Wrote half, then close the window and wrote the other half, so they don't really match up.
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http://lab.drwicked.com/writeordie.html
http://lab.drwicked.com/writeordie.html
The Surprising Bartender So, the other night I was walking down the street and I came across this litte pub. You know, one of those dank joints down town, caught in between a sex shop and a funky little bowling alley. Real trashy, you know. So any other day, I would have walked right on by, maybe stepped a little faster, bundled my coat closer around me, but that night... for whatever reason, my brain just, it just stopped working. All the warning signals it should have been firing off, well, those just weren't happening, and before I knew it my heels were pointed toward the greasy front of that bar and I was striding forward, pushing through the door and sliding into a stool at the bar. There was sawdust on the floor, I noticed that, and the bar itself was sticky. Then, Jesus Christ, out comes the bartender, a giant of a man, not fat or broad at all but Lord was he tall! He looked like a praying mantis, if a mantis could look harmless. Tall and narrow, thin like a ribcage on stilts, with tight black leggings and a loose button up shirt that was undone. He had black eyes like beetles, with a hard shimmer in them. He was pale - oh, you should have seen him - he wasn't pasty or sweaty at all, just white as any paper you've ever seen. And he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by me, he just stands there, moves a damp towel across the bar surface, and doesn't even look me in the eye, just asks what I'll have. And since clearly I'm going crazy, I order a drink, ask for scotch, and he serves it to me in a short crystal tumbler with a few perfect-square ice cubes, just like my pop used to drink it. I tip the glass back delicately, a tiny sip, and then I decide I don't feel ladylike tonight, so I swallow the whole thing down and ask for another. He pours it without a word, but this time he looks my way. The thing about it, the way he looked at me, it wasn't a condescending kind of look and it wasn't a lewd up-and-down kind of look either. It was the look one person gives another when they acknowledge that they're both human. It was quite beautiful, to be honest, but it made me feel almost exposed, like my skin had been stripped back and my beating heart laid upon the bar. I gulped. He poured me another. I took off my coat. After the fourth or fifth, I stopped. He didn't move to pour me another, seeming to sense a finality in the way I sluggishly smacked the tumbler down. I asked how much. He told me. He had a mild voice. I fumbled for my wallet and managed to place a few bills next to my glass. I got up, coat over my arm. About to walk back out onto the street, I felt compelled to look back at him. He had lifted my glass and was wiping down the bar where I had sat. I must have stared longer than I meant to, because after some time I became aware that he had met my eyes. Just like the first time, the look was unassuming, but I felt my cheeks burn and I rushed out the door. The cold air cleared my head enough for the walk home, but I couldn't shake that self-conscious feeling and I couldn't pinpoint why.
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wrenxq's journal
wanting
