The Bartender

The cherry cordial cocktail sat there half finished, mocking him. The bartender shuddered a little but did not hesitate to stash the unfinished drink under the counter next to the remainder of an old-fashioned. He turned to his next patron at the bar and, with a smile, asked what she would like to drink.

“Why does he do that?” Jimmy, the new barback, inquired.

Phil, his trainer, glanced at the line of half-consumed drinks sitting like ducks in a row under the counter and shrugged.

“Beats me, but I don’t question it. Sam, here, is the best bartender a barback could ask for. He never yells or curses at us, he always cleans up after himself, and he tips us 50% out of his own tips on top of what we already get for the night. If you’re working with Sam, consider yourself lucky.”

Jimmy eyed the strange fellow for a moment, then mimicked Phil’s shrug and carried the empty keg back downstairs.

It was a slow night at Baker’s Backstreet Bar. Sam was grateful for that. Maybe tonight he would be able to get some sleep instead of spending the wee hours of the morning with his head hung over the toilet.

He checked the stock under the counter – only three drinks tonight, and none of them were heavy hitters. He could manage that. Last call rolled around, and everyone settled out their tabs. The door was closed and locked by 2:15, which was a record.

Sam saw the rest of the staff off until, at last, he was the last one left. The shadows in the old bar swallowed most of the tables and chairs; only the backlit shelf of booze behind him provided any light. It was better this way, though. Sam preferred not to consume the woes of the world without some semblance of protection, even that as flimsy as the darkness provides.

He started with the martini. There wasn’t more than a swallow left, considering how much work it took him to get the customer to stop drinking. She had been pretty in a plain, everyday sort of way. Her natural makeup and conservative business attire hid her loneliness well. Normally, Sam didn’t take on the lonely ones, but something about her, maybe it was her smile or the way she reminded him of his kid sister, allowed him to make an exception.

She had confessed to him that she just wanted somebody to love her, and her desperation oozed out of every pore. He saw at least half a dozen pairs of hungry male eyes hone in on this rare piece of meat. Before they could descend like wolves, he took her by the hand and coaxed her back to the solid refuge and self-respect. She left a little more confident, a little less vulnerable. Now it was Sam’s turn to clinch her self-assurance so that she would not regret any one-night stand she was so close to caving in to.

“Bottoms up,” he said to the darkness and downed the swig of gin and vermouth. It slid easily down his throat and settled in his stomach just as comfortably as the feeling of pure solitude settled into his brain. Despite the handful of friends he had and the closeness he shared with his parents and his sister, the weight of how alone he was in this world that contained billions of people made a comfortable nest in his heart and refused to leave.

One down, two to go. The old-fashioned was up next.

Even though the gentleman who had ordered it had barely taken a sip—but he had taken a sip, that was crucial – Sam did not dread this one. He enjoyed whiskey and knew well the feeling this drink would bring. He had felt it himself without the help of alcohol, that awful stone-in-your-stomach feeling that accompanies a sudden loss of employment.

He drained the entire glass in one shot. He hadn’t expected the notion to come on as strongly as it did—but then again, the man who had ordered this drink had had a family to provide for. It’s one thing to wonder how you’re going to find the money to buy food for yourself, but to also worry about the health and well-being of your wife and three kids was next level.

Sam’s head was spinning from the desperation, and he looked around the room for someone—anyone—who could help him. But there was no one there. Crazy schemes went through his mind, from selling organs on the black market to getting in bed with the mob for a loan. He slammed his fist down on the bar to bring his mind straight.

Through clenched teeth, he repeated, “You have a job. You don’t have a wife and kids to support. You are okay.”

Finally, his body began to relax, although his brain still did not believe him. With a cocktail of loneliness and despair swirling around in his addled mind, he turned his attention to drink number three. The cherry cordial cocktail.

Why did it have to be that?

Ever since he was a kid, Sam hated cherry anything. The man’s story had been too compelling to ignore though, and Sam had sworn an oath—albeit to himself, but an oath just the same—to help anyone he deemed worthy, no matter the cost. A little disgust on Sam’s part was little price to pay to assuage the guilt felt by his patron.

The guy was a mess when he came in. Sam knew before he even approached the bar that he’d be finishing this customer’s drink tonight. Sure enough, the distraught gentleman parked himself on a stool in front of the smiling bartender and ordered a cherry cordial cocktail. After about three or four of these, he reluctantly opened up to the only man who was all ears.

Sam wished this man had gone to a priest instead. It turned out that he had just hit a kid with his car. The kid had been on his bicycle, he said. He just didn’t see him, he said. He needed to check that text message; it was that important, he didn’t say. But Sam knew. Sam always knew. Sam just listened with a sympathetic ear, nodded, and weaned the man off his cherry cordial cocktails.

Screwing up his face and pinching his nose shut like a small child, Sam knocked back the leftover cocktail and gagged as the sickly sweet concoction slid down his throat. He wished that all he had to experience was the noxious flavor of fake cherry and alcohol. Instead, the guilt that accompanied it brought him to his knees. Did he hurt that kid? Was he even alive? Would he go to jail? How could he live with himself? Could he ever be trusted to drive again?

For a full ten minutes of panic, Sam sat on the floor behind the bar rocking back and forth, cradling his head in his arms and weeping for the coward that he was. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never turn himself in. He would live with this shame forever.

His watch beeped, and he slowly brought himself back to reality. 3:00, the digital display read. It was time to go home. Slowly, he picked himself up off the floor.

Sam turned off the lights behind the bar and locked the doors behind him. He walked the two blocks to his apartment like a man wearing cement shoes. When he got home, he threw himself on the bed fully clothed and fell asleep.

Somewhere out there in the night, a woman put down her phone halfway through dialing the number of a man she had settled to sleep with, knowing full well it would not lead to the meaningful relationship she craved. A man sighed peacefully in his sleep and cradled his wife in his arms, his dreams rich with possibilities of new and exciting job opportunities. Another man strolled into his local police precinct and admitted to a hit and run that the cops had had no lead on.

Sam slept with a monster of a headache.

The next day, around three o’clock in the afternoon, Sam woke up, prepared to do it all over again. He was grateful that he only retained a slight hangover from the night before. He walked to the bar to start his shift at six o’clock on the dot – he couldn’t afford to work any more than he already was.

The shift proved uneventful, and most of his customers were social drinkers and one raucous bachelorette party. By 1:30, Sam had no collection beneath the bar, and he was ecstatic at the thought of a night off.

Then she walked in.

Her eyes were vacant, and her gait was unsteady. She was already way past drunk. Sam was impressed that she managed to seat herself at the bar without collapsing into a puddle on the floor. Then again, the best alcoholics had an amazing ability to control the necessary faculties when they wanted to.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he offered.

She looked him dead in the eye with eyes deader than a corpse’s and answered, “Everclear.”

“Ma’am, all due respect, but I don’t know that you could handle a Bud Light in your condition. Can I call you a cab?”

“Everclear.”

“Do you have someone you can call to take you home?”

“Everclear.”

“I don’t think-“

“EVERCLEAR!”

She pounded the bar with alarming force, that half the bar turned its attention to the confrontation. One of the patrons who was audience to this unfolding scene happened to be an off-duty policeman. He excused himself from his party of friends and made his way to the bar.

“Is everything alright over here?”

The woman with the dead eyes zeroed in on the handsome policeman in plain clothes and stated with uncanny clarity, “Of course. The bartender and I were just having a little disagreement.”

The hiccup betrayed her.

So did the panic in Sam’s eyes.

The officer gave her a smile and nodded, but he tipped a look to Sam that let him know he was calling for backup.

In the meantime, Sam knew what he had to do. He had made a vow after all. No matter the cost.

As the officer was discreetly making a phone call, Sam poured a shot of Everclear and slid it across the bar. He watched her take the glass in her hand and caress it like a lover. She put the edge to her lips and made to throw it back.

“Please stop,” Sam said so quietly that he almost hoped she wouldn’t hear him.

Three-quarters of the liquid had been drained from the glass when her eyes went wide and she lowered the shot from her lips. She didn’t say a word, just gently placed the vessel on the bar, pushed herself off the stool, and stumbled out into the night.

Sam didn’t even care that she hadn’t paid. He wouldn’t have a job in the morning anyway.

He was numb when he made last call, and the staff exchanged concerned glances when they didn’t receive the regular cheery goodnight as he ushered them out the door.

When he was alone with the shadows and fluorescent-lit bottles of liquor, he pulled up a stool on the other side of the bar. It felt weird to step into the shoes of his patrons in this literal way. He had been doing it for so long inside his mind that this change of pace was almost exciting.

He stared at the innocent-looking clear glass with its millimeter of clear liquid. He stared into the face of death. He knew that this was poison. To take this drink was a final step in a long journey. But he had sworn an oath. No matter the cost.

With silent tears racing down his cheeks in a pointless attempt to dilute the deadly draught, he finished the shot that the woman with dead eyes could not.

When they found Sam the next morning dead on the floor, the staff were confused and shocked. He never drank while on shift, not even when a patron invited him to. Everyone knew his odd proclivity to keep half-finished drinks under the bar, but no one suspected him to be an alcoholic. They all knew the signs – of course, they did; they worked in a bar.

The coroner said he died of alcohol poisoning, that his blood alcohol content was off the charts, but over a dozen patrons would swear testimonies that the man had not touched a drop all night.

Somewhere out there, a woman picked herself up off the ground for the last time. With life in her eyes, she swore she’d never consume another sip of alcohol again, and she never did.