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“Looks like another stormy night on the Delta tonight…” the weather guy said just before I cut my engine.
“Great, another slow night,” I muttered. I jumped out of the car and took a quick walk to the employee entrance at the Oxbow Depot, the restaurant I work at. I tossed on my apron and went out to the dining room, where Ms. Delia, the general manager, liked to hold staff meetings before each shift. As I always did, I took a look in the bar mirror. That same caramel-colored, square-jarred killer looked back at me. Looking fine with the fresh buzz cut and light stubble too. Good to go.
“Your hair looks fine, Thick Boy,” Shaunice said as she walked by. Thick Boy was nickname the staff gave me for my full arms and legs but especially my thick ass.
“Can’t never be too fresh,” I snapped back.
Most everyone else was already there, and I took my normal seat, waiting for the stragglers behind me to come in. I always sit in the back, usually so I can crack jokes to anybody nearby me.
The Oxbow Depot is the nicest restaurant in these parts. It’s an old train station that was converted into a fancy restaurant – the kind of place where you could you take mom on Mother’s Day or your friends from out of town. The train shit was still all over the walls, but they went out of their way to upgrade the lighting, tables and feel of the place. Just a bunch of junk if you ask me, but I couldn’t argue with the fact that it brought in money. Some folks walked out of here with two-hundred in cash tips at the end of a shift on a good night.
“You bartending tonight?” Hector said. I turned to face my buddy, a long-time friend who got me the interview when this place opened a few months ago.
“Shit, man, I hope so,” I said with a small laugh.
“Yeah, it’d be nice to not have any drinks sent back for a change,” Hector said.
As the gang found their seats, Ms. Delia walked up in front of the bar, sinking into one of the seats.
“Well, y’all, it’s another rainy night,” she began, explaining the weather to us like we’d never been outside. “But, we have some reservations, so I’m hoping for a good crowd.”
Ms. Delia placed her notes down and took out her turquoise reading glasses, slowly putting them on and picking her notes again.
“Uh, let’s see. Specials tonight are Clams Casino and Chicken Fried Steak. Vinny, you’ve got section one. Hector, section two. Ms. Shaunice, section three. Bartender will be Bill, and Mr. Darius, welcome back to barback.”
“Fuck,” I whispered. I’d barbacked every night since I’d been at the Oxbow. While Bill or Ted or who the fuck ever got to soak up the tips, I made drinks for tables and ran all kinds of bitch errands. At the end of the night, I’d take whatever scraps of tips were leftover with the bus boys. I’d worked at some shitty bars in my 10 years of bartending, but barbacking here was worse than the shittiest backwater dive bartender gig I’d ever been at.
“Uh, Ms. Delia, Bill’s not here,” Shaunice said. I looked around, and sure as shit, he wasn’t.
“Oh,” Ms. Delia said, “Well, I’ll be lookin’ into that, but Darius, I guess suit up for bartender duties for the timing being. Questions?”
As normal, nobody had questions because we knew how to do our jobs. Everybody silently got up, moving off to their respective corners. I, for a change, strode on up behind the bar and started rearranging things to my liking.
A few moments later, Ms. Delia cleared her throat behind me. “Mr. Darius, you got a moment?”
“For you, Ms. Delia, I got all the time in the world,” I said, turning around to face her.
“Don’t be gettin’ comfortable just yet,” she said as her old bloodshot eyes met mine. “I’ll find Bill. You might as well start prep in the meantime.”
“Well, he ain’t here,” I countered, raising my eyebrows.
“Not yet he ain’t,” she said, turning away, “Get started on them lemons in the mean time.”
I clicked my tongue. Fucking Delia, the old bitch. Just a few weeks ago, she was crowing over how great some shitty margarita I made was after the Mr. Murray, the owner, said it out loud during my interview, and now, she was convinced I couldn’t handle pouring a single drink for a customer. But to make her happy, I started cutting lemon garnishes just in case Bill managed to get his drunk ass to work.
I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t watch the clock. 4:15. 4:25. 4:30, and he wasn’t there yet. Delia was a hot mess over there in the corner fretting about whether Drunkass Bill would show. At 4:35, she waved the white flag.
“Ok, you win,” she said, her teeth glued together as she talked, “You got a drink special?”
“Well, I was thinkin’, Ms. Delia. I cut up all these lemons – I might be makin’ some Told Ya So,” I smirked at the dumb bitch. I knew Mr. Murray had my back. She couldn’t really do shit about me and my attitude.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ make Lynchburg Lemonades,” she snarled, her eyes piercing into me.
“Ok, ok, Ms. Delia. Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill,” I replied, throwing my hands istanbul travesti up, “Lynchburg Lemonade it is.”
She stormed off, and I shot a quick smile to Hector who just shook his head, smiling. At least he heard me. I’d say Delia didn’t like us black folks to much, but she seemed to like Shaunice fine. Me? Shit, she’d fire me in a second if she had the chance.
“Fucking Lynchburg Lemonades…” I grumbled to myself. If you’ve never had one, they’re basically a summertime staple for rich, white people in these parts: whisky, triple sec, lemon juice and lemon-lime soda on the rocks with a lemon slice. It’s not bad all in all and not a pain to make, but with the shit this bar has? You could be making much better stuff and getting better tips.
Before I knew it, 5 came and went, and we were open. And just our luck – it started raining cats and mother fucking dogs right when the first reservation got there. We got some tables in that first hour, but I only made three drinks. 6 was a banner hour – ten drinks. Mostly, I washed glasses, moved stock around, served the two or three random customers at the bar and sat on my ass.
Around 7:30, in the middle of a small thunderstorm, Ms. Delia came bounding up behind the bar, wide-eyed and excited.
“So, uh, Mr. Murray’s nephew is on the way in,” she squeaked.
“Ok?” I asked, “So, what’s that mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “Nobody told you?”
“No.” I mean, that would require somebody saying something.
She sighed. “Ok, so, Mr. Murray has a few restaurants around the state and a bunch of family all over the South. Whenever somebody is passing through, he likes to show off and let them eat on his dime. They get VIP service, the works. And his nephew must be on his way to Memphis, so we’re the fucking lucky establishment tonight.”
“…And why are you tellin’ me?” I asked, “Ain’t he want a table?”
Delia flashed me a bothered look. “No, I tried to talk Mr. Murray into that, but he already told the guy about how good you are. So, he…requested that the kid be seated at the bar.”
I grinned real wide. Delia was holding a snarl back as best as her hag face could. Check fucking mate.
“Oh, well then…” I began.
“Don’t fuck this up,” she cut me off, “This is the first time we’ve had one of the relatives here. He’ll want it to go perfectly. If you do fuck this up, I’ll be happy to show you the door myself. Whatever the guy wants, do it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her a little salute. She rushed off into the kitchen to sulk.
I laughed to myself – this night might be fun after all.
He arrived around 8:15 – Delia’s high-pitched, over-the-top voice tipped me off.
“Oh, come this way,” she said, leading him right to the first seat at the bar and placing a menu down. “How nice of you to join us!”
She spotted me walking down the bar to greet him, “This is Darius. He’ll be taking care of you tonight, but if you need anything special, just let me know, hon!” She flashed one more toothy grin and got the hell out of Dodge.
“Thank yah kindly, Ms. Delia,” he said, a slight Texas twang coloring his smooth voice.
With Delia gone, I tossed a napkin down to place, placed a glass of water down on the napkin and finally looked to get a closer inspection at the holy on high nephew.
As my eyes turned up, they met the deep blue eyes of a full-on blonde cowboy. His oval face was book-ended by a longer undercut hair cut and a dimpled chin. A full, clean cut mustache sat in the middle. His cowboy hat set next to him on the bar, and his tight white western shirt revealed his lean but slightly built body.
“Hot. damn.” I thought.
“The famous Darius,” he said, offering his hand for a handshake. “My uncle seems to think you’re the best bartender in these here parts.”
“I…sure am,” I replied, shaking his hand. I held on probably slightly longer than I should have, because I felt him pull away first. Truth is, I’ve always liked fellas. But, when you live in the Delta, it’s hard enough being black. No reason to bring anymore attention to yourself, so I hide it well. I’d just head to Jackson or Memphis a few times a year by myself and get it out of my system with the local boys there. But I can tell you, I ain’t never seen anybody like this cowboy in those bars.
“You’re Darius or the best bartender in these here parts?” he grinned.
“Uh, Darius,” I said, recovering, “Sorry…my brain misfired there. And I like to think I’m a pretty good bartender too.” I smiled back at him like a fucking idiot.
“Nice to meet you. Name’s Alan,” he said, adjusting in his chair.
“Nice to meet you too, Alan,” I said. I placed my hands on the bar at a wide stance and leaned it to meet him at eye level. “Know what you’d like or do you want some time?”
“Well, honestly, I mostly drink whisky, but since you’re the man to see about drinks, what do you suggest?” he asked.
My mind jumped to all the lemons I had cut up earlier. “Well, the special tonight’s a Lynchburg Lemonade. istanbul travestileri Ever had one before?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“Well, it’s a whisky drink. Whisky with some lemon and orange flavor. I can fix one up real fast. You see if you like it,” I suggested, watching his face.
“Shoot, why not?” he said.
“Cool, cool,” I replied. I went over to the well and pulled one of the nicer bottles of whisky before mixing one up. As I normally do, I dipped a stir straw in and tasted it before handing it off. It’s the one way to ensure consistency and quality in drinks, and it can help soothe your soul a bit on rougher nights. I savored the sweet taste, hoping it might up right me back to myself. Then, taking a fat lemon wedge, I garnished the whole drink and brought it right back to him.
“That was fast,” he commented.
I smiled and looked around the room. “Slow night,” I said.
“Well, if you ain’t that busy, keep me company. It’s been a long ride out here,” he said.
“Sure, you want to order anything to eat, first? Kitchen closes at 9.”
Alan ate up every bite of the chicken fried steak and had another two of the Lemonades over the next hour. Every time I brought him something, we ended up talking for a few minutes. He was 32 and married, but on the road a lot for business. Wife sometimes came along, sometimes didn’t. Since it was a quick trip to Memphis, he figured he’d just go this one alone. Mr. Murray even let him stay in an apartment a little walk away he rented out sometimes for the night to save on the costs.
We kept on chatting and he kept drinking as the night went one. As we did, the restaurant slowly emptied and the serves began cashing out for the night. Around 9:55, Delia came bouncing up.
“Mr. Alan, I sure hope everything is to your liking,” she said, in her sing-song flirty Dolly Parton voice. Somebody wanted to ride a cowboy tonight.
“Oh, it is, Ms. Delia,” he countered, matching her energy. He knew how to deal with this kiss ass.
“Now, we’re gonna be closing up here real soon. Is there anything we can get you before then?”
“Well, this might be a little unorthodox, Ms. Delia, but would you kindly mind me hanging around with Darius here for a bit?” he said. His voice was silky smooth but with a vague threatening tone. He had the cards to play.
“Oh, my, I don’t know. Our liquor license is only good until 10:00,” she said. Her tone was saccharine sweet, trying politely to find a way out.
I smirked. “Well, I think that just applies to the general public,” I said, “And Mr. Alan here is family after all. Can’t be no law against serving family.”
Delia frowned quick at me before jumping back to her happy voice, “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt. Darius, hon, let me show you how the alarm works real fast. You boys can show yourself out whenever.”
Delia motioned for me to follow her to the back of the restaurant. Once we rounded a corner out of view, she pounced.
“Now, just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she asked, spitting venom.
I didn’t really know what I was doing in retrospect. Part of me like chatting with the guy. Part of liked looking at him. And, finally, part of me figured that staying late meant a huge fucking tip, which I sorely needed considering how dead the night was.
“What?” I said in protest.
“Staying here late with Murray’s nephew,” she said indignantly.
“What can it hurt?” I asked, “Besides, you wanted me to make sure he had a good time. He wants to stay.”
She stood staring at me with that Southern momma look no boy wants to see. You could see her mind getting itself tied in knots trying to figure out what to do.
Finally, she gave one heavy sigh. “Not one drop of liquor is unaccounted for or else,” she warned. She was outgunned, and she knew it. “The alarm code’s in the second drawer of the office desk on a laminated card. It better be there tomorrow. I’ll lock the doors before I go.” She waved me out right away when she was done talking and disappeared into the office.
I practically strutted back behind the bar. “Another?” I asked.
“Why not?” he replied, “Not like I’m driving tonight.”
I poured another and placed it down for him.
“I’ll be right back – I just gotta close out the other register,” I said.
“Oh, no problem. I gotta take a leak anyway,” he said, standing up and walking away from the bar as I walked to the register. A moment later I noticed a look of confusion overcame him, “Where’s the john?”
“Walk down the bar and into that little hallway. It’ll be on your left,” I said, pointing the way.
He turned away and started walking. I started counting down one of the register as he did, but I couldn’t help but sneak a little peek. Just as I thought – tight ass Wranglers and cowboy boots. And that little jiggle he had in his step wasn’t bad.
“All right, all right,” I laughed to myself, enjoying the view.
Just as he turned in, Delia came up and locked the front door.
“Back’s locked too,” she travesti istanbul said, before walking to the back door. I heard it slam behind her.
“And goodnight to you too, Ms. Delia,” I laughed again.
A good minute or two later, I heard Alan’s foot steps as he walked back toward the bar. He stopped behind me. “Mind if I move up to where you are?” he asked.
“Nah, come on down. Best seat in the house,” I said, my back to him, keeping my eyes on the money as I counted.
He brought himself down and sat directly behind where I stood. I did the deposit slip for the register and placed it in the bag for the next day before turning back to him.
He shook his empty glass at me with a giant grin on his face.
“Damn, son,” I laughed, “You are one thirsty motherfucker.”
He gave me a little side smile. “These are just too damn good. Have one with me.”
I stopped for a second to think on that. A good bartender usually doesn’t drink with customers – it never ends well.
“I don’t know, man. The boss wouldn’t like it.”
“C’mon,” he goaded me on, “I’ll even pay for it myself so the uncle doesn’t think I’m a fucking drunk. Our little secret, man. How’s that crusty bitch gonna know?” He gave me a dirty, tipsy smile.
I burst out laughing. I knew this was guy was on the same page as me. I glanced over to the other register. It was still open after all, and if I did it as a cash transaction, nobody would be the wiser. I shrugged, “All right, man. You win.”
I poured two more, handing him one and taking the other myself. Again, I tasted before before handing one to him. I pulled up a seat from the behind the bar and sat across from him.
“What’s the thing you do?” he asked, his voice a tiny bit slurred.
“What thing?”
He picked up the stir straw in his drink and slowly licked it before dropping it back in his glass. The tip of the screw dragged about the length of his long tongue before dropping off. I couldn’t tell if he let it linger on purpose or not.
“Oh, we taste the drinks that way. Make sure they taste like they should – not too alcohol or whatever,” I said, taking a sip.
“Never seen a bartender do that before,” he said, now leaning fully on the bar.
“Well, you usually just drink whisky, right? I’d be stealing from you if I tasted a whisky pour.”
He laughed. “I guess.”
We chatted some more as I sipped on the Lemonade. It could grow on me. Alan, though, must have loved them because he couldn’t get enough. With every sip he got a little sloppier. He’d starting taking bigger swigs, the drink lightly dripping off that fine ass mustache as he did. Sometimes, he would stop a lick those drops, his pink tongue slide over that dark blonde hair slowly, savoring the sweet flavor.
After a natural pause in the conversation, Alan asked, “So, what’s up with you? You got a lady?”
I shook my head, “Nah, man. I don’t want to mess with Delta girls.”
He spun his stir straw on his lips. “Why’s that?”
“Ain’t nothing but problems,” I lied.
“Oh yeah, what do they say about the guys then?” he chuckled. He had a big grin like he was pleased with himself for that quip. The straw remained in his mouth, tucked between his teeth.
“What do them girls say? Well, not a lot, because they like sucking the huge cocks around here,” I laughed. He gave a little snort back.
Things went quiet again for a second. We made eye contact.
“So, you want another or…” I began.
“Man, is that true?” he said, cocking his head to the right as if to question me. He squinted his eyes, watching me closely.
“What you mean?” I said, unsure of what he was asking.
“The huge dicks thing?”
“Fuck, man. I can’t speak for everybody, I got a good eight inches and ain’t nobody ever complain.” I have a big, hardy laugh. This is the kind of shit straight guys love to talk a big game about when they’ve had too much to drink.
I waited for him to laugh but he gave me a dopey smile instead. His mustache curled as he smiled.
“Eight inches?” he said.
“What, you don’t believe me? You want some kind of proof?” I said overdramatically. He’s just drunk, I told myself. He’s not going to do anything. Just some harmless straight boy talk.
He let the air go silent again.
“Well, put up or shut up, man.” His twang was thicker than before, and his voice somewhere between joking and serious.
I rolled my eyes, and made a show of looking around. “Wait, you want me to pull out my horse cock in the middle of a restaurant at 10:30 with the windows still wide open?” I jokingly retorted, throwing my hands up. I would call his bluff yet.
He leaned in, “No…” His voice was quiet, almost serious this time. “Show me in the john.”
I came to a full stop. Was he playing me or was he for real? My cock was rapidly growing at thought of him seeing it full mast, but this is the kind of fucking thing that gets you killed if you misread it.
“Just keep playing it up. It’s a fucking game of chicken. Call his bluff,” I figured, “Make a big show of going in there and wait for five seconds. He’ll be out at the bar laughing his cute white ass off.”
I regained myself, wrapping my arms around my back and removing my apron. I tossed it on the bar and turned to walk to the restroom.
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