The Bar
The Bar
BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ. A silver, uncased, latest, largest iPhone vibrates, flashes of lightning on the milky marble bar. One buzz, two buzzes, three. I ignore the pulses, watching the blue light x-ray through dead stone, illuminating every frozen grey vein, purple artery and pale fissure. To my bar mates, I’m merely awaiting a date and based on my looks he’s either devilishly good looking or ridiculously rich, either, or, never both. This city isn’t the Magic Kingdom, there are no fairy tales. I don’t answer the first set of rings. As a rule of thumb, I never answer the first phone call or text. I prefer the anxious despair of a call left in the air; leave a message, get anxious, text me twice, doubt your life.
Twirling the stainless-steel swivel stick of my martini glass, I await the second call to come in like clockwork. I only drink dirty martinis when I’m in swanky hotels like this because they carry those gourmet, delish, jumbo olives, and I feel terribly sophisticated ordering a ‘Dirty Martini’. Saying dirty on my clean lips is more fun than lying on a first date. At regular bars I usually order cognac, neat, because I can taste whether or not the alcohol is counterfeit. When I’m on a date though I always, only order a bottle of Perrier Jouët to see my suitor sweat at the price, setting the record straight, I’m high maintenance.
The ringing immediately starts up again. The glowing screen shows off a dashing young man in a tux, not smiling, just looking into the camera with the unnatural ease of a model. The pixel light reflects off my flawless makeup, not an eyelash out of bat. My eyes look back at him with a million questions. Where are you? Who are you with? Why are you late? The phone pulses the marble; the electric shocks can’t resuscitate the rock, so I answer the call.
“Hey baby” I giggle nervously, “I’m at the bar” I look up and around for my date to find me.
“Where are you?” I loudly whisper, “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”
“What do you mean you’ll be a little late?” my voice screams over the jazz band.
“Are you kidding me? Please tell me you’re joking.” I yell above the buzz. People stare, not like they weren’t scoping me before, the beautiful lonely girl at the bar.
“You can’t do this to me” I’m raging, “Are you serious?!” Pause. I feel a million eyes on me; they want to see me cry.
“I’ll just come to you then” Pause. “No, I’m not waiting a half hour!” Damn exhibitionists love a commotion when it’s at someone else’s expense, gives them a relief from their own waking nightmares. You want a scene? I’ll give you a performance worthy of an Oscar.
“Look I didn’t want to tell you this over the phone, but you’ve left me no choice. Last weekend, yea member when you were arrested for drunk driving” pause “Yea you remember that? Well, the cops gave me both your phones and guess what I did? I hacked into your blackberry and read everything between you and that bitch Jennifer. Hello? Charles? Did you hear what I said?” The guy sitting next to me picks up his drink and moves to a two top 10 feet away.
“I don’t care if you’re at the office!” My voice explodes.
“Is that slut there too?” Pause. I glance over at my audience; I have their full attention. Without shame they eagerly watch, sipping slowly, enjoying the show. “She’s your secretary you idiot!”
“Yea, yea you think I’m stupid right?” Pause.
Not only did she get stood up, now she’s getting played, the plot thickens. This is worthy of a World Star feature but they’re all too reserved to whip out their phones and record me, bitches.
“Guess what, I’m keeping the ring!” I shout into the silence.
No one is speaking now, they wait on my next move, this is better than reality TV. Well folks, It’s time for the grand finale. With full force I whip the silence like thunder and slap the glass screen on to the smooth stone. Crack, I feel them gasp, sucking in all of the air so that there’s none for me, I suffocate. Holding back tears, ashamed to cry in front of people, I shade my hands on my forehead, covering my face, flaunting my three carat, round, brilliant cut, Tiffany rock to the audience.
The band changes set, drinks pour, laughter ensues, the show’s over. They humiliate me by ignoring me. Poor little rich girl breaks her phone over a boy that cheated on her with his secretary, how cliché. They’ll bring this up over dinner tonight and have a laugh at it again. Fucking voyeurs.
I down what’s left of my dirty martini, then turn over my phone to admire the damage. The glass is completely shattered, shards fall onto the floor. The glass looks like a winter lake, ready to swallow up an innocent little girl. My silver nails skate over the cracks on the screen. She skates far away, all alone, laughing and twirling, spinning round and round. She attempts a jump, lands on her right leg, her strong leg, and falls through the ice into the frozen cemetery. The entire surface of the lake shatters in disbelief of its own cruelty. I trace the pattern over and over, searching for the lost girl.
“Don’t do that, you’ll cut yourself” a silky southern accent speaks.
Tear filled eyes lift to an inviting man with obvious motives. He points to my empty martini glass, “Mind if I buy you a drink?” Not breaking my gaze off him I nod, surveying the new male lead. The generic forty something divorcee stands in alligator skin, cognac leather Italian loafers, dark blue Levi’s, held up by a matching brown exotic leather belt with gold buckles, a crisp white button down tucked in, accented with gold cufflinks, finished off by a blinding gold Rolex Submariner with a blue face; typical traveling businessman uniform.
He has a thick mass of dyed blond hair slowly receding at the temples but still full. His face is brimming with rosacea, shadowed by a faded tan peeling round his large forehead, all extras to the star of his face, a prominent nose. Crooked like a boxers, his most distinguished sniffer jags and hooks at the end, with layers of hard red skin folded over the tip. It looks like a lobster is having sex with his face, I swear! It takes up so much space you can hardly make out his crystal blue eyes or his lush penny copper lips. I mean, he isn’t ugly, just very basic, like a bottle of Coca Cola, mass produced and available anywhere in the world. He was too old, too ugly and too rich. He is everything I need right now.
You must be so very proud of yourself, saving the damsel in distress. It’s amazing how men think. As soon as a woman is single, it’s time to zero in on her before someone else does. Like damn, can I cry first? Seriously don’t you think I need some time to heal before I’m ready for a new man. No, absolutely not. A man’s dick is the antidote for anything and everything. Lost your job? Need some dick? Orphan? Need some dick? Reading a book? Oh, this smart bitch definitely needs dick. Hate your dad? Dick can fix that.
With one arm he holds a battered, brown leather Hermes briefcase, and a burgundy dinner jacket with gold buttons. His free arm waves over the bartender who’s too busy chatting with some old dude’s escort. It’s ballsy when men flirt with women in front of her date. Maybe he’ll get to fuck her for free when she’s done with her shift.
The hero snaps his finger twice and points to my empty glass “Get the lady another drink”
“May I join you?” he gestures towards the recently vacated seat to the left of me.
“You don’t have to” seriously you don’t. Tricks of the trade, the harder you push him away the more he wants to stay. I rejected him because it amused me to have an audience. They see how quickly I rebound; I’m like Dennis Rodman in this game.
“I know that” he climbs up the tower in front of all the monsters to save the princess.
“What’s your name?” He asks my chest.
“Maria” I exhale over choked tears.
“Bill Riley pleased to meet you sweetheart.” He slurs in a southern drawl.
The bartender swaps my empty martini glass with a frosted new one, stabs two olives on a skewer, all while shaking up a mixer, then slowly pours in the dirty slush till it swells to the rim.
“I’ll have a Belvedere martini. Dry. One olive.”
Without toasting, or even a smile of appreciation, I grab my drink and take a swig.
“Easy there sweetie, it’s not a race. Wanna hear a joke?” I shrug my shoulders.
“How are martini’s like boobs?”
“How?” I can tell this is gonna be dumb.
“One is not enough and three are too many”
He’s so corny, it’s kind of cute. I laugh cause I’m supposed to. I laugh because he bought me a drink. I laugh so everyone can hear me having a great time. I laugh louder.
Carefully placing my martini on a coaster, I look for something to do with my hands. I tap my fingers nervously on the bar. How I wish I could smoke a cigarette right now. I’m not a smoker but I want to take the edge off, distract my shaking hands. If I bite my nails, he’ll lose attraction.
My cracked iPhone glares at me so I trace the jagged glass, skating on thin ice.
“Now I don’t want to baby you Maria, but I already told you not to do that, you’ll cut your pretty fingers. Let’s put the damn thing away, it’s no use like that.” He places his big, hairy hand over mine. I can feel his dry, peeling palms scrape my knuckles. “Calmly you can tell me what happened, and you can get on with your life. Hell, you don’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Just don’t be so damn destructive.”
His matter of factness mollified my mood. I don’t want Billy to leave so I obediently stuff the broken phone into my metallic stingray Chanel boybag.
The bartender reappears with a frozen glass and pours more icy liquid. Bill holds up his glass signaling for a toast. With gratitude I raise my drink, lock eyes, though I was really staring at the nose, and link glasses before carefully taking a dainty sip this time, pursing my lips to the poison till it dribbled through my lips and down my chin. I glance up at Billy who has his mouth hanging open in awe. When he sees that I saw the excited look of an unfulfilled fantasy on his face, he busies himself to get napkins. I dab my wet chin and start to talking.
“So, you heard my phone call huh?”
“Darling, all of New York heard that call.”
“He just gets me so mad. The worst part about it all is that he’ll never admit it. Even after I show him all of the text messages that I printed for proof. He’ll tell me some crazy shit like text messages don’t hold as evidence in court.”
“He’s a lawyer?”
“No, he’s in finance. Works over at Goldman Saks. Bastard thinks he’s smarter than everyone because he’s richer than everyone. He’s prolly even richer than you.”
He laughs, ignoring my jab. I lick my teeth surreptitiously; he takes it as a seduction tactic but it’s something I do out of habit after waking up from countless dreams of having my teeth knocked out. I shyly look away and then down at my left hand to the illustrious carbon rock on my ring finger, twisting it around, moving it just so, that it twinkles into Bill’s blues.
“He will deny it over and over again until he’s gaslighted me into thinking that I imagined the whole thing. I’d like to prove to him that I’m finally over the lies. I’m not going to marry some cokehead stockbroker that sleeps around with the help.” I stop playing with the ring and helplessly look over at my hero. “She’s not even pretty,” I whimper to Billy.
“There, there don’t get all worked up. How old is this fella?” he places an unsolicited hand on my left shoulder, as if he’s massaging me but really, he’s just feeling me up.
“29”
“Yea he sounds like a cowboy. You’re too damn fine to get all worked up over some little punk who can’t appreciate what he has. You’re too young to get married anyway. How old are you Maria? 23? 24?”
“I’m 21” I’m really 19 but I don’t wanna scare him away.
“Whoa are you even allowed to be drinking at this bar?”
“Obviously, you just said I look 23.” I align my spine perfectly, push out my tits a little and cross my right leg over the left, slightly turning to face my hero, taking a sophisticated sip out of my drink before I spit, “Do I look or act underage?”
Old Billy boy examines me like fresh tuna at the Tokyo fish market, and you bet I shimmered. I’m beautiful yes, unconventionally so. I tower at 5’11, though far from a supermodel due to my fat ass and big tits, but still slim, construction guys on the street call me slim thick. His eyes move bottom up, immediately spotting the blood bottoms peeping under my shiny silver Louboutin’s, tipped with long toned legs covered in tight, high waisted, black, patent leather, Helmut Lang pants. My hands meet over my crossed knees; crooked, long fingers are the fault of my high school basketball days. I overdress them with a gel manicure every week; today they are “ice queen” pink. A sheer, though not see through, black, skintight, high neck, long-sleeved bodysuit covers my natural D cups, that would slightly sag if not laced in La Perla. I’m dressed in all black, like a thief in the night. Shining through my shirt is a diamond cross for protection and piety. My ears rock single carat VVS studs and my wrist is wrapped in a Cartier platinum bezel. In the middle of December, I’m sporting a fresh tan on my face, dolled up with mascara, concealer and blood red lip stain. Nothing else, no foundation, no contouring, none of that drag queen, highlighting, baking bullshit. I keep it classic and sexy, like a vintage, red Porsche 911. My big, brown eyes are my best facial feature, admitted by countless compliments if not discussing my tits. My long, narrow nose could use some shaving down at the bridge, but I refuse to put my face under a scalpel. My jawline is strong, and my lips are average sized except when I wear red lipstick or when I eat spicy foods and they double up.
My teeth are white, sharp and perfectly straight, no braces or dentist could match God’s art. Baby I’m beyond comprehension, temptation in the flesh. My ears stick out wide, luckily my big hair covers the satellites. Long, brown, layered curls fall down my back, almost kissing my ass crack. Draped over my chair is a black leather trench coat with a midnight emerald fur insole. My dark features and exotic origins always induce a fun game of Where’s Walda from? She’s usually spotted in South America or the Middle East, both wrong. I’m North African. Well actually I’m from New York, born and raised. My parents, Egyptian and Moroccan, met in Harlem and the rest is her-story. I’m not perfect, I know that, but I’m all natural, no fake nails, no fake lashes, no hair extensions, no plastic surgery, save for some lipo in my belly and love handles but you could never tell, which is not only a preference but a deliberate downplay. Girls who do work are stunning, don’t get me wrong, but they intimidate the fuck out of men, and they scream high maintenance. In my industry, walking around with fake tits is like walking around with a tech 9 on your front hip.I keep it cool and concealed baby with a Beretta Nano tucked in my stiletto boots. When I attack, they never see me coming. Not only that but the plastics moan with an air of insecurity, and that is the ultimate turn off. My satisfaction with my face and body silently exudes extreme confidence and that, my friends, is a royal fucking flush in this game. I also smell like stars and I’m neither intimidated nor impressed with wealth.
Intrigued by the creature that sat before him, a million thoughts run through his head but all he can say is, “No I guess not”
“Good. Don’t treat me like a child and we’ll get along just fine.” I snap with a bratty voice.
“Damn girl you make a man feel old. I remember when I was 21 and let me tell you something, the girls I know looked nothing like you when I was growing up.”
I know I don’t look my age; I never looked my age. Overdeveloped in the 7th grade I already wore a size C bra and tripped over 5’9. People always treated me as if I were older, so I always acted older.
I remember when I was 14 years old my baby sister broke her arm in the playground. She was climbing around the monkey bars when down she fell on the thick cushioned rubber that didn’t break her fall but instead broke a bone. My parents were both working at the time, so I insisted to go with her to the hospital. Cops asked me who I was; I told them I’m her big sister. Cops asked how old I was, told them I was 18. They let me roll with her in the ambulance and everything. Didn’t even ask me for ID. The best part about it was watching my 7-year-older sisters’ eyes smile through tears, like she had a secret that she couldn’t tell.
“How old are you? 35?” I naively compliment. He looks 50.
“Shit if he don’t marry you, I will. I’m 43.” He mumbles into his drink.
“Of course he wants to marry me. It is I who refuses to spend the rest of my life with a liar” I start playing with my ring again, moving it up and down my knuckle.
“I just wish he weren’t so insecure. I wish he didn’t feel the need to stick his dick into everything. He’s so temperamental. Maybe it’s because of his job, he’s under a lot of stress you know.” The ring on my finger goes up and down, off and on, up and down.
“He thinks he can own me with this thing” and with impulsive celerity I drop the rock into the martini and watch the treasure sink to the bottom of the sea. Now our old Billy boy is really excited. I can tell because he’s just watching me, not opening his big mouth to stop or question me. I pull out the swivel stick and lick an olive off the end, chewing the liquor-soaked condiment with revenge. I remove the other olive and place it on a coaster. I slowly fish the ring around the glass with the cocktail pick. He’s still silently watching, calling my bluff. I lock eyes with Billy and make my move.
I toast my drink into the air and swallow the dirty sea of vodka; watching him watch me, eye to eye the whole time.
I can feel the platinum in my mouth, tasteless unlike silver or copper. Billy is waiting for me to swallow it, to choke so he can perform CPR and save the sleeping beauty. I imagine the stone swimming through my body, acid reflexes trying to melt it down, my body thinking it’s some candy, or drugs or medicine. White blood cells will unsuccessfully attempt to attack the carbon intruder, then it’ll run through all my intestines, into my digestive tract, bonding with the quarter piece of bagel and lox from this morning, that I really shouldn’t be eating on my low carb diet, and last night’s vegetable couscous made with chickpeas, pumpkin, sweet potato and cabbage. I would then have to shit in a bag for the next week, sifting through my excrement like a bounty hunter through Mexico. Then, even if I doused it in bleach, even if I got it professionally cleaned, every time I’d look at it and watch it glitter in the sun, all I would see is shit. Thus, subjecting myself to a lifetime of guilt-ridden, OCD washing like Lady Macbeth. Consequently, I’d be forced to sell the ring, cause I couldn’t wear it anymore, devaluing it by 50% in the black market. Shit. Therefore, not only would Charles lose the ring, but I would lose it as well. Shit. As I was thinking all these things, I realized it just wasn’t worth it.
Regretfully, I spit the ring back into the empty martini glass, watching Billy all the while.
Old Billy boy starts laughing a grumbling sort of eruption, deep and low till it turned into a roaring bellow. He pats me on the back with his huge hands and grabs me by the shoulders so he wouldn’t fall over from laughter.
“Let’s get another round over here!” he snaps his fingers at the bartender. “For a minute there I thought you were gone do it.”
“Yea me too”
“Don’t be upset. You don’t have to prove a thing to me. You hear me?” He lifts up my chin. “Let’s have another drink and forget about the whole damn thing.”
So, we drink to forget. We drink to talk. We drink to drink. Two boobs turn into four boobs and our fog prince turns into a king puffed up with royal liquid courage. He’s showing off, grabbing on my thigh, smelling my hair; it’s time to take this party elsewhere.
“Thanks for making me feel better Billy. I have dinner plans and my phone is broken so my friends can’t reach me. I have to go home to call them.”
“Wait, wait don’t go! You can call them from my hotel room. It’s right upstairs”
“No, no, I shouldn’t.”
“Aww come on baby. It’s my last night in town and I really,” dramatic pause, “I really feel a connection with you. Come upstairs, we’ll order a magnum bottle of champagne and some steaks. You can call your friends and invite them over, it’ll be a huge party. I don’t give a damn!”
“Who do you think I am, Pretty Woman?”
He’s laughing like a little boy, drooling and all. He scratches at his 5 o’clock shadow and thinks fast.
“I don’t want to have sex with you if that’s what you’re worried about. You look like you could use a friend is all. And we seem to be getting along just fine. Why kill the night?”
That’s the best game I’ve heard tonight. The classic ‘I don’t want to have sex with you’ nice touch.
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been so nice to me already; I don’t want to intrude. Honestly, I barely even know you.”
“Come on Maria this is the damn Plaza Hotel. You’re safe here and if I do anything to upset you, you can just leave.”
“I’m not scared of you. If anything, you should be scared of me.” I try to warn him.
“Yea, yea I’m terrified baby. So, what’s up, do we got a deal or what?”
“No deal. I’ll escort you upstairs because you’re drunk. I’ll call my friends and tell ‘em to pick me up from here and that’s that.”
“Wow you read my mind. Just this morning I was asking my brother for the number to his NYC escort service.”
“What? What’s an escort service?”
It’s better to act stupid around guys, they’ll never see you coming. Stroking a man’s ego is the ultimate foreplay. Plus, when a guy thinks you’re smarter than him, they get all insecure and immediately dismiss you. It’s like that Sex and the City episode when Miranda was at a speed dating event and every time, she told a guy she’s a lawyer, they’d act indifferent, turned off and quickly move on. So, Miranda smarted up and switched up her flow. The second she lied and said she’s a flight attendant, she got so many advances, phone numbers and dates which not only boosted her confidence, but it also made her become beautiful. She was literally radiating with a feminine sexual glow. So, I sat there and twirled my hair as if I had no idea what he was talking about.
“I know that. It was a bad joke”
“Oh, I dunno, you’re really drunk.’
“Yes, you’re right, that’s why I need you to walk me to my room”
“Ok and then I’m leaving”
“Ok”
Hand in hand we bust through the lobby, giggling madly about everything and nothing. Billy boy keeps trying to mark his territory and slap my ass in front of the crowd, but I’m too quick to let him, or maybe he’s too drunk to aim.
Alone in the elevator he tries to kiss my lips, grab my tits, squeeze my waist. Annoyed I push him off. He then changes tactic to be the sweet type, holding my hand and looking deep into my eyes with his glassy pools of vodka. He’s barely tipsy, just drunk with pride off about five martinis.
We get off the elevator and walk down the long hallway hand in hand, both of us nervous as if we just left the prom with all its promises. I wouldn’t know actually; I never went to my prom.
