Chapter 4
Chapter four
Bar Rescue
Despite our many efforts and long wait, Gabby never showed.
Not at the park, not at the bars near the park, nothing.
She knows how to find us, can practically smell V on the air in that haunting way all ghouls can, so if she’s not here, it’s by choice.
To make matters worse, not only were all the bars too expensive, but not a single one could make a Manhattan to save their lives.
And they needed to, by the way, both V and I wanted to rip into each snooty bartender as we drunkenly tried to stitch my soul back together.
“Who does an orange twist?” V says, shaking her head. “I know it’s like your one fruit, but give it a rest.”
We pull up to the motel, late, and get out, me nursing a headache while V clings to Gabby’s clothes. I fetch the key card from my pocket, and the first thing we see when we walk in is Gabby bawling her eyes out on the edge of one of the two full-sized beds.
She runs through me, her ghastly naked form sending shivers down my spine before grasping V in a corporeal hug. “V! I’m so sorry for how I stormed off! I didn’t mean it! I know how hard it is for you to do stuff like this.”
V shoots me a concerned look paired with a shirk toward the door, the universal sign of “Get out of here before things get messy.”
I give a knowing nod and point to my phone, gesturing to text once it’s safe to come back.
Once I am outside, reality settles in again that this was supposed to be my vacation, and somehow, I am the third wheel again.
I think to turn around and at least protest the state of things, but the sudden change in tone from inside makes me worried I’m about to either walk in on a fist fight or something more explicit.
Well, it’s hot and humid, but not the worst night for a walk.
I stroll down the side street, past a gas station, walking over grass and curbs because, of course, there are no sidewalks. Why would anyone want sidewalks? I turn another corner, and the first thing to get my attention is a neon sign for the Shot Glass.
My mind wanders back to last night, to Manny, to the way he hit on me before flirting with those bimbos, and suddenly that tightness is back.
I think about today, about how I just spent an evening with V bar hopping, yelling how I’m not going to be pushed around and taken for granted anymore.
And the longer I look at the sign, the more a sly smile creeps across my face.
I check my phone and still no messages. Why should she and Gabby get to have all the fun? My tipsy mind hatches a new idea, maybe it’s time I made some fun of my own. Besides, it’s not like he could make a worse Manhattan than the ones I just had.
I march toward the Shot Glass like I’m on a war path, my target working just inside. The moment I step through the doors, I exude confidence. If I’m not the woman I want to be, then I might as well act like her until she finally manifests.
My eyes scan the bar, and as if on cue, there’s Manny, tight shirt, big muscles, and all. It takes him a moment, but the second his eyes catch me, they stay glued to me like there’s no one else in the room. Clearly, my act is working.
I saunter up to the bar and take a seat, doing my best to look unimpressed as he finishes someone else's order. As he walks towards me, I collect a drink menu from the small stand, pretending to look it over.
“Hey, can I get you anything?” Manny’s words sound cordial, but I catch the faintest tinge of nervousness underneath. Still, I ignore him, like he’s just scenery.
A finger appears at the top of my menu, pulling it down so my eyes meet his. “Franky, right? Can I get you anything?”
“A Manhattan, two cherries,” I say in a smooth voice. “And pour it yourself. None of your other bartenders need to touch it.”
There's a pointed command in my request, a subtle test, and the moment he nods and turns around to make the drink, I exhale a deep rasping breath, collapsing under the weight of my performance. It’s about here that the last of my tipsy courage finally runs out, sobering me to just how dumb an idea this was.
I even feel stupid for the way I said it; there aren’t even any other bartenders here to make the drink.
I’m clearly not cut out for this femme fatale stuff.
To his credit, Manny makes the cocktail with practiced movements, knowing where everything is without looking. I’m mesmerized to the point I almost forget to assume my stony facade when he turns around to deliver me my drink.
He sets it on a cocktail napkin, sliding it toward me, and as he does, I brush my fingers against his so that he lingers in my grasp. “So tell me, Manny... what did you do last night after your admirers went home?”
I hold his gaze, a challenge sparkling in my eyes, the heat of that awful embarrassment from last night burning out in an attempt to show I’m not some passing flirtation.
Manny stares back, his deep brown eyes looking dumbfounded.
At first, all he can manage is a slow blink until finally he finds his words. “What admirers?”
His face twists into a look of confusion, and then heat floods my face as I realize I overplayed my hand. “You know, those girls.”
“The bimbos?” He practically laughs the words at me. “Oh god, no, I was trying to get a bigger tip.”
“It looked like someone was trying to get a tip,” I mutter, but that just sends Manny laughing harder.
My face burns hotter than any burning building I’ve ever been caught in as I realize I’m still holding his hand.
I let go, crossing my arms in a pout before finally relenting.
“Fine! Then what did you do last night?”
His face settles into a soft smile, half obscured by his rich black beard, as his eyes settle back on me. “You wanna know?”
Suddenly, I’m even more flustered, as if it were even possible, to the point I can only manage a curt nod.
He finishes sliding the drink to me before ignoring a waiting customer's request for a beer. “You really wanna know?”
My lips purse into a straight line as he milks the moment for all its worth.
“Hey buddy, can I get a Heineken or what?” says some college kid from over my shoulder.
Manny’s face twists, as if he’s just been slapped, his eyes darting to the man behind me. “Patience, buddy, can’t you see I’m talking to the pretty lady?”
He waves the guy to the other end of the bar before his eyes settle back on me, this time with a piercing intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the entire room.
“I went home.” He says it so plainly, I think it must be a joke. “I cleaned up, went home, and took a shower.”
“That’s it? You made me wait for that?”
His face cracks into a mischievous grin. “Well, there was one other thing.”
Now I get ready for the other shoe to drop.
“After I showered, I laid in bed trying to will back time so I could have a few more minutes with this sexy Frankenstein I met.”
The irate customer finally pops our bubble, and Manny shuffles away, leaving me with those words, those two words, the ones I had hung onto last night like they were a prayer.
Something in me loosens, my shoulders relaxing, as if I’ve had this guy entirely wrong from the start.
But then I remember he’s still a bartender, and I’m still a customer, and as he said, he just wanted a big tip.
My frustration finally makes me tuck into my Manhattan, expecting little more than cool satisfaction.
Instead, I collide with a wall of smooth vermouth, warming whiskey, and herbal bitters all balanced as if on a refreshing knife's edge. Even more than that cigarette, the drink is a tidal wave of relaxation washing through my every cell. Without thinking, I take another sip as if I’m breathing for the first time all day.
I almost want to weep, knowing this might be the best Manhattan I’ve ever had in my long life, and this is the only place I’ll ever have it.
“Well?” Manny’s interruption stirs me from my reverie in a panic.
“Well, what?”
“How did I do?” His face wears a deep, satisfied grin, already noticing the pleasure on mine. “I promise, no other bartender touched it.”
“It’s… great… Really great.”
“Why so sad?”
“Because I’m supposed to be mad at you.”
His frown is so warm and innocent that it makes my heart melt. “Is this because of what I said? Because I’m really sorry. I swear, we get all sorts of creatures and cryptids in here. I should have been more sensitive.”
“It’s not that,” I huff. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how foolish I must sound.
I can’t even finish expressing that I’m dealing with being cheated on, and I refuse to let him manipulate me, too.
I’m frozen in the moment, exhaustion, confusion, and too much alcohol pressing down on me.
The room begins to spin, and I almost lose my balance until a sharp clank nearby snaps me back to reality.
“Maybe we get you some water?” Manny nods towards the pint glass full of water as his kind smile masks a look of concern. He pretends to look away, as if there is anything in this bar better to look at than me, and says, “You know, I am glad you came back. I wasn’t lying about my evening.”
His flirtation warms me, makes me feel seen in a way I so desperately wanted to be, but I can’t stop thinking about last night, about tips. “What do I owe you?”
“On the house.” He doesn’t hesitate, almost cuts me off. “And if there’s anything else you want, that’s on me too.”
Before I can say anything, he scurries away, actually scurries, tending to something with urgency, both of us knowing full well it isn’t remotely urgent.
I sit there, taking in the scenery, drinking alternating sips of water and Manhattan, at a loss for how to think of the bartender I had so gleefully made a villain of before walking in here.
A few more folks shuffle in and out, a couple of coeds, a loose gaggle containing a werewolf, and I think a swamp thing. Yet the whole time, Manny is the only thing I see in my mind.
“Want anything else?” Manny’s voice breaks my trance as he comes to check on me.
“What’s your deal?”
“What deal?”
I gesture to him. “You look like that, you act like this, and you’re just some bartender?”
“I could ask the same about you.”
I withdraw at the reversal, feeling foolish for how easily I keep getting blindsided by his little verbal traps, and the moment he catches my resignation, he backs off.
“Sorry, I’ve been told I can be too mouthy.
Uh, what’s my deal? Well, I think I told you I mostly work here part-time.
In exchange, my uncle lets me crash in the guest room, close to the parks and stuff.
But honestly, this has always been more of a favor to him. Believe it or not, I’m a writer.”
“No!”
“Yeah.” He practically blushes. “I mean, it’s under a pen name, so you’ll never know, but I like writing. And I like the bar, great for new material for my books.”
“Am I gonna be in one of these books?”
An innocent grin tugs at his cheeks. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“How interesting I think you are.”
This time, when I pout, I cross my arms to accentuate my breasts. “And what, am I not interesting enough?”
His smile remains, but something in his eyes dims. “No, it's not like that. Some things don’t go in my stories. Some things, I like to keep for myself.”
His words, the way he makes the idea of me sound so possessive, make me melt right there on the barstool. Of course, I never stood a chance with this guy.
“Do you like poetry?” Another complete surprise by this barrel-chested enigma.
“A little cliché, don’t you think?” He keeps his inquisitive stare, not accepting my slight as an answer. “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Wait here.” He runs further down the bar and retrieves something.
At first, I’m worried he’s going to make me read some god awful poem he wrote, a thought that immediately makes me have panic attack flashbacks of Chad and a dozen other exes.
But then I recognize the book in his hand.
“I don’t know, maybe you’ve read it, Sylvia Plath? ”
He hands me an original copy of The Colossus and Other Poems. My breath hitches.
Not just poetry, but a specific, brilliant, wounded poet.
It shows a depth and sensitivity that both terrify and thrill me.
I shake my head in disbelief. A watery laugh escapes me.
I clutch the book like it's a precious treasure, admiring the original cover and appreciating the well-worn spine.
“You know I met her once,” I say as I admire the artifact.
“You did? Really?!” The words tumble out of him like he’s a child learning I met the real Santa Claus.
“No,” I reply, bursting his bubble—a small, petty way of proving I have edges, too.
I can’t help but smirk as the delight curdles on his face, though he somehow manages to keep smiling.
“But I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. I even planned a trip to the UK and everything, but it never worked out… Favorite poem?”
“The Colossus, because of my dad.”
I give an appreciative nod before replying, “Yeah, everyone says that. I prefer Mushrooms.”
“It does have powerful imagery, good themes on collective action.”
My hands find the poem in between the wrinkled pages. “I just like how it's a warning about the danger of dismissing anything as insignificant.”
I don’t think I mean for my voice to hitch the way it does when I say insignificant, but when I close the book and hand it back, I catch a concerned shimmer in Manny’s eyes. “I pity anyone who’d consider you insignificant.”
We linger, my eyes staring into his, my mind racing, wondering what he sees as he stares back, if this is an act, or if he really means any of it.
My hand slowly reaches for his across the bar top, just slow enough to be interrupted by the buzzing of my phone.
I shake my head, my eyes darting to my phone in a flustered panic.
Manny snorts a soft exhale. “Looks like you’re the one getting called away tonight.”
I check and see it’s V. They made up, and probably then some. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. Vacationing with friends.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“You sure I don’t owe you anything?”
“Yes, you paid me more than enough with your company.”
I get up off the stool and head toward the door, but something in me falters.
At that moment, just as I’m turning around, I catch Manny looking at me, as if he were already in the middle of asking something.
When my eyes meet his, his words finally find their way out.
“Actually, there is one thing. I’m not sure how much longer you are in town, but if you aren’t too busy, could I see you tomorrow night? We could talk about books and poetry?”
“I’d like that,” I answer.
“It’s a date,” he replies, a smile reaching from ear to ear. He knocks the wooden bar top. “You know where to find me.”