The following is an excerpt from a short story in my Cathedral Dust collection.
“Not like that, man,” the old bartender said. “Like this.” He dug his toweled thumb into the glass with extra force on the last word.
Nodding, the trainee took the pint glass and vigorously wiped it with a bar towel. Visible smudges lingered.
“Good enough. Now trash. I got the bar covered.”
The trainee snapped on a pair of blue medical gloves. He proceeded to empty the smaller bins hidden behind the bar as the old bartender mixed and poured a line of brightly colored shots for the brightly colored bachelorettes filing in. The loud, sugary women were met with alternately annoyed and lascivious looks from the pod of regulars on the far side of the bar.
“Shots, shots, shots,” they chanted, jumping in place.
The trainee stumbled down the hallway to the back of the house, half dragging, half carrying the overloaded trash bin holding all the smaller bags he’d collected. The sounds of scraping ice and singing bachelorettes faded, only to be replaced by the violent noise of dinner-rush dishwashing.
The alley behind the bar smelled like the beer-soaked trash bags that lined it. He lit his cigarette without touching a finger to it, a skill he thought every bartender should learn. For a moment all he could smell was the tobacco swirling in his mouth.
He smiled at the scrawny waitress who crashed through the door of the bar next to his. She tossed a bag of trash onto a nearby pile with a cry of exasperation. The alley was split by the two establishments.
“Assholes,” she muttered, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her hair was tied loosely, but every muscle in her face was tight.
“You good?” He studied her face with amusement.
“What?” The waitress noticed him for the first time.
“¿Todo bien?”
“This is Viña, dude. You can speak English.”
He took a drag and looked down, shifting uncomfortably. The undulating bass inside blended with the roar of the revelers as more and more burst out of the bar patios onto the streets and plazas.
“It’s crazy tonight.”
She scoffed and narrowed her eyes. “Now I know you’re new. When you start?”
“Couple weeks ago. What gave me away?”
“You think this a crazy night.” She watched him turn red again. “Got one to spare?”
He shook the open pack until a couple looseys peeked out.
“Muchas gracias . . . señor.”
She gave a mock curtsy, cigarette clenched between her lips. He relaxed and started to laugh. He flicked his lighter with a thumb and held it out.
They smoked in silence as the shouts outside grew louder. Then, much closer — glass shattered.
“I gotta get back,” she said.
The waitress took a deep drag and dropped her half-smoked cigarette into one of the shallow puddles scattered across the alley. The hiss of its extinguishing was lost in the pulsing bass as she slipped back inside.
Another crash, followed by the sound of crunching cans, emerged from the far end of the alley. The old bartender stood in the doorway and squinted at the smoke-framed silhouette of his trainee. His stubbled face was twisted in frustration.
“Where the hell did you go, chico?” he said. “Ven . . . ¡ya!”
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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