Olive Juice

by TJ Klune

  He coughed. Shook his head. Said, “No. The bar is fine for now. Thank you.” The bar wasn’t as private as a table. You couldn’t hide your hands. The bartender was always moving back and forth. You weren’t ever really alone.

  Wasn’t that right, buddy?

  “Right this way.”

  As if he didn’t know the way to the bar.

  He let her lead the way. It was easier.

  There were others at the bar, a couple at the end leaning close and whispering to each other, martini glasses set in front of them and forgotten. The man brushed a lock of hair out of the woman’s face and she kept whispering, as if used to the action by now.

  There were two others, a man staring up at the silent TV near the edge of the bar, watching highlights from a basketball game.

  A woman sat near him, speaking quietly into a cell phone, fingers drumming on the surface of the bar.

  The restaurant itself was half-full, the waiters and waitresses moving quickly and quietly among the tables. Conversation spilled through the room, a low, even hum like electricity crawling through the walls. It was usually always so crowded. He thought most everyone was probably still at home, wrapped up tightly in the postholiday blues.

  The hostess pulled out a stool for him at the bar and offered to take his jacket and umbrella. “I’ll keep them in the coat closet near the front,” she said. “That way, you won’t have to worry about them during your dinner. And no one gets in the closet without a key, so.” She smiled up at him again.

  He couldn’t help but agree.

  “Wait,” he said as she started walking away. “Just… I’ve got something. In the pocket. Can you…?”

  She handed him the coat, the scarf still in her hands, glancing back toward the hostess stand. He winced as he dug through the pocket until he found what he was looking for. He closed his fingers around the ring, hiding it in his fist. He handed the coat back. She took it and whirled away, smelling of lilacs.

  He looked down at the ring. The low lights caught the metal, causing it to gleam dully. He could make out the words inside.

  He closed his fist again.

  The ring was cold in his hand.

  He breathed.

  He breathed.

  He—

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  David flinched slightly, looking up at the toothy smile, then away, then back again. He tried smiling and tried not moving, but he needed to put the ring in his pocket.

  The bartender reached over to put a napkin in front of him.

  David slipped the ring in his pocket. His elbow bumped his smartphone on the bar top. The bartender saved it before it fell, setting it farther away from the edge, long, thin fingers trailing.

  David pulled his hands from his pocket. “Thanks,” he said.

  “It’s what I’m here for,” the bartender said with a wink, and maybe David flushed a little at that, because the bartender was handsome. He had olive skin, and the dark hair on his arms was thick. He wore black slacks and a white button-up shirt opened at the throat. A little tuft of hair stuck out from his chest. His teeth were white and even, his eyes beautiful, framed by long, dark lashes.

  He was probably also half David’s age.

  Not that David was thinking like that. Bartenders flirted with everyone. He might not have even been flirting. David wasn’t recently practiced in such a thing so he couldn’t be sure how it was done now. He didn’t think he really wanted to know. But even David could understand beauty when it was right in front of him, and this man could have anyone he wanted, man or woman. He probably got the most tips out of anyone else that worked here too, if the way his arms strained against his dress shirt gave any indication.

  And here was David. David, David, David in his nicest pair of dress slacks that he still owned and maybe had forgotten to iron. A blue V-neck sweater over a white dress shirt. A tie that he wished he’d thought twice about. They didn’t fit like they used to, the clothes looser on him. He was sure his thinning hair was a fright from the short walk in the wind and rain, and fought the urge to reach up and brush it down.

  The bartender looked like a model.

  David looked like he was in his midfifties.

  Which, to be fair, he was. He’d just… well. He’d just never thought about it much before. He hadn’t had time. Maybe he shouldn’t have come early.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.

  “What brings you out on this nasty night?” the bartender asked, leaning forward and spreading his hands out on the bar top like he had all the time in the world.

  “Um,” David said, clearing his throat, trying to remember what it meant to be a human being. “I’ll have a Maker’s Mark. On the rocks.”

  The bartender had little crinkles next to his eyes when he smiled. David noticed those almost right away.

  “Maker’s Mark,” the bartender said. “That I can do. I’m Matteo, by the way. In case you need anything.”

  “Oh,” David said, fumbling just a little. “Just the bourbon. For now. I’m… David.”

  “David,” Matteo said. And then, for reasons David didn’t understand, he reached out his hand.

  David stared at it for the briefest of moments before realizing what Matteo was doing. He reached up and took Matteo’s hand. He shook it up and down once, twice, three times, his grip firm and warm before he pulled his hand away.

  “David,” Matteo said again. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  All the tips, David thought. He probably gets all the tips.

  David just nodded.

  “Maker’s Mark on the rocks, coming up,” Matteo said before he moved slightly down the bar. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh?” David asked. “I’m sorry. The question?”

  Matteo flashed a smile over his shoulder before pulling a glass off the stack in front of him. “What brings you out on a night like this? Seems to me it’d be better to be safe at home.”

  “Oh. Yes. Quite. Um. I’m just… meeting. Someone. I’m meeting someone here. We used—we used to come here a lot.”

  “Did you?” Matteo asked, picking up the bottle of bourbon. “Funny. I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

  “Years ago,” David said, looking down at his hands. He thought to check his phone to see if there were any messages, but it was a habit he’d gotten out of a long time ago. Now, messages would pile up for weeks before he’d remember. People knew to call if it was urgent. Sometimes, he’d forget to answer the phone then too. Besides, the only one who’d message him tonight was Phillip, and it was a quarter till. “You probably were… too young. To work here then.”

  Matteo turned back around, setting the bourbon on the napkin. He bit his bottom lip, eyes watching David. “Too young? Why thank you, David. That is very kind of you to say.”

  David hadn’t meant it like that. So he said, “Sure,” because he couldn’t think of anything else. He picked up the bourbon and took a sip. It burned, but damn did it burn so good. He hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in a long time. Not since—it was just safer that way. Those months that had followed hadn’t been kind, and he knew just how terrible hangovers could be.

  He was older now too. His stomach couldn’t handle that anymore. Where once he’d have been able to bounce back the very next day, ready to go again, now it would probably take the remainder of the weekend to recover.

  Besides. He had to drive tonight. Maybe that’s why he’d decided against the Metro, though he couldn’t be sure of the clear thought process in that. Subconsciously, he must have known he’d need to drive home and couldn’t let things go too far. The more he drank, the looser his lips became. He didn’t—he couldn’t run the risk of saying something he’d regret later. Because he’d already had a lifetime of regrets.

  Matteo, though. He didn’t look like he had many regrets. The veins on his muscular forearms were pronounced where his shirtsleeves had been rolled up. His fingernails looked perfec
tly manicured, not bitten to the quick like Phillip’s usually were, a habit that no one, not even David, had been able to break.

  Not that they needed to be compared. That’s not what David was doing. Or, rather, that wasn’t what he was starting to do. This man—this boy—seemed nice and sweet and he brought David alcohol as it was his job, but that was all it was.

  “Must be a good friend,” Matteo said.

  “What?” David asked, taking another sip.

  Matteo blinked, slow and sure. “Your friend,” he repeated. “Must be a good friend if you’ll come out in this weather.”

  “I suppose,” David said. “He’s… Phillip.” Because that made sense in David’s head. In David’s head, the word Phillip meant many, many things: good and kind and sweet and handsome and hurt and pain and that ever-present bittersweet ache that was supposed to show David that he was still alive.

  “Phillip,” Matteo said, and for some reason, David didn’t like the sound it made coming from him. It felt wrong somehow. He shook it off. He was being ridiculous. Matteo continued. “I had a friend once. Named Phillip.”

  “Is that right?” David asked politely because that’s what people did.

  “He was very nice.”

  “Must be a Phillip thing.” David took another sip. The burn wasn’t as sharp now. He wished it was.

  “A Phillip thing,” Matteo agreed. “Do you want to open a tab?”

  “Oh,” David said, fumbling a little as he put the glass down on the tabletop. He started to reach for his wallet. “I’m sorry. Here I am prattling on, and—”

  He stopped when he felt a hand on top of his own. He looked up. Those little crinkles in the corners of Matteo’s eyes were back. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “No, no,” David said hastily. “I should have—”

  The hand on top of his squeezed.

  David sighed.

  It pulled away.

  “I’ll just open a tab,” Matteo decided for him. “Just remind me if you and Phillip decide to get dinner. I can either close it out or just add it to your final bill.”

  “That’s… that’s fine.” David sat upright again. His tie was too tight. He really shouldn’t have worn it.

  Matteo grinned and opened his mouth to say what, David didn’t know, but was interrupted when the man watching the silent television signaled for him, raising his empty beer bottle.

  “I’m being summoned,” Matteo said, winking again at David. “Destiny awaits no man.”

  David didn’t believe in destiny. He thought such things were only in fairy tales, but he didn’t think now was the right time to say so. He just nodded, and Matteo’s fingers brushed David’s glass of bourbon, which was wet with condensation. Little droplets of water were left atop the bar, catching the lights above, the flickering TV.

  He was sad.

  He knew this.

  He knew this more than anything else.

  David was sad, and he didn’t know how not to be.

  It was all he’d known for years now.

  There had been the Zoloft, or at least the offer of it. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t even given any real thought to taking it. He didn’t like feeling muddled. Besides, he’d told himself, he needed his mind clear as possible in case of any developments, especially given how he’d spent the third year. It just wouldn’t do for him to be a zombie of sorts and to have the phone ring and have the voice on the other end saying, David, we have news. We have news and I am about to tell you everything you wanted to know.

  For the longest time, he hated the way a ringing phone had sounded. Ever since March 22, 2012, any time a phone rang, his heart would beat out of his chest, and he’d be sure, he’d be so goddamn sure that this was it. This was the one phone call he both hoped for and dreaded all at the same time. He would put the phone to his ear, and the voice on the other end would say, David, David, David, we finally have an answer. We finally know what happened. Here. Let me tell you. Let me tell you everything.

  But that was never it. There were never any answers. Only questions. And any time his phone rang, anytime he put the phone to his ear and said, hello, hello, hello, he would have to push down on the rage that rose through him, that strange fury at whoever was on the other end of the call was not finally giving him what he wanted.

  The first year had been the hardest.

  Or maybe it was the second year.

  The third hadn’t been too bad because he’d been drunk most of it, and numb. The less said about it, the better.

  The fourth year had been bad because he’d been so goddamn tired, having to smile at people, having to pretend that he was getting better when he absolutely wasn’t. Phillip had seen that. And it’d become too much.

  And this last year, the sixth, had been quiet. So very, very quiet. No wonder he was having trouble speaking.

  Here he was now, approaching the seventh year, the sixth anniversary.

  Dean Martin had fallen away a long time ago.

  It was Vince Guaraldi now. Smooth, smooth Christmas jazz.

  He breathed.

  He ached.

  He lived.

  He died a little too, sometimes. These little deaths. He couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he’d turn on the TV and see a woman with black hair and dark eyes, and his heart would suddenly be in his throat, his hands gripping the armrests of his recliner, fingers digging in.

  Or maybe he’d be online, scrolling through celebrity divorces and a bombing in a faraway country that killed seventy-six people—twelve of them children—and how scientists had discovered seven new types of spiders, when he’d see an Amber Alert, or a photo of a smiling woman, standing in a garden, a fruity-looking cocktail in her hand, the picture oddly cropped as there would be a hand on her shoulder, but the rest of whoever it was cut out, and there would be a headline in bolded font that said REWARD NOW OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO—

  That would be as far as he’d get before he’d be dry-heaving.

  So yes. David was sad.

  He knew this.

  He also knew he should be attempting to do something about it.

  He didn’t know what.

  There’s always Zoloft, he thought as he took another drink of the bourbon.

  It was five till.

  There were no messages.

  Matteo was laughing at something the young couple at the end were telling him, the man’s hands waving animatedly, like he was a few martinis in. The woman—his wife? girlfriend?—watched him fondly, rolling her eyes as if the man was full of shit. He probably was. Most men were.

  He’d told this to her once.

  She’d rolled her eyes at him. “I’m pretty sure I know that,” she’d said, scrunching her nose at him. She liked to tease him sometimes. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  Oh, but he did.

  Matteo glanced back over his shoulder at David. He smiled that wicked smile and winked at him again, and David thought he’d probably need to leave a big tip. Matteo certainly seemed to be working for it.

  Or maybe he has a daddy kink, David thought, surprising even himself. Maybe he thinks that I could be his daddy.

  He snorted, rolling his eyes at his own ridiculousness. Daddy kink. God. If only his younger self could hear him now. Here he was, receding hair, his clothes hanging off his thin frame while he still managed to have a bit of a paunch. The bags under his eyes had become less pronounced (thanks, Ambien!), but he knew he still looked slightly hollow, like his insides had been scooped out and misplaced. There was something inside him, even after all that he’d been through, but it was a meager thing.

  It was nine.

  Phillip wasn’t here.

  Which… wasn’t surprising. He was habitually late. It was one of those things, one of those funny little quirks that came with Phillip, like biting his fingernails or kissing his hand and touching it to the ceiling of the car he was in every time he rolled through a yellow light. He could
n’t exactly say why he did it, just that he always did. He was perplexing, aggravating, and oh so wonderful.

  That hurt too.

  So he was late. Again.

  David wasn’t worried.

  He checked his phone.

  Two minutes after nine. There were no new messages.

  He pulled up the message tree again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

  It said the same thing:

  I want to see you

  I’d like that

  Would nine work? On Friday? The hotel?

  ok

  The good thing about text messages is that he could type in a word like ok and that’s all Phillip would see.

  What Phillip wouldn’t see was how David’s hand had been shaking, how he had been breathing shallowly, reading over the words again and again and again, trying to parse out their hidden meaning. (Nine? What’s so special about nine? Do I have plans on Friday? Of course I don’t. I never have plans. The hotel? It’s just a staycation, after all. That’s it. That’s all it is. Right? Right? Right?) That one word, those two letters, ok, wouldn’t show how David had closed his eyes and leaned his forehead down onto the kitchen counter where he’d been waiting for his Lean Cuisine to finish nuking in the microwave (apple cranberry chicken—it’d tasted like shit), phone clutched in his hand, knowing he’d have one chance, one chance to get this right, to try and salvage something out of everything he’d become.

  He’d been tall and proud.

  And then a storm had come through.

  He had swayed with it, but he’d still stood.

  A tornado touched down.

  Oh, the destruction that had followed.

  He’d been nothing but rubble, dust and stone.

  It wasn’t—

  “All right?”

  He jerked back a little, hands clammy, phone clattering onto the bar top.

  Matteo was back, looking a little concerned.

  Get yourself together, David scolded himself. Get yourself together, dammit.

  He tried for a smile, but he thought maybe it died before it could grow. So he said, “Fine, fine. I’m fine. Just… thinking. About things.”

  It was awkward. This was awkward. He’d made it awkward.

  Matteo arched an eyebrow at him, something David had never been able to do. He remembered her laughing at him every time he’d tried, her fingers trailing along his face. He’d never been able to do it. Not really. Anytime he’d tried, he just looked surprised. Or constipated, she’d said.