The Subtle Bartender

I went out downtown to see a friend’s show one fine spring night.  It was a fashion show.  I got dolled up – little black dress, saucy heels higher than what I usually wear, hair, make-up, fresh nail polish, everything.   I went alone.  This is not unusual for me.  I decided a while back that there is no good reason for me to sit home alone when I want to go somewhere just because none of my friends are available to go, or because I don’t have a date. 

The show was fun.  The club had cleared most of the tables and chairs from the main floor, but I managed to befriend someone at the bar who happened to be part of a party that had one of the tables.   I enjoyed chatting with him.  He was cute.  No, he wasn’t cute.  He was hot, and sexy, and clearly very sharp.  He seemed interested in me.  The problem was that he appeared to have been, sort of, set up with the friend of someone else in the group.  She kept shooting me darts any time I would look in her general direction.  It had the appearance that Hottie was friends with a couple and the single gal in their group was friends with the girlfriend.  She seemed to think that she and Hottie were together for the night; He, clearly, didn’t. 

He was in from out-of-town and I wasn’t really up for drama.  So, when the show started, I turned toward the stage and didn’t sit too close to Hottie.  I was on the end of the table.  As the designers’ sets progressed across the runway, one and then the next, a couple of different men approached me.  One was very clearly gay, but I enjoyed chatting with him.  After a few minutes the conversation waned, and he moved away.  Another few minutes, and another guy struck up a conversation with me.  His breath was horrible, so I turned my focus back to the show.  He drifted away.   

My friend came through on the next set and I sat enjoying the somewhat over-the-top accessories and artistic themes that went with the designs.  Between designers I turned and discovered that a nicely dressed Persian-looking gentleman had taken up residence at my side.  Yes, I know it sounds conceited to say it that way, but it’s the best way to say it.  He stayed there for the rest of the show. He made a point to tell me that he doesn’t usually attend such events, but was happy he had this time because he met me.  The pick-up line wasn’t missed, but I took it in stride.  Maybe it was true; maybe it wasn’t. 

The Persian gentleman wanted to talk.  I wanted to watch the event to which I’d come.  He was an attractive guy, not Hottie hot, but nice looking.  He was a little bigger around the middle than I usually like, but it suited him, and his strong facial features were appealing. 

At the end of the show, Hottie invited me to go have drinks with him, and his group of friends.  I would’ve liked to have a drink with him.  I would’ve been fine with his friends, but I really wasn’t up for dealing with the jilted friend of the girlfriend and it appeared that it was going to be the four of them, and me.  I declined. 

Persia invited me to go have a drink with him, somewhere where we could sit and chat.  I wasn’t certain I really wanted to.  He pressed, “Just one drink.”

“Just one,” I smiled, “Somewhere close by.”

“I know just the place,” he said. 

I found my friend and chatted with her and her boyfriend for a few minutes.  She was happy that I’d come, but they were going to head home after a few more minutes.  She was curious about the man who was with me – Persia was glued to my side, almost like he was afraid I might sneak out without him if I had the chance.  After a few minutes, I said my goodbyes and headed out to the street with him. 

We were standing on a street full of bars.  From my perspective, any one would do as long as it had alcohol and wasn’t too far to walk in these shoes – my feet had started hurting not long after I’d arrived.  From his perspective, it had to be this one specific place he had in mind.

“How far is it?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s just up there.”  He gestures non-specifically up the street. 

“I really don’t want to walk far.”

“It isn’t.  Come on.”

We start walking down the street, dodging around the crowds and ducking through people.  We walk past many perfectly suitable places to grab a drink.  I protest.

“Oh, it’s just up here. I can see if from here.”

Liar.  As it turned out it was nearly six blocks, around a corner, and up a hill.  The crowd was much thinner, so I decide that if we are going any further that I’m out.  I say so.

“We’re here,” he says, pointing to a specific sign for a bar.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was here.”  I say as we go through the door and sit at the bar.  It’s a nice place – well lit, and a little quieter than the ones on the main stretch would have been.  It actually isn’t a bad choice, but I am thoroughly put off by the dishonesty he used to get me here. 

“I work in the building across the street.”  The building he indicates is a nice, glass-encased high rise, one of the newer additions to the city’s business district. 

We order drinks.  Or, well, I do.  The bartender glares at him and then smiles at me.  “What can I get you, Sugar?” 

“Vodka and water, please.”

“Sure.” She turns to leave.

“And I’ll have a bourbon,” Persia says loudly to her back. 

As we chat about what each of us does for work she brings our drinks.  Mine she sets down gingerly.  His, she slams down on the bar so hard that it spills out of the glass and sloshes his forearm.  He grimaces.  I look at her, and as she is turning away I see an amused yet angelic expression on her face, as if she’s thinking, ‘Ooops, did I do that?’

I wonder what this is about and decide that I should just quietly observe.  I wonder whether Persia has dated the bartender – whether she’s a jilted lover.  If she is, at least she properly directs her ill will at him, and holds none for me.

When I finish my drink, she reappears and offers to bring me another.  “No, thank you,” I say, “Can I just have some water?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have some, too.” Persia says.

“You can get yours from cooler at the end of the bar,” she says to him.

I look between them “Oh, if there’s water out, I can get some from there.”  I start to stand.

“No, Sugar, you I’ll bring some.”  She smiles and turns.  Persia gets up to get his from the end of the bar.

As she sets my water in front of me, I am left with the distinct impression that she has watched him bring a string of women through her bar.  Whether she has been one of them or not, I have no desire to be his latest flavor of the night.

We chat for a few more minutes and he invites me up to his condo.  It, conveniently, is only a few blocks from here.  Of course - that was why this bar.  I decline.  I thank him for the drink and get up to leave.

“You’re really leaving?” he calls loudly as I reach the door.

“Yes, I really am.”  The last view I have is of the bartender’s Cheshire cat smile, and his look of utter disbelief.