Last wed night, Barfly’s life flashed in front of our eyes (and it was glorious).
We found ourselves face down on the floor in the back room of our secret service industry job. Moments before, we heard a popping sound. Having had years to tune our ears to all sorts of noises made by champagne corks, we knew that this wasn’t one of those fancy pops that make people applaud. This was a pop that makes people DIE!
We know that we aren’t very valiant – we typically leave that for the princes. While many a patron at the bar jumped to cover their lover or spouse, all Barfly did was grab the bottle of Bombay and throw our heft over it like a good secret service agent. Our secret just happens to be that we love finely distilled gin more than people.
We ran from the bar, sure that one of our many rivals was coming down the street to assassinate us (we’ve still got our eye on you, shittysearch). The pops continued. Two mounted patrol men galloped by on their horses. “Get inside, get down on the ground!” Shouts came from all directions. Tables were flipped, half-finished drinks thrown to the floor as people dived for cover.
“Bombi, this is ridiculous,” we quivered to our bottle. “What are we doing with ourselves?” We saw more police sprinting down the street and pressed our face to the floor. “Goddamn Bombi. Is this all worth it?”
The gin looked at us, its calming blue gaze telling what any proper spirit would inform at such a dire moment: “Awww, I’m inanimate.”
Screams echoed through the restaurant. More gunfire. A fat woman lay next to us, her breath heaving as tiny yelps issued from her mouth.
Were we really about to get Columbined for the $81 in wadded up ones waiting for us back in our tip jar? With everyone’s blood pumping and the managers distracted with the police, we surely could graft another few dollars from the till, perhaps this could make it worthwhile. If shot, we would need this money for the angelic drinks they serve in heaven.
As more gunshots sounded, we promised that we’d be perfectly fine with some less expensive, non-murder-related 2-for-1 deal in purgatory.
The fat lady’s breath calmed as the gunshots abated. There was no way that we were sticking around – screw the tips, screw our city, we were done. Our hands shaking, we made our way back to our bar, determined to put Bombi back safely with her friends and get the hell out. Perhaps it was time for that cabin in Montana, for peace, for (sigh) the dulcimer.
After collecting our tips we stood behind the bar and took a deep breath. We turned to face our frazzled patrons. Women were crying. People were picking bar stools off the ground. The fat lady walked in from the back room and sidled up against the bar.
Thoughts of fleeing slowly dissipated. We knew that even the most pungent bourbon would have trouble overpowering the smell of gunpowder that lingered in the West Village air, but we closed the flap of our bar. Hands still shaking, we looked out at the crowd, and said the only comforting thing that we could: "Bar’s open ladies and gentlemen.”
More people crowded around. Tears were wiped, drinks were poured, the music came back on.
“Shots on me.” A man from New Jersey put his credit card on the bar.
“He jumped over me, to save me,” his wife bragged. “Someone’s getting a blow job tonight.” Other patrons giggled nervously.
Tequila was poured. Limes distributed. Glasses raised. Barfly surveyed the group of customers knowing that at this moment, we were all together, that when the glasses were clinked we would become a group of friends.
We savored our tequila. The bar’s nerves were calmed.
It was definitely worth it.
(On a side note – we grifted over $35 that night. Worth it indeed!)
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