A SHITHOLE ON A RAINY WEDNESDAY
1
Jack : What about Thai food?
Jack : Or Pizza?
Jack : Wait, I know. I’ve been craving Indian Food for days.
Prudence : You know there is no Indian restaurant around here.
Prudence : I can pick up Thai, Chinese, or Pizza if you want on my way home.
Jack : Wait, isn’t there a Poke restaurant?
Prudence : Hm… Yes. I think so.
Jack : Poke then. I want poke.
Prudence : Check the menu online and text me what you want. I’m off at 5.
Jack : Sweet.
Jack : Also, we need to spend a night storytelling.
Jack : Need new ideas for the next one.
PRUDENCE
The bar is quiet and nearly empty like any typical rainy Wednesday afternoon.
But after all, it shouldn’t surprise me; every day feels like a rainy Wednesday afternoon in this gloomy place. Why would anyone interesting come have a drink here, when they could just hop on a ferry and enjoy their time in Seattle? Still rainy, but at least, there’s more booze, more entertainment, more people. Just— more .
Maybe I shouldn’t complain. At least, it’s less than a fifteen-minute ride between our temporary house in Indianola and the bartending gig I found in Kingston.
Jack finished writing his book a couple of weeks ago, so I’m sure he’ll get bored here eventually. And then we’ll move on. Hopefully, where the sun shines more than 152 days a year.
“Excuse me, miss?”
My gaze lifts slowly in the stranger’s voice direction, and I force a smile. Not one of our usual patrons, but it was obvious from the moment he called me miss. Our regulars usually call the staff by their names.
“What can I get for you?”
Our eyes meet and I take his moment of hesitation to study him. Soaked dark hair, soaked clothes, five o’clock shadow, dark irises. He’s wearing an obviously expensive watch on his left wrist that clashes with the rumpled navy tee-shirt and his—very—old-looking black leather jacket.
“Bourbon. Neat, please.”
With a polite nod, I grab a bottle and pour him a drink. He takes his leather jacket off and drapes it over the back of the barstool. I steal a few more glances at him while he’s looking away.
Tight face, tensed shoulders, creased brows, clenched jaw. I check the clock above the door; 2:41p.m. He must have missed the 2:30p.m ferry for Seattle and has to wait for the 4:10p.m one. I haven’t seen him around in the five months Jack and I’ve been here, so I assume he’s not from here. Maybe returning to Seattle from some kind of meeting. With his casual clothes, I’d rule out anything work related. Family drama? Escaping after a steamy night with a stranger? Camping trip that went wrong after realizing he didn’t pack a tent nor wear appropriate clothing?
Now seated, he crosses his hands on the bar countertop in front of him and lifts his face back towards me. I avert my eyes quickly and focus back on his drink, pouring generously.
The man’s obviously having a bad day.
“That’ll be $5.50 please,” I place the glass in front of him.
“Pricey for a bottom shelf bourbon in a shithole,” he mumbles, taking the bills out of his wallet.
I shrug. “The manager makes a lot of his profits on people like you.”
His left eyebrow lifts with confusion and he scoffs. “People like me ?”
“Didn’t you miss the 2:30 ferry?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
The muscle in his jaw ticks, his confusion turning into a frown. His grip on the glass tightens before it relaxes. Details that could go unnoticed to inattentive eyes, but not mine. That’s what I do best. I study people, their tells, every slight movement is showing me emotions, every emotion is telling me a story. The difficulty is knowing what’s true from the fiction taking place in my storytelling brain.
“I did.”
“We’re the closest from the docks,” I tilt my chin towards the window, “and, as usual, it’s pouring outside. Since the next ferry to Seattle is in an hour and a half, you came here to have a drink while you wait. Like everyone does.”
He looks around, scanning the bar, the mostly empty tables and booths. There are currently four customers—including him—scattered inside. Two of them are regulars. They stop here every day before going back home.
“Everyone, yeah. Big crowd.”
I roll my eyes. I guess “late guy” should be nicknamed “Grumpy guy”.
“It is, actually.”
“What is?”
“A big crowd. For a shithole.” I glance at him sideways with a smirk.
He doesn’t take the bait, his face set in a mask of annoyance.
Grumpy.
I walk away to the end of the bar, a little farther from him. If he wants to sulk alone in the corner, who am I to interrupt?
I sit and prop my feet on the table, crossing them, placing my sketchbook on my thighs and turning a new page, my pencil in my hand.
I study Grumpy Guy from afar, with a more practical eye, and start sketching him. Sharp jawline, strong nose. Probably broken once or twice. Was he a bad boy when he was younger? He looks to be in his mid-thirties now. Maybe his Grumpy attitude got him into trouble a few times. His eyes are a dark brown, nearly black, a little almond shaped, naturally tanned skin, disheveled straight dark hair. Obvious Latino heritage. Ruggedly handsome. He’s got a signet ring on his right pinkie finger. Family heirloom? He keeps glancing at it, like he’s not used to wearing it. Large hands and strong veiny forearms. His navy tee-shirt is hugging his biceps and his chest. He looks built but doesn’t look like he puts too much effort into it.
After an hour, I glance at my sketch. What do I see? A man. Lonely. Drinking. Grumpy. I see pain. Some kind of heartbreak. Loss. The glass is placed in front of him, half full—maybe half empty—his ringed pinkie hand around it. His bottomless eyes lost in the empty space in front of him. His full lips closed in a tight line. I glance back at him and smirk as I name the sketch on the bottom left of the page “Grumpy Late Guy, in a shithole on a rainy Wednesday” and sign my name on the bottom right.
I stand up and turn on the copy machine. I print two copies and turn it off. With a grin, I walk to him, one of the sketches in my hands and place it in front of him. It takes him a couple of seconds before it registers, and his tight face relaxes.
“Wow. I look like shit,” he simply says.
“Is that a criticism of your overall appearance or my sketch?”
His gaze lifts to mine and I smile at the surprise I can see in his whole face. Eyes wide, lips parted, shoulders more relaxed.
“Of course, I meant my stupid face. The sketch is… Well, I want to say it’s terrifyingly accurate.”
I pause as his eyes drift to the paper again, giving him time to study it the way I studied him. Is he seeing what I saw? Is he picturing what I would have drawn if he came here in another mood? Faces change with emotions. It would have been a completely different drawing if he came here wearing a smile. Maybe he would have had a coffee instead of a bourbon. I would have charged him only $1.50, and he would have sat in a booth, scrolling his phone with a smile, or reading with a serene face. But I felt like sketching him like he was. Not like he could have been. It’s a rainy Wednesday after all, sadness and sourness seemed more appropriate.
“Did you draw all those too?” He asks, tilting his head towards the large cork board taking up nearly a whole wall.
I nod. Since I started working here five months ago, barely a week after we moved here, I’ve been drawing random customers every time I get bored. Mike, the manager, liked the sketches and the idea of decorating the place with all their faces, frozen in different moods over time. Customers also liked when I handed over a copy to them and they gave me nice tips. Win-win.
“Is my face good enough to join them on the wall? Or am I going to scare people away?”
The corner of his lips’ tilt up slightly. An imperceptible smile.
“I’m not sure… ‘Grumpy Late Guy, in a shithole on a rainy Wednesday’ is definitely not someone fun to be around.”
He tilts his head back and a real laugh escapes him, lighting up the whole room and warming up my heart a little. Watching him, I realize there is no way this man and the one I drew are the same person.
“I’d like to keep this, so I’m not sure I want to be on the wall after all anyway.” He smiles.
“It’s a copy.” I smile back. “You can keep it and be pinned against the wall, no need to choose.”
One of his brows lifts up to his hairline and I pause, realizing how what I said just sounded.
“I’m talking about the sketch. Obviously,” I quickly rectify, clearing my throat.
“Obviously.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, his irises so dark they look black. There is a small beauty mark above the arch of his left eyebrow that I didn’t notice before, and a pale thin scar on his cheekbone. A remnant of his hypothetical bad boy days? Or a silent and discreet reminder of something somber? Maybe he fell as a child while he was having fun with siblings on a swing. Maybe a great uncle twice removed hit him once after one too many drinks. Maybe he’s clumsy and just hit the corner of a door while he was focused on something else.
So many hypothetical stories. Jack would love it. If he were here right now, we would probably invent a past for each and every person coming through that door, like we used to when we were kids.
But he’s not. And he can’t. Because now that he can barely get out of his wheelchair, there are many places he can’t go to, and unfortunately, this bar doesn’t have a ramp. So, I bring new sketches home every workday. We spend our nights talking about his new chapters and creating new lives for my drawings.
“Are you always studying random people so shamelessly?” Grumpy Late Guy asks.
I chuckle, not sure how long I’ve been watching him and picturing different scenarios just for this tiny scar.
“I’m sorry.” I shrug with a shy smile. “Usually, I do it when people aren’t looking.”
“And they never called you out on this?”
“Not really.” I shrug again. “I’m the bartender. People don’t notice me as long as they don’t need me to refill their drinks.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
I arch a brow. “I’m the most banal face there is. My hair and eyes are just a dull brown, I’m neither nicely tanned or pale. I’m not tall nor short. I’m like an old forgotten bookcase; people know I’m here, but they don’t look at me to check if I moved from my spot in the last ten years.”
Banal. I never gave much thought about the way I looked. At least in High School… It all changed when I started college and guys had their little fun standing me up. Even though it changed in my second year when I started to date one of those particular assholes, my self confidence never really came back. And it’s okay, you know, since I’m actually quite ordinary.
At least I don’t see myself as an ugly troll anymore. Small victories and all that .
Grumpy Guy laughs and after a second of shock, I can’t hold my smile. His laugh is contagious. He should do it all the time.
“Well I, for one, watched you a couple of times while you were… drawing.” He points to the sketch placed flat in front of him. “And I didn’t see an old forgotten bookcase.”
I lean forward a little until my elbows are on the bar top and put my face between my hands.
“What did you see? I love to know what people see when they look at strangers.”
I notice he doesn’t tense from our new proximity. I take advantage of studying him again. There’s another little scar on his jaw where the beard doesn’t grow. Did he cut himself while shaving? Did his great uncle twice removed hit him more than once? Maybe a bike accident. His eyes are indeed nearly black. But there is one streak in his left eye that is the color of bronze.
He studies me studying him and his eyes are searching my face.
“That’s your thing huh? Watching and studying people?” He asks, ignoring my question.
I grin. “I find it entertaining.”
His lips part to say something but they snap shut when he hears the little bell at the door. I look without moving and see one of our regular’s wife, stepping inside with her dripping semi folded umbrella. She waves at me, and her husband stands up to join her at the door, waving goodbye as well. I give them both a smile and turn my attention back towards Grumpy Late Guy.
I catch the moment his eyes drift from my mouth to my eyes and a slight blush creeps up his neck and cheeks. His tanned complexion hides it well.
“Next ferry leaves in five minutes,” I whisper.
“I’ll get the next one.”
Surprise pulls at my face. Was he not upset about missing his ferry when he came in? Maybe it was something else. Maybe he missed it on purpose. Maybe he was upset about going home but felt robbed with a $5 bottom shelf bourbon when he decided to miss his ride.
“I can practically see the wheels in your brain through your eyes,” he muses. “It’s fascinating.”
“I’m trying to figure you out. It’s my thing .”
“Or you could just ask me.”
“Maybe I like the mystery of it. What if the truth is not as good as what I imagined? I like creating stories. Imagining a past or a future just from a single detail or facial expression.”
“What if you ask and I create a story? You won’t know if it’s the truth.”
His eyes drop to my mouth again for a fraction of a second before going back to my eyes. He’s not blushing anymore. Is Grumpy Guy turning into Flirty Guy?
“Tempting. But I would believe you, and I’d be heartbroken when I find out you lied.”
“So… You don’t want me to lie… But you don’t want to know the truth?” He asks with a confused look but a small smile.
“I’m weird like that.”
He chuckles through his nose and shakes his head slightly. His hair is now dry, jet black, and sticking out in weird directions. But it looks silky soft and I’m shoving away the intrusive thought of raising my hand to comb through it with my fingers.
“What time do you get off?” He finally asks.
“My shift ends at 5.”
He pauses. Hesitant. Last ferry to Seattle on weekdays is at 5:55p.m. He stares at the drawing once more and looks at it for a long minute before lifting his face back to mine.
“Would you like to grab a drink with me after? You could tell me what story you created in your head about me, and I can tell you the truth if you want to know.”
Asking me out. Grumpy Flirty Guy is asking me out. For a less than fifty-minute date.
I can practically hear my brother Jack screaming in my ear. Why the hell are you even thinking about it? Go! Get some! Tell me afterwards so I can live those fantasies through you and get my next spicy scene for the future book!
After a—too long—silence, he speaks again. “Or not. We could talk about anything else. You could just draw people and let me see how you can catch so many things with just a few pen strokes. We could walk in the rain and wake up with pneumonia tomorrow.”
“Imagining stories and possibilities is my thing,” I interrupt him.
“It’s fun, I like it.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the smile stretching my lips.
“You could show me around and find another bar so we can drink out of your workplace,” he continues. “Maybe you’ll even let me kiss you and we’d make out like teenagers in the back of an Uber.” I scoff and he smiles broadly, showing perfectly aligned teeth. “Or not. Maybe I’ll try to kiss you and you’ll slap me before running away screaming.”
I laugh openly now.
“Interesting stories you made up there.”
“Right? I understand why you do it.”
“Alright,” I sigh softly. “We can go for a drink. But the last ferry to Seattle is at 5:55, so it should be around here if you don’t want to miss it.”
“Great.” His smile is genuine, and a dimple appears on his chin. He stands up and slides a $10 bill in the tip jar. “For the drawing. I’ll pick you up at 5, then.” He pauses, staring at the sketch in his hand for a second before looking at me again. “Prue.”
I smile. Prue, small for Prudence. I always sign my sketches with it.
“Alright.” I smile back and he walks out of the bar.