beer

The bar was filled with damp, beery air, but not a lot of noise.  This wasn't really strange.  It was Wednesday night, after all.  The bartender leaned back against the mirror, the college kids racked up on the pool table, the rest of the customers gazed stonily into their half full glasses.  Young William Alberts drummed the bar restlessly with his left-hand fingers.  Finally the bartender glanced at him and said, "Dude, just drink your beer or order another one, or something.  You're freakin' me out with that face you're making."  Young Alberts looked up.  "What face is that, Danny?  I'm not making any goddam face."  The bartender rolled his eyes and looked back to the room, making sure everybody was behaving.  "What face, Danny?  I'm serious."  Young Alberts had straightened up and was looking earnestly over at the bartender now, with just a hint of worry in his voice.

At that moment, the door to the bar opened and a small crowd of young women hustled in.  They were about the same age as the pool players, likely from the same school given the size of the town.  Neither group acknowledged the other, though.  The girls tumbled over to a booth, amid giggles and hair flings, and piled in, four or five to a side.  The bartender stared at them incredulously.  The customers hadn't even raised their eyes to the disturbance.  Young Alberts leaned over the bar and almost whispered, "What's up, Dan, they give ya problems before?"  The bartender rubbed his forehead and eyes with vigorous irritation.  "Christ, Alberts, just mind your own business."

They both waited for a while, letting the new crowd settle down, and finally a couple of pony-tailed representatives trotted over to the bar.  "So we gotta order at the bar, or what?"

"You see any waiters?" the bartender motioned with his hand.

The two looked around the room like birds at a puddle.  "Well, can we get a pitcher at our table then?"

"Pitcher a' what?"

"Whatever's cheap today."  And the ponytails swayed on the way back to their herd.

The bartender audibly growled as he filled a pitcher with PBR - from cans.  Young Alberts studied the group at the table.  "Hey, Danny..."

"Don't even ask, Alberts, it's not worth it."

But Young William Alberts had been captivated by one of the young women in the booth.  She wasn't as bubbly as her friends, in fact she was almost solemn in her demeanor.  She had the same long light-colored hairstyle, looking like it was probably helped out chemically in its coloring.  Her clothes  were the same style and color scheme.  But there was just something...different.  Maybe it was her expression.  Not serious exactly, she was smiling.  But it wasn't the shiny, toothy smile the others had.    Young Alberts could swear that she was thinking about being somewhere else.

The bartender left the pitcher at the tables and hustled back to the bar to cries of, "But we need cups, come onnnnnnn!"  He gathered up half-pint glasses from behind the bar and shot Young Alberts another warning glance before going over to deliver them.

He came back to the bar and stared for a moment at Young Alberts before saying, "I know you're checking out Soledad.  Just forget about it, dude."

"Soledad?  Not Soledad Quiroga?"

"The very same."

"Holy shit, I thought she was a maneater."

"She is, don't let the sorority girl outfit fool you."

Young Alberts stared with even more interest at the booth and at the calmest woman in it.  He drained his glass, in the vain hope that it would give him courage, and stayed put right on his bar stool.  He was both surprised and exhilerated to see the girl of his dreams walking over to the bar all of a sudden.  She did not, however, give him the slightest glance.  She leaned over the bar and said in a low and syrupy voice, "Can I get a pint of good lager over here?"

The bartender coughed and rolled his eyes again.  "Good lager, you say?  What's wrong with what you and your buddies got?"

She looked at him with an expression of patience and pity.  "You know how beers are, you know what I mean."

They locked eyes for a good minute and the bartender poured a pint from the tap.

"Just leave it on the bar," she said, pulling out the money for the pint, "The right one will ask for it."

The bartender smirked and said, "How the fuck will I know the right one?"

"You'll know," replied Soledad Quiroga, prancing her way back to her friends, glancing over her shoulder.

"Hey, Danny," said Young Alberts, "I feel like a pint about now."

"Fuck off, Alberts," said the bartender.

And the evening went on, with pool, giggling, and a beer on the bar.

Young Alberts couldn't help glancing at the pint every minute or so, with eyes of longing, although who could tell if it was longing for the beer or for the girl who had it set there.

The night dragged on, as nights like these tend to do, and little by little the bar emptied.  The collegiate pool players went home, their money having made rounds in all their pockets.  The few regulars eased out into the dark like puffs of smoke.  The table of pitcher beer drinkers was among the last to be cleared.  Young Alberts was also still at his post at the bar.  The pint was still there on the end.  When the herd was passing him, Alberts felt in his gut that it was his last chance and he hopped off his stool and grabbed up the pint, spilling a good third of it.  The bartender groaned from behind the bar, disgustedly.  Alberts raised the glass and rasped, "Here's t'you, Soll-a-dad!"  He poured what he thought was a respectable swallow into his mouth and waited for her calm, sexy approach.

It was a long wait.

Not really.  Just a couple of seconds until the gaggle of girls burst into shrill, alcohol enhanced laughter, and Young Alberts gaped at them like a startled dog at the garage.  Soledad Quiroga was in the middle of the pack, flanked by her guards as it were, shaking her head angrily.

"Wull, ya didn't akshully say who th' right one was gunna be," slurred Alberts, trying to save face.

"It sure as hell wasn't you," she snapped, and turned to lead her flock safely home.

"Mussa bin onna them pool pricks," concluded Alberts.

"Yeah, sure.  It's a different right one every night and he never gets his fucking beer, then some asshole like you grabs it, spills all over, and pisses her off," snapped the bartender.  "At least she didn't start a fight this time.  I guess you have some sense after all, waiting until closing, you drunk bucket of pre-shit."

"Waddaya mean, she alliz gets a beer for the bar?" wheezed Young Alberts.

"Yep.  Every damn time she's in here.  Her bait for Mr. Right, I guess.  I don't know what headfucking chick flick she saw that dumbshittery in."

The bar now completely empty and only Alberts was swaying on the floor while the bartender wiped down moist, dark surfaces.  Suddenly he looked up like he had forgotten he wasn't alone and shouted, "What the fuck christ, Alberts, go the fuck home!"  And Young Alberts, startled once again by a loud noise, waddled out the door to the street.

Although they say cool air clears a drunken head, it isn't really true, especially not for Young William Alberts.  He was as wasted as he was in the warmth of the bar when he started stumbling down the street, on the way to his bed, to tell himself about how he almost got with Soledad Quiroga.