Tag: bar

An offering to the nameless gods.

I made my first offering to the gods when I was just 15. I gunned a man down in an alleyway. I saw him first, luckily, and as he raised his shotgun to blow a hole in my chest I managed to raise the machine pistol in my hand and pull the trigger. The first bullet took him in the groin as I raised my hand. The recoil brought the bullets upwards and a line of gore sprouted from his stomach, then his chest, and my brain reminded me to let go of the trigger when I saw his throat explode blackish-red in the neon light of the damned city.

It was chaos then and I knew I did not have time to stop, but I did. I knelt down and touched his foot and I offered him to the gods. It was a silly thought at the time, that there were gods in the first place and that they might govern my life, but the thought popped into my head and I went with it.

I escaped the disintegrating city that night, leaving behind wails of horror and constant gunfire. I do not know how many more offerings I made that night. I only remember the first one and the first one still sticks with me to this day. I see the surprise in his eyes and I see the muzzle of the shotgun moving upwards. I see my own death coming in hot and fast with a precise dispassion and, of course, I see the way to avoid such a death.

As I ran that night; as I hid and hugged walls and avoided my neighbours who were also trying to escape that damned city I became aware of a certain type of governance. You see, we do not have control over the moments. There are moments each day that are beyond us and we are simply subject to the will of the gods who control that particular moment. I devoted myself to these gods, though I did not know their names, and begged them to preserve me for another moment. When the moments grew longer and hours ticked by I asked them to preserve me until dawn. As I turned back and saw the sun break over the damned city I was converted and baptized in the rays that struck me. I was an acolyte to the nameless gods who control the moments we do not. I am zealot of the gods who bring me to the morning safely. Each night, as I close up this little bar that resides in my corner of the Moon I raise a toast to them and that they bring me more moments and selfishly I ask to see another dawn.

It has been some years since I have made an offering like I did when I was 15, but I never rule out the possibility that the gods will ask for more. I listen each night, as I close up the bar, for the warning signs of another damned city and I resign myself to being held at the whim of the gods of the moment.

The Bar Prophet

A silly story I once heard back on Earth…

“Let’s talk it out,” he says.

I look at the man. He has dark features and the neon light from outside the bar on the cobalt street give him a sinister look that is oddly inviting.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well, you can’t have the best of both worlds,” he takes a drag of his cigarillo. “You can’t go for the prettiest girl in the bar like you did back there and open up with a real intelligent line.”

I shuffle uncomfortably. I’m not used to straight talk.

Giving the cigarillo a practiced flick he continues, “you need to pick those ones apart, you see. She knows she’s hot, you know? I’m not saying you walk up and start acting like an asshole. You’re a smart guy you’ve got to use that to your advantage.”

I pull out a small gold flask unscrew the cap and take a swig of rye that brings a satisfactory burn. I was already drunk. I didn’t really need it, but the action made me feel good in the boyish way indulgence usually does. The bar prophet gave me a slight nod and I offered him the flask. He shook his head. I return the flask to my back pocket. “So, I can’t be an asshole and I’ve got to be smart, but I can’t come off as intelligent; what’s my play here, man?”

“You can be intelligent; it’s just how you do it. You can be an asshole, but you have to be the right kind of asshole.” He turns his head and looks in through the window of the bar. She’s in there. The girl we are talking about smiling and leaning against the bar her right hand propped up with a wine glass held close to her lips. She’s wearing a tight black singlet with an open back that tucks into even tighter jeans. Her blonde hair is platinum and through the window seems to create a halo. She’s the angel of the night and I wasted a first impression with her fifteen minutes earlier.

I had left the bar to get some air and in the hopes that she might follow me out for whatever reason. Instead, I had run into the sinister man lighting up his flagrant cigarillo. I wasn’t a smoker, but in the moment, I really felt like I needed one. I pictured her looking through the window seeing me smoking a cigarette and maybe she would reconsider what type of person I was.

“You’re staring.”

I was. Ripping my attention away I looked up the street at others who were standing outside bars. This street had several. A sports bar, a tavern, a pub, and the one my friends and I had decided to hit. It’s a ‘lounge’. Which in this case just means that there are no TV’s on the wall and the beer is local and expensive. My friends were in a corner huddled around a pitcher. Grumbling about the prices and checking their phones for updates on the game. I had suggested we go here and meet ‘a different breed of woman’ than we were used to. Most of us are university graduates and still living with our parents.

The Bar Prophet followed my gaze and took deep pulls. “So, what makes you an authority? What are your credentials?” I meant it in jest, but it came off a little too sharp.

He shrugged. His demeanour was passive, but there was an underlying dangerousness to this man. He had the air of a man who could say what he wanted because he was prepared at all times to deal with the consequences. From the moment we interacted I felt that respect was a better plan than standoffishness. I tried to pull myself out of my drunkenness to better engage.

“So far, you’ve been pretty spot on, man. I didn’t even see you in there and you’ve summed up my encounter, so what next?” I pull the flask out and take a smaller sip. This time the bar prophet takes some as well. A good sign.

He clears his throat. I smile knowing he wasn’t expecting the rye. “You have to take the love away.”

I look at him quizzically.

“You are already in love with this girl, right? Hundreds of men have been in love with her at scores of other bars. She’s used to men falling in love with her.” He drops his cigarillo and steps on it; the plastic mouth piece snapping.

“Okay, do you want me to ignore her, or treat her like shit, or what?”

“I mean that’s one way, but I don’t really think that’s the right way for you. I’d do it that way; that’s usually the way I do it I mean.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the ‘lounge’.

I paused and replayed his words in my head trying to find the hidden meaning. Take the love away. How could you take away the love when this girl is an Angel. If I get rebuffed what about the next time? I shake my head and chuckle. What next time?

“What?”

“Just thinking about what you said and I think it is impossible to take the love away with a girl like that. She knows how she needs to be treated. She won’t settle for anything less.”

“No that’s the thing. Jesus Christ! You’re a smart kid. I heard your conversation with her. It was funny, but that is exactly what she was expecting. You need to take the love away.” He turned again to look at her. For a brief moment, I could see her look our way. A glimmer of sweet sickly hope in my stomach. She is keeping track of where I am I think to myself.

The Bar Prophet turns back to me, “it was a good move you coming out here for a break. That’s your smarts coming through for you again.”

I blush. It feels too good receiving a compliment from him. I harden myself and respond truthfully, “I was hoping she would follow me out, like, maybe I made an impression on her somehow.”

“Okay, so, maybe not a consciously smart move then.”

“Hey, do you have a cigarette by any chance?”

“Sure,” he pulls out a pack and tosses a cigarette at me and lights his own then mine.

I take a drag. I’m not used to smoking and I can feel the tickle in my throat. I give a little cough, but do an okay job of holding back a hacking fit. It his turn to smile at me.

“Take the love away,” he murmurs.

“You still haven’t been clear on how I do that.”

He pulls deeply on his cigarette and examines me. I feel small under his gaze and do my best not to fidget. I’m taller and look stronger than the Bar Prophet, but that underlying dangerousness lingers. His examination finishes, but he does not speak.

We stand in silence listening to the night. The smoke feels more comfortable in my lungs now and I experiment with bigger puffs. He leans over and spits on the sewer grate. A group exits the bar. A couple guys with a group of decent looking girls. I consider that it may have been better to hedge my bets on one of them.

“If you hit the Burger Shack down the road right now you’d be in a good position to pick up a girl on her way home for the evening.” I looked at the Bar Prophet. He gazed calmly back and nodded in the direction of the gaggle that had just left. I quickly dispelled the idea of clairvoyance.

“One way or another I’m going to talk to her again. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He points at me with his cigarette, “Exactly! You’ve got nothing to lose. You’ve always got to fight like you’re surrounded. But, you’re not going to. You’ve got to go in there and force yourself not to care whether you see this girl again or not. Right now, you see her as something she’s not and you’re going to go in there and reaffirm that for her.”

I feel a flash of anger. “How can I ignore the fact that she’s a Goddess?” I say it a little too loudly.

The Bar Prophet laughs. It’s a slow and eviscerating laugh. Hardly escaping his mouth, but it cuts deep. I can tell I’ve tickled him. “Go tell her that,” he says. “She’s heard it all before.”

Frustration peaks. “Okay. Fine. I’m an idiot. Tell me what to say. Explain it to me because I’m probably not going to win at this anyway.”

He sighs and leans forward, “okay, kid. You got to take the love away. What I mean by that is you need to make things unpredictable. If you go in there and walk up, tell her she is a Goddess she will be gracious, but ultimately uninterested. Why not try it from a different angle?”

“Okay, so…”

“Visualize what you want and work backwards from there. Be clinical and interesting at the same time. Be mysterious, but don’t be an asshole it doesn’t suit you.”

I drop what’s left of my cigarette. “Alright, well I guess I’m going to go take a swing at it.”

“One more thing,” he says. “Order something other than beer and tell the bartender you’re friend outside will pick up the tab.”

Another surprise. “You sure, dude?”

“Jesus Christ… don’t call me dude. Don’t make me regret picking up your drink.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m James by the way.”

“Rick. Get in there.”

I turn and open the door to the ‘lounge’. The air is hot and moist from all the body heat. I immediately feel the sweat on my back. I head towards the angel and pick a spot next to her to order my drink. I make eye contact with the bartender and he comes my way. “Two fingers of crown with an ice cube, please. My friend outside will pick up the drink.” The bartender looks over my shoulder and nods.

“American rye is better.” The Angel speaks just loud enough for me to catch it. I turn quickly. I look her in the eyes and hold back the urge to say the first thing on my mind.

The bartender comes to my rescue delivering my drink. Quickly, I take a sip. I wasn’t expecting her to speak to me first. The cooling rye sparked my brain and I revaluated the situation. “I like Canadian Rye at the end of the night because it reminds me that sometimes faking it ‘till you make it is a worthwhile achievement.” Shaky at best, but I will have to run with it.

A small laugh. A small victory. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” She takes a sip of her own glass.

“Well, Canadian rye isn’t actually made with rye it’s just the name on the bottle. So, it isn’t what the label says it is, but goddamn, is it smooth.” I make a mock salute with my glass and take a mouthful.

She giggles again. I fight not to smile like an idiot.

Take the love away. “It reminds me a bit of you, actually,” I hear myself saying.

Her smile turns to a slight frown. “How do you mean?”

“I just mean that I’m sure you’ve been given a lot of labels or been expected to be a certain way, but something tells me that you’re quite different. You’re probably a weirdo”

She looks at me suspiciously. I wonder how good I’m playing off looking calm. I’m trying to look as relaxed as possible and to stop my damned leg from shaking. In what feels like an eternity she responds, “so, what if I am a weirdo?” Her glass is on the bar now. It feels like I have her full attention for the first time.

“I would say that I regret approaching you like a normal person. I’d much rather see the real you.”

“Oh, would you?” A glimmer of a smile. “What made you have this profound change of heart?”

I lean in closer. “A friend gave me some perspective. He told me to visualize and work backwards and in my mind, I decided that you’re not necessarily what’s written on the label.”

Her smile grows wider. Hope that was once a small sliver of light is now becomes a beacon in my chest. I’m saying the right words. “I’m James by the way. I never mentioned it before.”

“Briar.” She holds out her small pale hand and we exchange a loose handshake our eyes locked. “I’ve never seen you in here before,” she says.

Why build a bar on the Moon?

Originally, the bar was supposed to be on the Sun; but if I followed through with that I could only be open at night. I feel as though the patrons I cater to require their libations day or night and so I settled on the moon.

The Moon is a tough place to set up shop. What with their dry counties. However, I know honest people just need a drink and sometimes they just need a drink to hold onto for dear life. A beverage to see you through the small, but particularly violent storm that is day-to-day existence. I hear you, friend. Which is why I opened this speakeasy. As long as you keep it to yourself and away from any of those Lunar Magistrates; I think we will get along just fine.

The Moon has changed in the short amount of time I have been here. Not as shiny and new as it used to be. Each crater a little less deep, each dust pile a little less charming. But, I don’t let the diminished luminosity of the Moon get me down. I serve folk their drinks and sometimes I sit and I talk with them about their troubles.

This one fellow came in the other day. Real business type. Ordered with authority and wore a suit like plate armor. He was busy trying to heat up his glass of whisky with his eyes and I focused on cleaning glasses myself. He quietly ordered another neat whisky before upending his own glass and downing the whole thing in one go. You see a fella down a drink like that and it just picks at your brain why he did it. I’m not one to let questions like that stew, so I ask him about it as I bring him another drink. I almost wish I hadn’t.

Business hasn’t changed much in the last century. Everyone has to make a dollar, sure; but some search for ways to get it faster and harder. It didn’t take much, just a little suggestion and he told me everything I had already suspected. He told me about Earth and another outbreak. He told me about the cure and just how much it cost to make it and just how much it cost to buy it. He told me how difficult it was to live with what he did and how there were drugs to suppress those feelings. He told me all this and then downed his drink, left money on the bar top, and put on his hat all in one smooth motion.

I tried a moral suppression pill once when I was just some kid. Let me tell you; there is a reason I work a job with booze close at hand.

After all that I didn’t hate the man. In fact, he is one of the reasons I opened a speakeasy on the Moon. Everyone needs a place to drink. Some folks drink slow and easy and others, like the businessman, drink quickly and with purpose. Him, like I, won’t ever forget why were drinking though.

At some point in your life you’ll need a drink. If you’re on the Moon, come have a drink at my place. It’s cheap, I sweep up the dust, and there is no judgement on my side of the bar.