Jun: BARMAN
© Jane Harvey-Berrick
I’ve worked this job a few years now and believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen and heard some pretty incredible, far out things—stories from a thousand cocktails, you might say. I’ve seen it all, heard it all, yeah, and done most of it, too.
So when a beautiful woman storms into my bar, orders a double shot of tequila and slams it in one go, I have a feeling she’s going to have one hell of a story.
I’ve often thought as a barman I should get paid for the free therapy I provide every night, but I enjoy my job, too. Working in a popular bar in top Florida resort makes for good weather when I’m off work, and great tips when I’m on the evening shift. I know a hundred different cocktails off by heart, can talk about the pros and cons of east coast vines versus west coast vines just as good as any fancy pants sommelier, and I know my artisanal beers. My bar stocks thirty different whiskeys, seven of which were personally recommended by me. Gin is the new old kid on the block, and there are quite a few local distilleries offering top notch gins. I like trying new things and introducing them to customers.
And, if I’m honest, which I prefer not to be, I enjoy the female tourists who come in looking for a fun, no-holds-barred hook up. Hey, I’m 31! I’m not ready for a ball and chain just yet, maybe never. Sure, marriage is a great institution—if you like institutions.
The woman who storms through the door shortly after happy hour catches my attention. First, there’s the whole storming thing; second, she’s hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch (as my grandfather used to say); and third, she strides up to the bar and asks for a double tequila shot, slams it in 0.5 seconds flat, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and drills me with her intense, dark eyes.
“God, I hate men!”
It’s not the best start for meeting a beautiful woman, but I’ll work with what I’ve got.
Her hair is a deep chestnut, long and wavy, with gold highlights that may or may not be from the sun; but it’s the passion flaring in her eyes that piques my interest, and I can’t help imagining that passion turned in a very different direction.
“What?” she snarls, her expression darkening.
“Rough day?” I ask, aiming for neutral with a hint of sympathy. I don’t want to overplay my hand this early in the game.
She just shakes her head and points at her empty glass.
“Fill ‘er up, barman.”
“Another double?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the P. “And keep them coming.”
I gaze at her critically. She’s tall, athletic looking, maybe 140 pounds. I don’t know if she’s used to drinking, but she slammed that double like a champ, no coughing or watery eyes. So I calculate that two more doubles will have her very relaxed, but anything more, and she’ll be horizontal, and not in a good way.
So I pour her shot along with a tall glass of ice water.
She sneers at me when I slide the water towards her.
“Who are you, my mom?”
“Definitely not mommy material,” I smile, “but drinking like that on an empty stomach is a fast track to a short night.”
She dials back her irritation, anger simmering in her hazel eyes.
“Fair enough, Mr. Barman. Thanks.”
“Bedford Reach, call me Bed.”
“Bed Reach?” she snorts. “Yeah, sure.”
I smile, used to that response. “I know, it sounds like a line, right? All I can say in my defense is that my dad had kind of a crazy sense of humor.”
“And your mom?”
“Ah, that’s a story for another drink.”
“So set ‘em up, Bed,” she grins at me, tipping the rest of the tequila down her throat then licking her lips.
The challenge in her gaze suggests she knows exactly how hot she looks doing that.
I like a woman with confidence, but I have a feeling that given half a chance, this woman will make me burn.
“So, what’s your name, beautiful?”
“Oh ‘beautiful’ will be fine, Bedford. But I also answer to Miranda.”
“Oh brave new world that has such people in it!”
“Really? You’re quoting The Tempest at me? Yeah, like I’ve never heard that before,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Sorry, English major.”
“TS Eliot said that Hamlet was ‘an artistic failure’ and ‘never has a man turned so little knowledge to such great account’.”
“From a man who wrote The Wasteland;the most depressing poem in the English language.”
“Don’t know it, but I’ve seen I Am Legend. That was one depressing movie.”
“I hate it when the dog gets bit.”
“Oh God, me too!”
She downs another shot and wipes her arm across her mouth again, this time smearing her lip gloss. It’s sexy and kind of slutty. I think I’m in love.
“So, what’s an English graduate doing working in a bar? You did graduate, right?”
“Yep, seven years ago now. But I like working here… And what better place to hear amazing stories while I’m working on writing my first book.”
“Yeah? How’s that going for ya?”
“Better now,” I wink at her.
“I’d roll my eyes again but they’d probably drop out of my sockets,” she smirks. “I hope your book has better lines than the cheese you’re serving. That last line definitely had a whiff of Gouda, and as for the wink, I’m thinking stinky Missouri Bossa.”
“You know your cheeses, oh ye of little faith.”
She lifts one shoulder. “That’s nothing to do with faith—just experience.”
I top up her water glass, toss in a slice of lime, then have to leave her to serve other customers.
I’m kind of thinking that she might throw a couple of twenties on the bar and leave, so I’m relieved when she hikes up her pencil skirt to sit on a barstool, kicking off her heels and swinging her legs like a little kid.
I’m not the only one who notices, and a weasel-faced college guy sidles up to her, his eyes flicking between her cleavage and her legs.
“Did we go to school together? I could swear we had chemistry.”
I cringe on his behalf, but the dude is completely oblivious to the shit that’s coming out of the wrong orifice.
She flicks her wrist at him, like she’s waving away an annoying fly. The loser tries again.
“It’s a good thing I have my library card, because I am totally checking you out.”
“Oh my God, so not interested,” she sighs.
“Ah, come on! What’s your favorite drink? I’m asking so I know what to buy you on our first date.”
This time she turns to face him, cocking her head on one side, her nose scrunching as if she’s examining a cockroach.
“You’re not the stupidest person on the planet, but you sure better hope he doesn’t die soon.”
I hide a laugh behind a coughing fit but the dude is still working out what she just said. His gaze darkens when he gets it.
“Bitch!” he spits out, and when I think he might say something else, so I stride down the bar, standing in front of him, a warning written in my angry gaze.
He mutters something under his breath and scurries away.
Miranda’s expression is sad.
“Why do men do that?” she asks, her voice low. “Why can’t they just take ‘no’ for an answer? Why do they have to turn mean?”
“Not all guys are like that,” I say. “I’m really great at being turned down. At least I think I would be if it ever happened.”
She gives me a wry smile, which is what I’d been aiming for.
“You’re a funny guy, Bed. Modest, too.”
“Funny ha ha, or funny peculiar? Wait, don’t answer that. I couldn’t handle being shot down like weasel-face over there.”
She gives a throaty laugh, dark and smoky, part molasses, part honey, and hella sexy.
Then her smile fades. “Guys like him think the world owes them.”
“Hey, he’s a loser, don’t let him get to you.”
“It’s not him, just … all of you,” she says, her eyes lifting to mine.
“Including me?”
“Especially you.”
“Wow, it usually takes people at least ten minutes to detest me.”
“Are you saying you’re different?” she asks, her voice serious.
A slick answer hovers on my tongue, but I bite it back.
“No, I guess I’m not that different. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m attracted, but I hope I’d never bully or belittle a woman. I really can take no for an answer, Miranda.”
Her eyes focus on mine, a small frown of concentration pulling her eyebrows together.
“What do you want out of life, Bed?”
“I want to write.”
“Just write?”
“No, I want to write the Great American Novel.”
“Like Catcher in the Rye?”
“Well, yeah. But hopefully write more than one great book.”
“So? What’s stopping you?”
“Talent, mostly.”
She laughs out loud.
“Really? Are you being modest again?”
“Honest, mostly. I can write—I’m just not sure I have anything interesting to say.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction on the conversation, but not wanting it to end either.
“Hmm, well, you must have pretty good material working in a bar an’ all. Why not start there?”
“It’s definitely crossed my mind,” I admit. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the polished mahogany. “So, what’s your story?”
“Are you going to include it in your book?”
“I might.”
She sits up straight. “Okay then, but I’m going to need another shot.”
“Just a single—I want to hear the beginning, the middle and the end.”
She grins. “You got it. But you’re going to need one for yourself, too. Are you ready?”
I pour myself a shot and raise it up.
“I’m ready.”
We clink glasses and down the tequila.
Her hazel eyes glitter and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who was so pissed at life that she walked into a bar and ordered a double shot of tequila…”
“I think I’m going to like this story.”
“I think you will.”
You know what they say about great novels having a great opening line? Mine was going to start like this:
A beautiful woman stormed into my bar, ordered a double shot of tequila and slammed it in one go. I just knew she had a great story to tell.
THE END
(or maybe THE BEGINNING)