Let's have a bachelor
party with chicks and guns and firetrucks and hookers and drugs and booze
-Bachelor Party
Mondays were a day for various March related administrative
chores: scheduling, inventory, paycheck pick-up, etc. On any given Monday afternoon, you’d most likely find an
irritated Caleb sitting at the bar or in the office with papers and a cup of
coffee in front of him. March
employees came in and out, usually grabbing a beer along with their paychecks,
chatting with Mary before heading on about their day. John Farebrother liked to visit The March on Monday
afternoons. He whiled away the
hours in a comfortable corner, sipping beers and observing the hubbub of
tavern-y administration. It was a
little like being backstage.
On this particular Monday, John Farebrother was enjoying an
Old Style and watching the Cubs.
Mary perched on a barstool behind the bar, highlighting a brief. Caleb wandered in and out of the
office. Karl Rafferty sat at the
small table by the jukebox, working his way through a pitcher, agitated. Rafferty was tired of waiting. He was ready to unload.
He kept looking up at John Farebrother. Farebrother looked like a man who’d be
receptive to a story. Raff was right, Farebrother was a man who was receptive
to a story and he’d noticed Rafferty’s frequent glances in his direction. He
ordered a shot of whiskey and then nodded over to Rafferty, “Care to join me,
friend?”
Rafferty nodded cheerfully and carried his pitcher over to
the bar. Mary poured another shot
of Jameson for Raff and then returned to her brief.
They drank their shots, Farebrother toasting to easy Monday
afternoons.
Raff rolled a cigarette and the two sat in friendly silence
for a bit, sipping their beers, watching the game. After a few minutes, seemingly by way of icebreaker,
Rafferty said sort of generally, “I used to work here, you know. It’s been a long time, but I used to.”
“Mm hmmm,” Mary said noncommittally. She was used to people from the Before
Times strolling in and trying to recapture the glory days. She was usually charitable enough to
indulge them in their remembrances, but there was something about this guy that
put her off.
“It was different back then,” said Raff, looking around.
“Everything was, my friend,” said Farebrother.
“My name is Karl Rafferty,” said Raff. “Most people call me Raff.”
“John Farebrother,” rejoined Farebrother, more in tune than
Mary to the potential for a good story. “How about another Jameson, Raff?
Mary set us up, would you?”
Mary grabbed the bottle and shot an irritated look at
Farebrother. Why was he
encouraging this weasely guy?
Farebrother was such a shit stirrer. He ignored the look and turned his attention to Raff.
“Thanks,” said Raff, tipping the shot back without waiting
for Farebrother. And then, with a
pitiful attempt to feign casualness, continued. “There was a bartender here,
back in the day, named Bulstrode.
We called him Bully. He
still around?”
“Owns the place now,” said Farebrother, certain that Raff
knew that already.
“Really,” said Raff, enjoying his strained subterfuge. “That’s a neat trick. Didn’t have two
nickels to rub together back when I knew him.”
“Doing pretty good now,” said Farebrother. “Owns this place and a slew of
others. He’s a very successful
man. Hard to picture him slinging
drinks. He’s not really a people
person, if you know what I mean.”
“He was back then,” said Raff. “The ladies loved him.”
“Really,” said Mary, surprised.
“Oh yeah,” said Raff.
“He’d do this thing where he lit a girl’s cigarette while looking her
straight in the eye. They’d practically throw their panties at him.”
Mary rolled her eyes and decided she was done with that
conversation. “That’s fucking
lovely,” she said, gathering up her things and moving down to the far side of
the bar. She determined to make
drink orders an onerous task for the creepy little man.
“Mary,” said Caleb, who’d stationed himself at the far end
to work out the schedule. “Can you
hand me the phone?”
Caleb was uninterested in joining a walk down memory
lane. He was too busy navigating
the irritating corporate interest L.G.E. had taken since the rebrand. Tré had scheduled another one of his
little promotions at The March and Caleb was unsure how to staff it and unhappy
to have to deal with it.
Tré was always scheduling these promos at The March these
days, trying to increase business from the yuppie crowd. It wasn’t a group that Caleb was
particularly eager to court and Tré’s promotions always seemed like more
trouble than they were worth. This
one was a goddamn martini event.
Martinis were a pain in the ass to make. Martini glasses broke if you
stared at them too hard.
Caleb took the phone from Mary and called Tré. “Do I need extra staff for this martini
thing? And I’m going to need more
goddamn shakers and martini glasses.”
“Love the enthusiasm, Caleb,” said Tré, sarcastically.
“Regular staff will be fine. I’ll bring you down some glasses and shakers
myself. I was planning to anyway.”
Tré was growing weary of the resistance to his events from
staff. Martinis were making a
comeback and the L.G.E. flagship needed to be out in front of these
trends. Caleb was a nice guy, but
he cried foul if asked to do anything beyond pouring shitty domestic beer out
of a tap. It was working on Tré’s
nerves.
Caleb would have balked at Tré’s assessment of his
professionalism. But it is true
that Caleb believed that no drink should include more than three
ingredients. And ice is an
ingredient. He handed the phone
back to Mary and glanced down the other end of the bar at Raff and
Farebrother. Raff was talking a
mile a minute and Farebrother was clearly very interested in what he was
saying. But Farebrother collected
stories the way other people collect stamps. Caleb doubted Raff had much interesting to say.
Caleb was wrong.
Tré walked into The March about 15 minutes later, followed
by Gio and Brooke, who’d come in to collect paychecks. Gio and Brooke sat down next to
Caleb. Tré stood behind them with
his box of glasses and shakers, looking around, marveling at how great the place
looked.
“Everyone hates a fucking martini promotion, Tré,” said
Mary, breaking into his reverie.
“Here we go,” thought Tré.
“Seriously, man,” said Gio. “They’re pretentious and people
who drink them tip for shit.”
“Tip for shit and get wasted because they don’t understand
it’s four bounces of straight booze,” said Mary.
“I hate those glasses,” said Brooke. “When you wash them, it
seems like the stems just fall off.”
“Jesus Christ, you guys,” said Tré, feeling besieged. “It’s just a fucking martini, it’s not
that hard.”
“You sound just like a guy who’s never tended bar in his
life,” said Gio. “They’re a pain
in the ass. There’s always someone
complaining that their dirty martini isn’t dirty enough or that they wanted
vodka instead of gin.”
Brooke felt sorry for Tré. “Well, we’ll survive,” she said. “It’s not like Tré is trying to piss us off.”
“Yeah, you’ll survive,” said Tré, misreading her tone. “And
if any of you have other ideas for promotions, all you have to do is let me
know.” He set the box of martini
glasses down on a stool and looked behind the bar. “Hey! What happened to the blender I sent down?”
“It broke,” said Mary, smiling slyly. “Someone dropped a fork in it and when
I turned it on, it just broke.”
“That’s the third blender to break here,” said Tré, silently
giving up on blended drinks at The March. “Must be some kind of blender curse.”
“Must be,” said Mary, gratified to sense him admitting
defeat. She liked Tré, but he was
a company man, Bulstrode’s boy.
She didn’t trust him. Gio
was a little leery too. Tré was
too tight with the corporate types.
Gio was attached to The March, as much an idea as a place, and he didn’t
want it fucked up. Brooke liked
Tré and she trusted him. She was
abidingly grateful to Tré for sensing the value in her recycling idea and had
faith that his corporate endeavors came from a place of good faith.
“Do you need any help rolling out the recycling plan at the
other places you’re rebranding,” she said.
“I could help.”
“No, I’m good,” Tré said, grateful for the change in
subject. “Bulstrode is totally on
board, which means it’s happening.”
As he spoke, Raff walked past them and into the bathroom
again. He didn’t notice Tré. When
he came out, he was wild-eyed, picking at the shirt in front of his chest.
“Shit,” said Tré.
“I don’t think that guy is supposed to be here.”
“Do you know him,” asked Mary. “He looks pretty rough.”
For some reason, Tré didn’t feel like he ought to tell Mary
how he knew Raff. He suspected
Bulstrode wouldn’t like it. “He
looks wired, is what he looks,” was all he said.
“I think you’re right,” said Mary. “What do you think, Dad? Should I give him the boot?”
“Yeah,” said Caleb, checking him out. “Go take his pitcher.”
Mary walked to the end of the bar and removed Raff’s pitcher
and glass, saying, “Sir, I think it’s time for you to go.”
“What the fuck,” said Raff, rubbing hard at the skin over
his chest. “Why are you taking my
fucking beer?” He looked at
Farebrother. “Can you believe this
shit?”
“I tend to side with Mary in situations like this,” said
Farebrother. “Perhaps you’d better
move on. But I have really enjoyed
talking with you.”
“Fuck you,” said Raff, outraged. “I’ve barely had two beers.
Do you know who I am? I know
Bulstrode. I fucking own him. This is on its way to being my
bar. You’ll be working for me
soon, you bitch.”
Mary was a pro at cutting people off and wasn’t too bothered
by the invective. Caleb was
bothered. He approached Raff and
said in a steady, warning voice, “It’s time for you to go, sir.” (Ever notice how people only get called
‘sir’ when they’re in trouble?)
As he spoke, Gio and Tré moved to stand behind Caleb.
This is an effective technique when it comes to removing an
obstreperous guest from a bar.
Don’t touch him, don’t use harsh language, just make sure he can see
he’s outnumbered and that there’s no way he for him to win the fight.
Tré tried to keep his face behind Caleb’s head, worried
about what would happen if Raff recognized him. Fortunately, Raff was focused
on Caleb..
“Fine,” he said, face florid. “I’ll fucking go.
But I’m going to tell Bully what you guys did and you’ll all be fucking
fired.”
Farebrother shook his head.
When Raff left, Brooke asked, “Do you think we should call
the police? He didn’t look so
good.”
“How much did you serve him, Mary,” asked Caleb.
“Half a pitcher of beer and a couple of shots of Jameson
that this fucking idiot bought him.”
She pointed at Farebrother.
“Hey, I was just listening to a pretty entertaining story,”
said Farebrother. “It was
definitely worth the cost of a couple of shots of Jameson.
Caleb ignored Farebrother. “Well, I’m pretty sure whatever
he was taking in the bathroom had more to do with how messed up he was than the
booze we served him. Regardless,
he’s gone now. Lookit, Brooke, can
you pick up a waitressing shift on Thursday?”
People getting kicked out was part and parcel of running a
bar. No one thought too much about it after he was gone.
Caleb and Brooke huddled over the schedule.
Mary and Gio carried on complaining about the martini promo.
Farebrother sipped his beer and weighed the likelihood of
truth behind the titillating tales that Raff had told him. They seemed oddly likely.
Tré suspected that Raff would make good on his threat to
visit Bulstrode, so he headed into the office to use the phone.
“Mr. Bulstrode,” he said when Bully answered his direct
dial. “Rafferty is on his way to
see you. He was hanging out here
at the March, doing a pile of shit in the bathroom. I think he either did too much or did something bad. But he’s messed up and on his way to
the office. Maybe you should just
lock up and leave.”
Bulstrode hung up the phone. It was just going on 4:30. There was no one else in the office. Tré was right – it would be best to
avoid the confrontation. But,
before he left, Bulstrode unlocked one of the liquor cabinets, the one that
held the expensive stuff. He left a bank deposit sitting on his desk. When he left, he made sure to click on
the security camera. He neglected
to lock the door.
Finally, though Bulstrode, walking out the door. An opportunity.
When Bulstrode came into work the next morning, he expected
to find the money and some booze gone.
Instead, he found Karl Rafferty slumped over his desk, a bottle of good
cognac on its side, the bank envelope in his fist.
