“Why the long face?” Bartender Rob tosses a stained white towel over his shoulder and leans across the nicked wood. He rests his meaty elbows in a puddle of liquor leftovers. I eye the spot and manage to keep my tongue in my mouth.
No licking the bar. You’re not drunk enough. Yet.
I do love me some booze, and I’m living off the coins I found in my couch cushions until payday. With a calloused index finger, I stir my vodka martini—the one birthday present I allowed my broke-ass self to buy.
“The short version? My boyfriend left me for Jesus. I’m stuck in a dead-end waitressing job, clogging people’s arteries at Fat Johnny’s Barbeque Shack, making jack shit. I’m earning even less busting ass at the gig I want to be doing.”
The part about my boyfriend is a white lie. He’s really just a guy I was bonking for a while. Technicality. But the rest is one hundred percent truth.
“No one gives a mangy monkey boner about art anymore. Nothing but a bunch of zero-talent sellouts in this fucking town.” I meet Rob’s eyes. “Man, I’m twenty-five today, and I have nothing to show for it.”
Rob straightens. “My mama always said, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’”
I shake my head. “Fuck that. I’d rather starve than sell out.”
Yeah, I’m a little rabid about this particular stick-to-your-guns philosophy. Some people find strength in religion. I believe in music, and I defend it with everything I’ve got, even when things don’t go my way.
I played the unfortunate role of a human pinball paddled back and forth between my divorced parents for most of my life. In my darkest moments, solace and light came from listening to my mom’s ’70s cassette tapes. For a few years, music was my only friend. Nobody else understood me. It helped me through the rough patches and gave me motivation to pick up the bass at fourteen.
Even though I haven’t made it yet, music is still the one thing that keeps me steady and sane. You don’t fuck with shit that does you right. Especially when it’s all you’ve got.
I just wish…
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
“Happy fucking birthday,” Rob says.
“Yeah, cheers, asshole.” I raise my glass and swallow the whole drink in three big gulps. Rob snickers and wanders over to a customer waving bills at him from the register.
The guy one seat away from me laughs, so I glance at him. He’s hunched over the bar like he’s guarding his drink, with his head turned toward me. Five o’ clock shadow, pierced eyebrow, dark brown fauxhawk, plugs in his earlobes—not too big, though. He wears a black wool pea coat-looking thing, jeans, and a pair of dark sunglasses.
“Something funny, Shades?” I ask.
“Your boyfriend leaving you for Jesus.” He has kind of a gruff voice. His face is okay, but it’s hard to tell what he really looks like with those glasses covering his most important features. I like his hands, though. They’re rough like mine.
“I knew something was wrong with him when he complained about me asking for anal. What guy doesn’t want anal?” I twirl my empty glass by its long stem. “He was kind of a dick trickle, so it’s not like I miss him or anything. Though the sex was decent. Better than my current prospects.”
Damn, I’m dying for another drink. Maybe just one more. I’m pretty sure I got a couple bucks stuffed in my car’s ashtray for emergencies. I shoot a bird at Rob, who nods.
“Definitely something wrong with a guy who doesn’t want to sodomize his woman.” Shades takes a sip from his glass. A wrist tattoo peeks out from his coat sleeve. I can’t tell what it is.
“Nah, I wanted to sodomize him. He wasn’t on board with the plan. That’s when the Holier Than Thou shit started. ‘Jesus doesn’t approve of butt-fucking.’ Jesus this. Jesus that. What the hell, man? Don’t you think Jesus would want you to be happy? How will you ever be happy if you don’t try new things? Christ, it’s just a dildo up the ass. Loosen the fuck up.”
Shades chokes on his drink, wipes his mouth with a coat sleeve, and laughs. Gorgeous teeth.
A glass slides across the bar from Rob a few feet away. I stop it with my open hand and smile.
Rob grins and saunters over. “I got you this Flaming Armadillo for your birthday, my dear. I hope it fits.” He flicks his lighter and ignites the liquid in the glass. Blue flames dance. I salivate.
“Rob, it’s perfect. You shouldn’t have.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pick up the shot and blow it out. To another year of dream chasing. Maybe this’ll be the one where I finally make it big. “Happy birthday to me.”
Gulp. Down the chute it goes, and I lose five IQ points as the alcohol gets busy with my already precarious brain chemistry. At least somebody’s getting some action.
Shades raises his glass and shoots whatever he’s drinking. “Did you make a wish?”
I’m not telling my real wish. That shit won’t come true if you spill it. Instead, I say, “All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie.
“What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control.
Clean up on aisle twelve, stat!
* * * * *
Buy links for STRINGS:
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