(A drunk sits next to you in a bar, thinks you are his or her close friend and starts confessing “the truth.” Write about what “the truth” is in at least 200 words.)
The bartender scoops up some ice into a tall highball glass. He pours some Bacardi into the glass and fills it to the rim with Coke. A garnish of sliced lemon follows. After a few stirs, he hands the cocktail to me. He wipes his hands on his apron and walks over a few stools away to the next customer, a fortyish man with a graying buzz cut.
I take a sip of my drink and mull over why a Cuba Libre tastes better when mixed with Bacardi. An expert bartender with a few thousand mixes in his resume might get away with using cheap white Tanduay rum, but an amateur almost always messes things up. Might as well use the real thing than risk earning the ire of a dissatisfied customer.
Halfway through my third Rum Coke, buzz cut approaches with a shot of Smirnoff in hand. He sits beside me and sets down his drink.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” His voice sounds like he’s been soused up since noon. “How’s the wife?”
Staring into my drink, I don’t bother looking at him. “Excuse me?” I manage to blurt out, still toying with a couple of ice cubes with my stirrer.
“I’m asking about your wife, Rick. How is she?”
I look to the bartender for help. He gives me a shrug and proceeds to wipe some glasses, as if to say “It’s your problem, dude. You’re on your own.”
A sigh of resignation escapes me. Maybe it’s just better to play along. “She’s fine.”
Buzz cut clucks his tongue. “Fine,” The word escapes his lips with a tinge of sarcasm. “That’s what they all say. If everything were fine, you wouldn’t be here, would you, Rick?” He punctuates his statement with bitter, cracking laughter.
I pretend not to hear him, but I change my mind at the last minute. I turn to stare at him and ask: “How about you? How’s the wife?”
He matches my gaze and pierces me with cold, black eyes. “I really don’t know, Rick. Haven’t seen her for a while. Maybe she’s dead, but why do I care? Maybe I even killed her.”
Silence, as we both sip our drinks. The bartender sets down a small plateful of peanuts. I scoop up a handful and pop a couple into my mouth. Buzz cut helps himself and chews noisily. He washes down the mouthful of nuts with more vodka.
I wonder if he was telling the truth. A morbid truth.
“Hey Rick, wanna hear a joke?”
“Sure,” I say.
“A woman walks into a bar and settles into a stool. The bartender comes up to her. ‘What will it be?’ he asks.
‘I’ll have a beer please,” The woman says.
‘Anheuser-Busch?” The bartender asks.
‘Fine,” The woman says, visibly irritated. ‘And how’s your cock?!’”
The bar is suddenly filled with roaring laughter. Buzz cut’s body is convulsing, in synch with his cackling. The bartender’s face is red and he is clutching his sides. After three drinks, it is the first time I hear the bartender’s voice and unluckily for me, it comes out as boisterous laughter. The other customers aside from buzz cut and myself– an elderly couple having dinner at a booth in the far corner, and a heavyset woman several stools away with a mug of beer in hand – are all chuckling.
“Get it Rick? And how’s your bush? And how’s your cock? Hahaha!”
I finish the rest of my drink, fish out three hundred pesos from my wallet, and place the bills down on the bar. I was heading toward the door when I heard buzz cut call out to me.
“Hey Ricky! Where are you going? I haven’t finished the joke. The woman ended up shooting the bartender between the eyes!” More laughter.
I exit the bar and walk out into the night. I could still hear faint laughter from within even as the door closes behind me.
And I wonder if the bartender is still laughing.