Bartender with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

We pause for a beat, until Edgar continues.

  “So are you going to do this celebrity whosamabob show?”

  “You mean Jack Bells?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Jack Bells? Really? That sounds like a made up name to me.”

  “I don’t fucking know,” I blurt out. “Honestly, I could give two shits about some dumb fucking show right now. I’ve worked so hard to get my life here to this point, why would I run off now?”

  Edgar sounds my thoughts back to me. “Seems like you don’t want to go.”

  “What about Clarissa?” I ask. “Why is she backing off?”

  “That....” he raises a finger. I’m hanging on his every word at this point. The man has ninety-two years of wisdom, and I wish he could impart it all on me. “...is a mystery…”

  His speech slurs. He seems like he’s trying to say words, but nothing’s coming out.

  “A mystery for…?” I ask. “Edgar. Are you alright?!”

  “I’m f-f-f-f-f-f…”

  I scream out into the hall, as loud as my lungs allow me. “Nurse! We need a fucking nurse!”

  I ride with Edgar in the ambulance to the hospital, and a grim feeling overcomes me.

  A series of grim feelings, actually.

  He’s having a stroke, as the paramedic has informed me.

  He’s old, and the chances aren’t good that he’ll make it.

  Edgar could pass away.

  Clarissa doesn’t want me.

  Cole and I are in a weird place.

  Liam has a girl now.

  Who do I have at this point?

  I shake off the thought as I hold Edgar’s hand.

  “Come on man. You hang on.”

  His eyelids flutter, and I say a prayer, even though I haven’t been to church in years.

  He flashes me the faintest smile I’ve ever seen, entirely in the eyes.

  “Don’t quit now on me, old man,” I say. “You haven’t taught me how to beat you in chess yet.”

  He lifts his lips into one more smile before he loses consciousness.

  “Don’t fucking quit on me,” I mutter. “Don’t.”

  We get to the hospital, and they rush him away. I’m left in the waiting room.

  And I don’t have my phone, or a soul in the world to help me.

  31

  Mason

  Cigarettes

  Many people have amazing relationships with their parents.

  Me? Not so much.

  My Dad is in Vegas, and apparently the only thing he calls me about is to let me know when he gave a lead to a celebrity bartender.

  I call my Mom occasionally, but she moved away from Blackwell years ago, to Florida.

  It’s actually silly that I connected with Edgar, some old man who I was required to see as part of my community service.

  But as I sit in the hospital waiting room, head in my hands, waiting, it’s as if my own Grandparent is in the emergency room.

  He never had a soul after Jasmine, and I’ve not had one either.

  Sitting in the waiting room, I don’t cry.

  I feel more numb at this point, than sad.

  I half wish I had my phone to call someone. But then again, who the fuck would I call? Liam, maybe?

  I get up and go outside to smoke a cigarette, a habit I dropped since Clarissa came into my life. I have an old pack of Marlboros stuffed in my jacket from last September.

  And a lighter.

  Since September, I haven’t smoked a thing.

  I take a puff and inhale the smoke deep into my lungs.

  The tobacco hits me, and I feel my mind race. Why haven’t I smoked a cigarette since then? It’s not like Clarissa even asked me to stop.

  I drag a hand through my beard as I contemplate where I was at mentally, when Clarissa walked into my life at tail end of the summer.

  I was drinking heavily. Smoking too. But it wasn’t as if I was enjoying myself.

  A nurse walks by on the way to her shift.

  “You’re smoking outside a hospital? Really?” She rolls her eyes and glares at me. “That’s taking years off your life, you know.”

  I can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. I don’t mean it as malicious, it’s just my natural reaction. “Yeah? Well, Sweetheart, maybe some of us don’t give a shit how long we live. Ever think of that?”

  Her eyes grow large, and she runs away from me, like she’s seen a ghost.

  “Wow,” I say out loud. As she heads through the automatic doors as a crazy realization hits me.

  I was smoking so much because I didn’t give a shit about living or dying.

  I stare up at the dark, cloudy sky that doesn’t even give me the benefit of stars, tonight.

  Before this fall, I was living some halfway existence. I badly wanted a reason to live, but I could find none.

  And then Clarissa awakened me. The only person who ever believed in me and my silly dream of starting a bar.

  Well, Edgar believed in me too.

  I feel my heart sink lower into my abdomen.

  I want these feelings to go away, but at the same time, to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved, right?

  My chest swells, and I swear I feel my arm tingle right where Clarissa liked to touch my bicep.

  A phantom memory that will probably haunt me forever.

  Like some cheesy Hollywood romcom, I run through a videotape of all the memories Clarissa and I’ve shared.

  The night from high school I wish I could forget.

  In Cole’s garage when I ran a nudie after she and her brother shut out me and Liam at beer pong.

  Mrs. Crabtree making assumptions about us.

  The first time she propositioned me for benefits.

  Her hangups about having actual sex. I even found her hangups cute.

  When I upped the ante at dinner, fucking proposing to her in front of an entire restaurant.

  Wait a second.

  The ring.

  The fucking ring.

  She still has Edgar’s Jasmine’s ring.

  If she hated me so much, why didn’t she give it back?

  I stamp out my cigarette, my mind flying.

  I search through my mind’s eye, trying to remember exactly how the interaction went. What did she say?

  Now you can go follow your dreams.

  I smack myself in the head.

  You can get out of this town, like you’ve always wanted.

  She wouldn’t look me in the eye when she said the words, though.

  Because she was fucking crying when she said the words to me.

  My mind is blown.

  What else did she say?

  I’m taking a flight, tomorrow.

  Which is fucking today.

  I look up, and see a plane flying into the Blackwell airport.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter out loud.

  I need to get to the fucking airport.

  I blow out a deep breath and glance back at the hospital.

  “Edgar, you gotta make it, you understand! I need you to see how that ring gets put to use!” I say as I glance around, brainstorming how I’m going to get to the other side of Blackwell, where the airport is.

  Just then, I see the paramedic walking briskly out of the hospital.

  I flag her down. “Hey,” I say.

  “Where are you headed to next?”

  I stop her before she gets to the ambulance.

  She shrugs. “Nowhere. We’re just on call.”

  “Oh. Well, what would you say to giving me a lift somewhere?”

  “I’m sorry Sir, we really can’t do that,” she shakes her head. The ambulance driver pokes his head out of the car, shaking his head in unison.

  “Would I be able to interest you in free drinks this weekend at Firehouse?”

  “Firehouse? That new place?”

  I nod.

  “For real? How do I know you’re legit?”

  “Mason Worthington,” I say with a wink.

  “Oh, damn h
e was on that show!” the driver says. “Yeah yeah. Free drinks for just one weekend? Is that all?”

  “Fuck it. Make it two,” I say.

  “Done! Let’s rock,” he says.

  The paramedic shrugs her shoulders and opens the back. “Get on in. We’ll take you, provided there are no actual emergencies, of course.”

  “Done! You’re a lifesaver.”

  I jump in the middle seat between the two of them.

  “So, what you need to get to the airport for anyway? You need to go somewhere?”

  “No,” I answer. “I need to stop someone from flying.”

  They both shoot me the same weird look.

  “By the way,” I add. “Do either of you have a phone with internet you could lend me? I need to check something.”

  The paramedic squints, and then reluctantly hands me her phone.

  I check the flights going out of Blackwell. There aren’t many.

  In fact, there’s only one flight going out all night, from Blackwell to Atlanta.

  Maybe Clarissa took the morning flight.

  Or maybe she’s still there in the airport.

  I sweat when I see what time it leaves.

  Nine-twelve. It’s already quarter to nine.

  “Hey buddy,” I say. “Free drinks for the whole month if you turn on the lights and get me there as fast as you can.”

  He glances at me. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Seriously.”

  He shrugs. “Done. Buckle the fuck up.”

  He flips the lights, and we take off speeding as fast as I’ve ever driven through the streets of Blackwell.

  My heart’s been crushed today, but I hold out the smallest of hopes that she’s still there.

  The Blackwell airport has to be one of the tiniest in the nation. The ambulance lets me off right in front of the only terminal, and I take off sprinting toward security.

  “Sir! What the fuck do you think you’re doing!”

  I’m tackled by two huge guards as I try to sprint past the metal detectors.

  They get on the radio. “We’ve got a six-oh-four.”

  “Stay down, hooligan!” he says, as he chains my wrists behind my back.

  Fuck. I saw this happening in glorious, fashion, just like the movie Love Actually or something.

  But as two almost three-hundred pound men sit on my back, I can barely breathe.

  “Man!” one of them says. “Haven’t seen bullshit like this since ‘06. Not sure what the fuck’s gotten into this one.”

  “I can explain. If you’ll just let me get to the flight that’s leaving right now…”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the other says. “Except jail, tonight.”

  I watch, chin on the floor, as the plane flies away.

  And with it, my last hope of stopping her from flying away.

  The guys drag me into a side room, used for interrogations.

  They start out with a line of hard questioning.

  “Look, this is all very simple,” I say. “I tried to stop a girl from flying away on that plane. Clarissa Hanks. You can look up the passenger records. I’m not trying to blow anything up, here.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa, buddy! No one said anything about blowing anything up.” the brown-eyed one says. He turns to his partner. “You think we should call headquarters?”

  His partner, blue eyes, shakes his head. “Wait, who did you say you tried to stop? Her name?”

  “Clarissa Hanks,” I say clearly.

  My hands feel tight in the cuffs behind my back.

  Not my favorite use of handcuffs.

  “Wait!” Blue Eyes says. “That was the girl who was all set to fly out and then she just left! I heard her talking on the phone as she left, after she went through security. Yeah she was crying on the phone and saying she couldn’t leave because she was in love with him.”

  My heart lights on fire. “You mean she didn’t fly out? Did she say where she was going?”

  “Nah,” Blue Eyes continues. “She was talking about nature shit on the phone though.”

  I squint at him “Nature shit? What’s that mean?”

  “Something about a watering hole, I think.”

  “Holy shit. That’s where she went! You guys gotta let me out! Please.”

  Brown Eyes scoffs. “Well, we can’t just let you out, just like that!” He snaps his fingers. “Truth be told what you did was a federal crime.”

  I keep my calm, and clear my throat. “Gentlemen, have you heard of a bar called Firehouse?”

  “That new place? Of course. It was on Celebrity Bartender Raw last night. Wait, ain’t you that guy…”

  I nod, and I have to say it warms my heart that they’ve heard of Firehouse but think The Watering Hole is ‘nature shit.’

  “So what are you offering, exactly?” Blue Eyes follows up.

  I swallow. “Can I interest you gentlemen in free drinks for a weekend?”

  Blue Eyes huffs. “Make it two, and you’ve got a deal.

  32

  Clarissa

  It’s more fun this way

  “You didn’t make this right, Johnny,” I say to The Watering Hole’s new bartender. “Needs more Jasmine tea, I think?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry. I made it how you said. I can just try it again?”

  I purse my lips. “That’s alright,” I sigh.

  I look at myself in the mirror behind the bar.

  I’m a mess.

  No makeup. Stressed. Haven’t slept barely at all since yesterday.

  Mason hasn’t picked up a single one of my calls or texts today.

  And who can blame him.

  God knows who is running the bar right now. Hopefully Roger is stepping up to the challenge of running things when both of the co-owners stop answering their phones.

  I replay yesterday in my mind and what I told Mason.

  Go on, follow your dreams.

  Be a celebrity bartender, I wanted to add. If that’s what you want.

  I sip on my mediocre drink, a reminder of how much better life is with Mason.

  But I couldn’t live with myself if I was the reason he got held back from doing what he wanted.

  Again.

  As much as he liked to downplay my role in his high school debacle, the truth is that he was a nice boy until that night.

  I remember he got his first tattoo later senior year. He just seemed numb, all of a sudden.

  I’d see him in the hallways, and he’d consciously avoid me, like I was some sort of plague. It wasn’t until I saw him again this summer at my mom’s house that he finally started giving me the time of day again.

  I finish my drink, and wave Johnny over, jingling the ice in the glass.

  “Try again. I want another one of these.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll try.”

  The worst thing was that, who knew where Mason was now? Nobody has seen him, I even went over to his house tonight after I balked at leaving for Costa Rica, and he was gone.

  As I’d stood, frozen in the window looking out at the plane in the runway of Blackwell’s tiny airport, I realized I was the one running from something I’d wanted forever. But if Mason and I were going to stage a breakup, I didn’t want to be in this city—this country—to live with the repercussions.

  I couldn’t just get on the plane, though. I owed him an explanation, at the very least. And the words he’d said to me earlier in the day weren’t lost on me, either.

  I love you, Clarissa.

  God, I’d always called Mason an asshole.

  But who is the asshole now?

  And where the hell is Mason?

  Johnny puts another drink down, pink like the Jasmines Mason made.

  I took a sip. “It’s a little better.”

  He faces his palms out. “Well, sorry. You’ll have to have Mason show me how to make one someday.”

  “I hope so,” I say.

  Johnny goes to the other side of the bar to attend to someone, when guess who s
hows up and sits right next to me.

  The man smiles at me, adjusting his cap. “Holy shit! It’s you again! I never got to finish telling you my story!”

  I rub my temples. Talking to a middle aged drunk man who prefers Bud Light is not what I want to be doing right now.

  “By the way,” he winks. “I found out that guy isn’t your boyfriend.”

  “Um, excuse me?” I say. I look at the huge, honking rock on my finger. Mason never did explain how he had a ring on him that fit me so perfectly.

  “Yeah,” he shrugs. “I took my car into the shop today, and the guys were talking about it. What’s his name?”

  I sigh. “The mechanic? Liam.”

  “Yeah! That’s it. Anyways…”

  He launches into the same damn story he was telling me four months or so ago, when Mason first pretended he was my boyfriend to intercept my boring night.

  I just space out, close my eyes, and take another sip of my drink. I’m trying to imagine Mason and I, back together again.

  Mason’s searing, gorgeous stare.

  Sleeping on Mason’s chest.

  Mason’s light touch on my thighs.

  Beard tickles on my stomach. How I loved those.

  A soft caress on my neck.

  I can almost feel it, right now.

  I don’t want to open my eyes, though, because reality is going to come storming back to me. I’m sitting in the same bar I was sitting in before Mason and I started the best adventure of my life.

  And I ruined it with the only man I ever truly loved.

  Yes, loved.

  Love.

  How could I not?

  Only God knows why he put himself on the line for me, all that time ago.

  God, I swear, I can really feel him, caressing my neck ever so softly.

  I can sense his scent, that woodsy, manly, testosterone.

  I open my eyes, and look down at my shoulder.

  A tattooed hand holds me.

  I whip around on the bar stool.

  “Mason?” I manage to choke out.

  “Are you...asking if it’s me?” he teases, and tears start to run down my cheek.

  “Can you be fucking serious, for once? Goddamn it. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” he says, and his eyes shift to serious. “I thought I’d lost you.”