shake that of some other well-dressed person, and his mouth spouted the same crap that it had countless other times.

John sighed and turned the handle.

And he turned the handle again, not sure how long it had been, nor with whom he had been talking, nor how it had gone. Not that it mattered. He was their best salesman, as he and everyone else at their firm was constantly reminded. His boss, a man completely out of touch with anything not concerning business, always gave John a pressing look whenever John couldn’t explain what he did to always get the best deals from the toughest clients. Not that his boss really cared how he did, except that maybe if more people did it they could turn a bigger profit.

John walked down the hallway, tugging at his tie again (had he been doing that during the deal?), and made his way back to his car. His job was one of profound monotony, but it managed to net him five digits for work that he couldn’t remember, much less care about, at the end of the day.

He went home and took his time changing into more comfortable clothes. His “comfortable clothes” weren’t exactly the t-shirt and jeans many people would wear to a bar, and it annoyed him that he slowly moved away from that into the ever-so-slightly more formal clothes; he had become a little more closely connected with the world of business and long echoing halls filled with well-dressed shells of people.

*****

John walked into the little bar. He spent more time inside its slightly run down walls than at his apartment. At least if he was alone here, he wasn’t alone. The familiar smells of cooking chicken from the kitchen in the back and the slight stuffiness from the smoke and people welcomed him.

He walked up to the counter and the reddish-brown haired bartender. “Got any of that good stuff yet?”

“Sure do, just got some in.”

“Excellent,” John said, more sophisticatedly than usual. “I’ll have a glass then.”

“Just plain?” Eyes, eyebrows, and even his goatee gave John a questioning look. “If you say so.”

John looked around the bar. It was a bit early, though there were still plenty of people packed in. A guy and a girl were in each other’s arms near the karaoke, she in perfect tune and he painfully off. A few college students played pool, and a small but lively group sat around one of the tables laughing over a meal consisting of a lot more alcohol than food.

“Thanks, Nick.” John grabbed the small glass and took a tiny sip, feeling it burn in his mouth and all the way down as he walked over to his favorite table, in the back against the wall, where he could watch most of what happened in the bar. He turned his chair a bit and sat down, watching the people around him.

More people slowly came in as the night progressed. John’s glass of ungodly-strong vodka lowered slowly over the hours, with the occasional nod when one of the waitresses offered him some more. He took out a cigarette and made sure to light it well away from his glass. John didn’t smoke often, but he enjoyed the short, shallow calm it gave.

The ephemeral time between evening and night was when the bar was at its liveliest. The light drinkers and groups of people who came to socialize were just heading out among loud laughs, and those who dominated the bar at night, the people who wanted to drown out whatever bits of life they could, came in.

There was a group of loud, increasingly-drunk college students playing darts, with more of them putting holes in the wood wall than hitting the dart board. Their friend, as usual, was completely sober over at the TouchPlay machine, wasting time and quarters.

The three waitresses made their rounds, staving off a few drunken advances but otherwise happily taking away empty mugs and plates of half-eaten hot wings. Nick sat behind the bar, taking in the story of whatever down-in-the-dumps guy sat in front of him. John didn’t envy Nick at all. Sure he seemed to enjoy what he did, but he had to have his own problems without worrying about those of any drunk who couldn’t keep to himself.

John kept watching as the night went on. The man who always spent time at the TouchPlay machine actually ordered something, and in fact more somethings than most of the heavy drinkers, before passing out. Nick turned livid at that. The guy must have done more than pass out; one of the waitresses screamed and an ambulance siren neared before John turned away to more interesting fare.

To his dismay, though, there wasn’t much else going on. Most of the interesting people had left. Even most of the loners who stayed and drank deep into the night decided they should stumble home. John reluctantly got up himself, downed the last swig of vodka, and left his normal large tip before heading home, saying bye and thanks to Nick on the way out.

He reflected on the night. John walked in amazement that such a rudimentary place had such life within it. Sure, there were those who messed themselves up, like that guy had earlier in the night, but people truly enjoyed life here. He chuckled darkly to himself at the thought of going back to the business world in a few short hours, the business world that everyone seemed to focus their lives’ attentions on. No, that little, run-down bar was where life was lived.

*     *     *

Ramblomatic
by Andrew Etheredge

If you were to ask me to use one word to define my life, I’d tell you to stop being such a twat, but if pressed I guess I’d have to say I’m angry. I haven’t really figured out at what exactly I’m angry, but when I do you will be the first to know. Perhaps if I led you through a common day of dreary masochistic sloth, we can both begin to understand what makes the world so bloody shitty. But before we continue there are a few things we need to get straight. I’m British; I talk fast and have a lot to say. So before you begin to judge me as having a rotten, dried up core of misdirected cynicism perhaps you should take a long look at some of the people in this world and tell me then that I’m wrong. So many people in this world scarf down whatever is placed in front of them like they have some kind of waffling illness. To put it clearly, the people of this country never seem to reach the point where they have had enough.

I wake up every morning at the piercing sound of a ballooned pop star ‘artist’ that shriek an over hyped, contrived animal mating sound through the speakers on my alarm clock radio. I must say it takes quite a strong will to keep me from throwing the bloody thing out the window. I say the only thing that keeps me from trampling it with my roommate’s overpatriotic G.I. Joe figures like it was a marching Cobra army is the fact that once the act is done I’d have to take the next bus to Wal-Mart and watch the overly fed masses abuse their ‘McDonald’s Children.’

Now that I have painted myself a pretty picture for you to relate to, let’s being with my day. I don’t know what to say about it. My coffee is usually cold, there’s nothing good on the idiot box, and the sun is constantly vomiting a brightly bleached bloom into my face. I don’t like starting my day off blind, but in hindsight it might be rather relieving to be suddenly hit by a bus as I quietly meandered through the city streets.

If not for my exceptionally good taste in clothing, my day would be a jam pack of low expectations followed by a swift kick in the balls. In fact, putting on my clothes is the only conceivable reason I get up in the morning. I wear a fabulous, yes ‘fabulous’ hat that I plucked from the era of ‘film noir’ and 50’s gangster movies. Needless to say I wear the sweltering thing even when it’s 80 bloody degrees outside. Since it’s not in my nature to brag, and for some arbitrary reason it’s one of the seven deadly sins, even more dreadful than baby eating if the Catholic Church is to be believed, I’ll leave it at that.

If I learned anything during my thirty odd years of life it is that organized anything is a colossal waste of time. Anytime someone appears and begins to tell other people what to do with their meaningless lives, it usually ends up leaving them standing befuddled and holding a ticket to shitty town. That’s probably why I tend to think for myself a lot, and since no one seems to be all that interested in my opinions around the water cooler, I end up thinking to myself in the corner. While self loathing and silent brooding may be a good way to get the slightly disturbed yet secretly hot girls in the movies, in real life it’s a good way to lose them.

My usual day consists of me walking to work, and upon arrival, enduring the constant prattling of my supervisor at the unoriginally drab office where I work. I swear he goes on about how we should all dip his genitals in a large batch of gold so we can marvel at how well endowed his ego is. He believes we should all treat his bowel movements as if they came from a gold encrusted treasure box on top Mount Olympus. However, this part of my day is not all bad. I find any excuse to sneak off to the water cooler and practice my daily rants. I’m actually very proud to say that by the time I actually find someone to talk to in the bloody place, my complaints have been molded into a perfectly sculpted piece of brilliantly crafted material that leaves everyone in a spectacular daze. I do tend to speak morbidly fast and the majority of stupids I come across find my pace rather jarring. But as long as I’m able to deliver quick stabs of articulate punctuality in a marvelous stream of inspirational awe, I’m satisfied.

After work I wander off to the only bar in the city that hasn’t plastered my face across the walls like I’m a Saturday morning cartoon villain. I’ve been kicked out of virtually every bar in the city, and in retrospect I should feel proud of that achievement. But when I get down to the last lingering thread, I suppose I should calm down and nurse the last drink I have left. I don’t really talk to anyone here; I just sit at the bar and smoke. This is the only place I go to and shut off my brain. As I sit alone at the bar and smoke my last cigarette, I come to the realization that the toxic, putrid smoke I inhale is my only friend. Sure it will end up killing me in the end, but at least it’s honest. Everything else that kills stabs in the back. With cigarettes, at least I know I’m sucking poison through a straw.

So, I really don’t know what we learned from this mental trek. Let’s see… I wake up to terrible music, followed by cold coffee and a leisurely stroll to my office which I nicknamed bastard junction where everyone has the attention span of a cross-eyed chimp with a paintball gun. The only real enjoyment I get out of the day is in making the people around me feel uncomfortable and smoking in the only bar that will take me in like an abandoned child placed at the steps of a monastery. Sure, they don’t want the bloody thing, but they can’t just leave it out in the rain. That’s kind of what I feel like, an abandoned baby on the stairway of life left with only the gravel on the side of the road to entertain itself with. At least there are still a few people who don’t want to leave a poor stupid baby out in the rain.

*     *     *

Cheap Therapy
by Frank Singleton

At about four in the afternoon, we started getting ready for that night. It was a three-day weekend, and those always seem to be busy and rowdier than normal. That’s why we hired Sully to “protect” us around here. He was a big guy who knew how to throw a punch, and we planned to hire him on permanently after next St. Pat’s day. He’d saved us from trouble plenty of times, and tonight, he was already prepared, sitting on his favorite stool, watching one college team get their ass handed to them in an early game.

I was whistling along with the tune the old jukebox was pumping out, as Lena, my new waitress, polished up the bar, and the other two waitresses shined up the glasses, mugs, and pitchers. I noticed she kept looking back at me as I spaced out, but I didn’t really think much of it.

“What else ya want me to do, Nick?” she asked, wiping off a table and picking up bits of trash from the floor.

“Hmm, go check on Andy in the back, and see if the kitchen’s ready. Then just get the other cups and plates ready. Andy might have something for you to do, too.” I looked around the bar, seeing if we had forgotten anything. A million things I couldn’t help at the time jumped out at me.

Looking over the old booths, I realized a couple could use refurnishing, but that was more of a “when we have some extra cash” job. Tired of my musings, I set up all the bottles for the night, stocked the cooler, and opened the bar.

It only took an hour or so for the bar to fill. College kids filling the booths, the older construction workers around their favorite pool table, this was my life. I had grown to like it since having to leave school to take over the bar from Pop, and it helped fulfill my penchant for head shrinking.

No one really realizes how much your bartender sees. He’s your therapist, giving you a cold beer and listening to you bitch, and he provides some advice. It’s funny, I wanted to be a therapist in college, and in life’s screwed up way, I was now.

Lena kept looking towards me as I got things ready and greeted the first few people in. It seemed like every time I turned around she'd flash me that sweet smile of hers and wave her hand just a bit. I kept turning away, not really sure what signals she was trying to send or what signals I thought I was receiving. I turned my attention more to those arriving, but I couldn't keep her out of my peripheral.

I saw some of the regulars pad in slowly. That kid who’s always the designated driver, never drinking. I chatted with him a bit while getting him his soda, and listened to him explain why he’s always the DD. He seemed really pissed, but in a bar, you see that a lot, so I didn’t think too much about it.

A while later, I saw the guy who always sits in his favorite booth, with only one or two drinks the whole time, and watches. Kind of creeps me out sometimes, but he’s quiet, pays his tab, and is always pretty nice when he does talk. He came over and shot the shit with me for a second, ribbing me about the choice of drinks in the place, till I poured him some of the new vodka we got in and sent him off to his booth. Immediately he started watching everyone around, and I shook my head a bit.

Then there’s the artist kid. I noticed him in the bar occasionally but had never really talked to him. As he sat on the stool, he started playing with some wristband, looking at some sort of scar on his wrist. He looked like he wished he was dead, so to help dull the pain, I slid him a beer on the house and kept my yap shut. Part of being a good therapist is knowing when words aren’t needed, and right then, they weren’t.

Last of all was the Brit. Some bartender friends of mine always asked why I let the "ass" in. Apparently he had been banned from every bar from one end of town to the other for fighting and treating the staff like shit. I always told them plain and simple, he'd always kept his mouth shut, ordered his drink, and left, no problem. Occasionally someone tried to start shit with him and he'd yell back, but I'd never had to throw him out.

Lena kept giving me that look from earlier, that look that made my ears burn and made me focus a lot harder on my work than I meant to. She always blushed when she saw this and scurried off to the kitchen or somewhere else, and I was glad.

The night went off without a hitch, and nothing much major happened  until about an hour from closing. Suddenly some drunk bumped into the designated driver kid, spilling a pitcher of beer all over him. The kid looked livid, turned to me and shouted for a drink.

“What about your friends, kid?” I asked, turning to his group of idiots huddling around some girls.

“They can walk!”

He looked pretty serious, so I just chuckled, knowing how I’d feel in his boots. I had Sully toss the drunk, and slid the kid what he wanted and a few more after that. That’s when the shit hit the fan. The kid dropped to the ground shaking, and Lena screamed. I had Andy, the head cook, dial 911, and an ambulance hauled the kid off. Turned out his meds didn’t allow him to drink. I told his friends pretty quick that they better get out, and tell that kid next time, he’s not getting so much as a Coke from me.

After that bit of excitement, everything settled down. I kept giving the artist kid beers on the house, and he kept staring at that same spot on the wall. I had Lena go check with the wallflower, refilling his drinks and such, but he never moved either. Time came for closing, and the wallflower paid his tab, and I walked down to the artist.

“Closing time, buddy.”

He looked up a bit cloudy eyed, and I reached into a drawer in the bar. Tossing him a card, I pointed to a name on it.

“He’s a friend of mine. Good therapist, if you want to spend a bit more than two dollars a beer on him. Tell him Nick sent ya. He can help you out.”

The kid looked up a bit confused and then nodded and headed out. Lena and I watched him leave, and I felt her hand wrap around my forearm for a second. When I turned, she had already moved away nervously.

Walking up the stairs at about three that morning, I collapsed into my bed. We had cleaned up in near record time, and Lena and the rest had let themselves out the back door as I went upstairs. Sully said he’d be back tomorrow just to shoot the shit with me, and I sent him some food for his girlfriend. As I lay in bed, I looked over at the clock and sighed. You know, being a bartender gave you a lot of glimpses into people’s lives. My mind wandered over some of the characters in the bar tonight.

That artist kid worried me. He seemed so down and just out of life. Then there was that designated driver kid who snapped. I hated calling ambulances to the bar, and I hated seeing him passed out like that. I’d have to warn all the waitresses not to serve him anymore. Then there was the guy who just sat and watched, never ordered much, just watched what was going on. I always wanted to ask him what was so damned interesting about a few drunks and some darts, but to each his own.

Then there was Lena. She was a real nice kid, always looking out for everyone else, wanting to help out. I thought about the looks she’d been giving me all night, looks that told me she wasn’t just admiring a “small business mentor.”

I smiled a bit as I drifted off to sleep, the night’s events rolling through my head, and I awoke to a light knocking on my door. Walking down the stairs in my finely crafted plain white boxers, I opened the door a bit, chastising myself for not checking to see what ungodly hour of the morning it was.

When I opened the door I was surprised. Lena was standing there, smiling a bit at me, and shivering.

“Lena? What time is it?” I asked, looking at the imaginary watch on my wrist.

“Umm, I think it’s like 4:30,” she said, looking down a bit ashamedly.

I raised my eyebrows for a second, and then realizing how rude I was being, invited her in. As I threw on a pair of jeans, I asked her why the hell she came over so late. She seemed nervous, and shrugged for a second before breathing deep and speaking.

“I wanted to see you, Nick.” She looked down, blushing, “I’m not sure why, but something about you tonight just got to me. The way you’re always looking into everyone around you but never really seem to see them. It’s been driving me crazy. I don’t know how someone can see everything but nothing. So I told myself, I’m gonna go see him. I’m gonna find out what’s behind those eyes, what’s working in that head of his. And then I got here, and I was so nervous that I started walking away. But once I got to the corner, I had to turn around. I had to see you.”

 She blushed a bit more but didn’t look away.

I didn’t know what to say. It all caught me off guard. I realized how pretty she looked right then and realized for the first time that she was right. Through all of this interaction with the people at the bar, I didn’t know any of them. I had my perceptions of all of them, the loner, and the watcher, all of them. I knew what I could see, but unless they told, or I asked, I knew nothing else. And it wasn’t just them either. It was the same with Lena…

“Lena…” Looking at her red cheeks, I smiled a bit, and reaching for a shirt, I helped her up off the couch. “Do you want to go grab some coffee with me? We can talk about what’s going on in here.” I spoke as I tapped my forehead. “And maybe a bit of what’s going on in there.” I tapped hers.

She smiled at me a bit and nodded. Grabbing my coat and another for her, since hers was woefully unequipped for the Chicago winter, we headed out, her pressed against my arm for warmth…or something more, and we pushed our way through the wind. Around the corner and in a small booth, we talked or a while and tried to bridge that little gap, word by word, and, in a way, talking to her over those cups of coffee seemed to relieve a bit of my stress, too. I chuckled silently to myself, realizing that she was playing my role, listening intently to my yammering.

She cocked her head to the side as I chuckled and asked me what was so funny. Waving my hand, I uttered a simple “nothing,” and set my hand on hers, determined not to let my cheap therapy be interrupted.