Controlling the Elements

by N. R. Spratlin

  I really did need a night away from things just to give my mind a break.

  We ate at a little quaint restaurant down town, although it seemed to have to air of snob, but to my surprise was reasonably priced and served decent portions of food.

  Michelle and I spent about an hour laughing and reminiscing about the past. She stopped trying to dive too deep into my personal life and how I was doing after the third time of gently shutting her down, she finally got the message. I was thoroughly enjoying the evening, until about two drinks in.

  After Michelle went to grab a second round of drinks, she came back to the table with a man. Not just any man, but one who had enough sleaze clinging to him that I wouldn’t be shocked if he told me he was a used cars salesman. The fun dinner of two old friends catching up quickly turned into me feeling like the third wheel.

  I stuck around and listened to all the gag inducing ‘look at me’ jargon Mr. Creepy was pouring out, and spent that time wondering how Michelle kept eating it up.

  After I finished with my drink, I gave off a lame excuse of needing to get back home since Ly and I had an early day tomorrow at the tee ball fields.

  Michelle hugged me close begging to do this again because it was such a fun night, I gave my best none committal response and avoided shaking Mr. Creep’s hand by giving Michelle one more big squeeze of a hug.

  That’s how I ended up in my current situation, my feet are aching and goose bumps pepper my arms from the chill in the night air.

  Of course, I’d forget a jacket. I roll my eyes.

  I just roam the streets of my childhood town hardly looking to where I’m going, thoughts swirling around my head. I want to stay out for a bit longer since I have the baby sitter on lock for about another two hours.

  I sigh, I know If I’m being truthful with myself I don’t want to go back and face the looming decisions I feel pressured to decide, the responsibilities and the stress. I just want to feel free.

  I turn the corner and cringe a bit feeling beginning of a blister rubbing on the back of my right heel; another reason why I don’t wear heels often. I stop and ease my back against the wall as I slip the damaging shoe off and rub the sore spot. I look down and cringe.

  Great that’s going to hurt for a while.

  My heel is red, raw with a bit of skin that’s came off. I sigh.

  Can nothing go right?

  I strain my ears as I hear some truly horrible music coming from somewhere in front of me. I look around and spot a bar that I’ve never seen in this town before. Above the outer red brick concrete in white reads the name: ‘Mesto’.

  Is that even English? What is a Mesto?

  I pull out my phone, and blink from the brightness. I sway a little.

  Whoa, the drinks are slowly taking their effect. I thought they were a little on the strong side, but not this strong.

  I return my concentration back to the phone and type it in to my translator. Nope, definitely not English. Mesto is Russian for ‘place’. I snort then giggle, amused that the owner has enough of a sense of humor to name his bar ‘place’.

  Now I have to go check it out.

  I tuck my phone back into my small black bag I’ve been wearing over my shoulder, put my shoe back on then push off the wall and start hobbling to Mesto.

  I could really use another stiff drink and spend the rest of my time out sitting at the bar while people watching.

  ***

  Flint

  I just wish for once that I could punch out the little pricks like these pathetic excuses of men sitting at my bar. You know the type; pressed khakis, polo shirts, and boater shoes, the type that obviously lives off their daddies’ money.

  Breathe; we do not need another situation attracting the cops to the bar.

  I repeat this chant in my head over and over as I practice the breathing techniques Everett has shown me.

  “Hey Bartender! Make that 3 Long Islands for my boys and make sure to use the top shelf liquor. Only the best for my men!” Head dipshit calls out to me as he raps his knuckles over my polished oak wood bar.

  I’m going to have to wipe it clean again but this time from kozel germs.

  His ‘boys’ start laughing like he’s the funniest thing since those stupid cat faces in bread pictures emerged on the internet. Heat starts crawling to my palm just itching to be let free.

  No, just breathe.

  I exhale a lung full of air I did not realize I have been holding, and nod my head to let them know I heard them. Some would say stench of stale cigarettes and beer would not be welcoming, but to me this is home. Or home away from my motherland.

  These pricks do not even know the meaning of hard work.

  “Damn, I can feel your heat rolling from the entry. Who sparked your fire Matchstick?” Connor suddenly pops into my alliance.

  “Trakhat’ Connor, I am about to lose my shit on these butt boys. I do not need you pushing my limits, so if you want to help sit down and try to push some calm into the link.”

  I push aside the feelings of wanting so badly to smash a bottle from my “top shelf” selection, across that guy’s head. He does not deserve to be hit with a bottle from top shelf. Best grab the cheaper vodka. It won’t hurt me as bad to lose that alcohol, though all vodka is too good for that douche.

  I sense Connor take a seat down at the bar towards the entrance. He starts channeling some cooling energy my way. I sigh, the tightness in my shoulders loosen and I stretch my neck side to side, cracking it slightly as I try to keep the calming feeling flowing to the rest of me. I glance in his direction and nod my head in appreciation. I am thankful in times like these that Connor is my opposite. It is better than being stuck with Everett and his know it all attitude. His solution to everything is breathing through extreme emotions and taking on the mentality of the trees; creating something from the extreme emotion on the inhale and channeling it into another on the exhale. While Connor might look like the hippy guy, it is Everett who acts like it. I assume it is his affinity to nature and what not. I am just glad he has his knowledge to keep him balanced. Everett is one of the smartest guys I have ever met.

  By the time I grab glasses and finish making the prissy men’s drinks and serving it to them my temper has simmered down to a dull roar.

  “I thought you were supposed to have Anthem of the Dying here tonight?” I look over to Connor shaking my head as he pops the top off a beer then decides to grab his own from my stand-up cooler.

  “Chyort voz’mi Connor! How many times have I told you that when we are in peak hours to not serve yourself,” I chastise him as I see others who are growing restless with the wait, looking towards the cooler thinking about doing the same thing.

  “Watch out Flint, your Russian is showing. If I can hear it right now, you better believe others will pick up on it when you talk. It’s just a beer, remember I have roommate privileges.” He lifts his eyebrows while taking a sip of the cold liquid. I growl.

  “That’s something you made up to get your way whenever you want! Next time just ask me and let me get it. I can already see everyone sizing me up and seeing if they can get away with it. So, if you don’t want me to show my ‘Russian’, don’t push me into showing it.”

  I break eye contact with Connor and glare at all the people I had seen out of the corner of my eye who were getting antsy, ready to make the move.

  They turn to me, obviously seeing if I am paying attention, and quickly look every else, throwing that idea out the window when they noticed my look.

  “Sorry bro, I figured I would save you the trouble.”

  “If you want to save me then drink that beer and get your zhopa behind my bar, Michael called out tonight, and the lead singer of Anthem called saying they got into a wreck due to some crazy electrical explosion around the ball fields three days ago and can’t get a ride. Have you heard about that yet? Do you think it has anything to do with the freak nature shit that’s been happening lately?”

  For a brief moment, I
feel Connor slamming the alliance shut. He tips back his beer while taking healthy gulps.

  Something is up.

  I forcefully push myself back into the alliance with some effort and start the questions.

  “What is going on Con? What are you not telling me?” I take my eyes away from the customers in front of me for a brief second just in time to see his shoulders tense as if he didn’t realize or feel me squirming my way into the alliance. For once I wish that tonight was a dead night and I was able to just corner him into telling me what is bothering him. He catches me watching him and he straightens his shoulders and makes his way around the bar front grabbing a bottle opener before turning to two brunette women who have been trying to catch his attention.

  “CONNOR” I shout as loud as I can into his mind. He flinches rubbing his temples. He sticks his pinky finger into his ear and shakes it; trying to get rid of the ringing. The action reminds me of a homeless, flea ridden mutt that used to follow me around in the homeland.

  “Flint, breathe. Yes, Tuck and I might have an idea of what’s going on, but this is absolutely not the place to be talking about it. The only reason I came out here tonight was to tell you that we are having a meeting back at the house when you get off.”

  “Chto, chert voz’mi, prooskhodit? Just tell me so I have time to work through it before I get home.”

  “Slow down on the Russian Flint. I can’t tell you what the ‘hell’ is going on, I am sorry but I absolutely can’t.” I know he is serious when he turns looking at me after I hand over another customer his two martinis. He has such a serious expression on his face he does not look like the fun-loving Connor I know. I frown.

  “Chert voz’mi, eto ser’yezno?”

  “Yes, it’s that serious, so please drop it for now.” He pleads while still looking straight at me with that searing expression. I subtly nod my head in agreement and his shoulders relax.

  “So… if the band is not coming in tonight then what is going on?” Connor decides to move our mental chat to verbal conversation almost as if to keep him preoccupied. I watch amused, the corner of my lip twitching. He is purposely trying to avoid looking at the rack of one of the brunettes who has positioned herself on the bar at just the right angle.

  Hmm? That’s weird. Usually Connor is the first one to jump at the attention of the ladies.

  “Roxanne will be here in about twenty minutes to set up,” I holler back over the noise as the patrons are getting louder. I look up from the drink I am mixing, seeing that we have doubled in the number of patrons and now have a line about three people deep waiting to get a drink. It’s going to be a long night with everything Connor has vaguely thrown at me since it is starting to preoccupy my mind.

  “Karaoke?!” He shouts out breaking my concentration. His jaw hanging slightly, eyes wide at the surprise, “I thought you banned that last month after that one chick decided to do a strip tease to “Touch Myself’ and her boyfriend went ape shit and started a brawl.”

  “I did, but honestly I have no choice. Hopefully I did not make a mistake in bringing it back.” I explain about the unfortunate situation I find myself in with lack of entertainment for a busy night.

  Connor shakes his head, laughing as he walks back down the bar with a flat bottle opener in his hand, he then takes a credit card from the busty brunette, swipes it, and hands it back to her then promptly moves on to another customer waiting.

  Something is off with him and chert voz'mi! I am going to figure this shit out before we go home.

  “Hey Bartender!” dipshit shouts at me again. I clench my hands tight trying to keep the calming feeling I had achieved no so long ago.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  I turn around with the least threatening scold I can manage and head back to see what his pompous ass wants.

  This is going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “ABORT MISSION!” – Connor

  Flint

  After a few hours have passed, somehow, I am only suffering with a mild migraine. Connor however, discovered a way to make ear plugs from the bar napkins and is still powering on as if he is unaffected to the screeching women trying to sing. If he hadn’t been here, I am pretty sure I would have burnt the entire building down by now. I turn around to hand a martini with four olives to an older gentleman who is a regular, and then cringe when I catch sight of a full moon, and no not the one in the sky.

  “Woo! Shake it baby!” my regular, Frankfort, screams at the bleached blonde who has bent over suggestively singing to a new pop song.

  Okay ladies let’s just pause here. I feel like it’s my public service duty to let you in on this secret. Ready? Alcohol does not automatically make you sexy. Alcohol is a dirty liar. Think of it as a demon who tries to infiltrate your brain with its lies of influence saying, “Oh yeah girl, you can totally hit that note”, or my personal favorite, “Oh yeah girl, you can totally dance like you did when you were 20 even though your nearing 40. Go ahead with your sexy self and twerk away! Everyone will find you so sexy!”No ladies, resist the twerking.

  I shake my head, fucking baba’s.

  “Frankie, don’t encourage her.” I shout at the elderly man who has one of those not so subtle black hair pieces attached to his head. Shocking really, since the rest of his hair is white.

  “What?” he shouts back making a cupping motion with a hand behind his ear.

  “I said, DON’T ENCOURAGE HER!” I shout in his direction while popping the top off a cheap bottle of beer that tastes like piss and hand it to a gentleman standing next to him.

  “Don’t whisper in here?” he shouts back, “I am sorry Flint I thought I was talking loud enough, and my damn hearing aid batteries are dead. I am waiting on my doctor to get me new ones.” I shake my head at him and chuckle. He is good folk. His wife passed away about four years ago, and ever since the funeral he has shown up at the bar every night precisely at seven and leaves around ten. I know he is lonely, and he has never caused any trouble, so he is what I consider a mascot of this place. One of my rules here is if you fuck with him then you will get your fucking ass kicked out, and in the physical sense.

  “Hey Bartender!” my favorite butt head shouts at me, yet again. I am seriously considering of adding “Do not call me Hey Bartender” to my list of getting your ass kicked out of my bar as well. These guys have been on my case all night, and when I accidently slipped up, cursing under my breath in Russian they doubled their efforts in trying to push my buttons. I even heard one of them slip the word ‘commie’ as I was walking away. I about lit his ugly boy clothes on fire right there.

  And every single time he calls for me, my nerves are becoming more and more frayed and my hands get a little warmer. If he isn’t careful I will knock or fry the son of a bitch out.

  “What can I get you boys?” I ask not bothering to look up at them as I continue to mop up the puddles of perspiration from their fourth round of Long Islands. I grind my teeth together, trying to keep a hold of the remaining shreds of my temper. The moron that is speaking stumbles, and then catching himself on the bar; he leans on his closest minion for support. They all laugh boisterously. These little shits are light weights if the evidence of their fearless leader intoxication is anything to go by.

  “I see that uh you can make those fancy schmancy fire ball shots.” he manages to slur out.

  “Yes, I can. Are you sure you fellas want one? Though I must ask don’t you think it is best to get a nice, cold glass of water instead and not mix anything more?” I try to suggest knowing full well that in the end it will go nowhere.

  “You fucking calling us pussies bruh?” Douchy says as he pounds his chest like some deranged gorilla. Sweat drops from his brow and into his eyes; he blinks it away hardly noticing he’s sweating like a pig. “Cuz we ain’t no pussies. I can fuckin buy yer bar.” He starts chuckling while accepting a round of high fives from his sidekicks.

  Yeah… with your papa’s money, I think as I walk away and tu
rn sensing Connor’s eyes on me as the heat starts to rise to my palm and down my arm.

  Would it be so bad if I burnt them a teeny tiny big bit? Honestly, I’d be doing the world a favor.

  I shake my head trying to dislodge my thoughts as I reach for the wet towel underneath the bar trying to soak in some for the cooling sensation from the water. This time I fail to find the relaxation and relief I desperately need.

  Fuck it, if these boys want fire I’ll show them fire…

  “Flint, breathe.” Connor sends to me, interrupting my thought.

  “Fuck off Con, I am in control. I just need to expel some energy that is all.”

  By the time I walk back to the boys, the mouthy shit has gathered the busty brunette on his lap and his minion is leaning down, whispering into her friend’s ear while they both laugh and look in my direction. Mouthy Shit points at the girls and overtly mouths for me to add shots for them too.

  I take in deep breaths and let it go, while I set the shot glasses up in front of them and clear the area of anyone waiting besides old man Frankie; he is still very much focused on the stage, well another blonde’s ass on stage. I don’t have the heart to interrupt what little joy he has in life now. Plus, he’s far enough away, it should be fine. Then just to tick the guys off I wink at the busty brunette who is still settled in Douchy’s lap as I start to pour the Everclear across all the shot glasses while making sure they overflow to the counter around them.