Chapter Text
The seats are either a dirty brown or a bottle green, and the ceiling is yellowed from smoke. All together, the colors clash in a comfortably mismatched way. I know where there’s a small crevice on the horizontal flat of the oakwood bar that my elbow fits nicely into. It’s lined up with the third green stool from the front door, and it’s my favorite seat. The beer taps are just to my left, which means I can often talk to Jamia even when she’s moving around. She’ll always hover around the taps, and if she needs to serve someone she returns to them to fetch their order. There’s always something sketchy going on in the far left corner, but that doesn’t matter. It’s safe. Or safe enough, considering this is New Jersey we’re talking about.
There’s a new bartender; she slides my pint onto the table for me, and I nod in thanks. I’m not in the mood for much talking, although usually I’d be trying to hit on her. She’s hot, no one’s denying that, and the way her leather skirt hugs her hips shows off her ass nicely. But I’m not in the mood.
“Goggling the newbie already?”
I only roll my eyes in response to Jamia, not even flinching when she saunters up to me and lays her arms on the counter. “Yeah, sure. But I’m not taking anyone home tonight.”
She laughs, barely even acknowledging my abruptness. “Really? Then get your eyes off her butt, big guy.” Damn, that girl’s got balls. If she was saying that to any other guy, she’d be in for it.
“Lay it off. I’m serious,” I warn bluntly, but honestly I don’t mind her pestering. It’s just that I’m not in the mood.
From where she’s standing behind the counter, she looks small. It’s funny how wearing an apron can degrade your appearance so well. People who don’t know the area think they can pick her up and fling her out a window, easy-peasy. Rookie mistake – she could knock you flat if she wanted to. It’s all too easy to fall for the sweet doll-face illusion. I guess it’s the same with me. I seem to know what I’m doing. Cocky and confident. All the time, cocky and confident. Not right now. I’m tired and stressed and dreading the coming weeks. I still keep up the cocky and confident act, because frankly it’s the only thing I know how to do well. Except for maybe guitar. But that’s about it.
“So, you’re off tomorrow? On the midwest leg?”
“Yeah, three weeks,” I hiss, trying to hold back the slight note of disappointment. I’m going off for three weeks in a place I don’t know with a band that’s falling apart. Fucking great.
“You packed?” she asks, flicking her black hair over her shoulder and leaning her head on her hand.
“Yep.” I brace myself for a fuss over nothing.
“Underwear?”
“Yep.”
“Deodorant?”
“Yep.”
“Food?”
“For God’s sake, you’re not my fucking mom.” I pause. “But now that you mention it, I should probably get some more. Neil’s gonna eat all my cereal again, I bet.”
She raises an eyebrow and points a playfully accusing finger at me. “See? I am helpful sometimes.”
Yeah, though I wish you could help me with this bad feeling I have in my gut about tomorrow.
We chat on and off as she serves other customers filing in. It’s 10pm now, and I’m on my second pint. Usually I stay until about midnight, and then I go home with some girl and we fuck and then I leave her by the next morning. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m heading home alone and going straight to sleep. I’m tired. Fuck it.
I’ve noticed the new bartender girl that served me earlier has a tattoo down her arm. It’s clearly in progress, but so far there’s a rooster head at the top of her shoulder, some octopus tentacles running further downward, and a skull on the inside of her bicep that’s only visible when she stretches out to hand someone a drink. It suits her, actually. She’s got these startling brown eyes and sharp cheekbones, and her red lipstick makes her look borderline goth. But, all put together, it suits her. And she seems nice enough, from what I’ve seen. I’d fuck her. If I was in the mood.
It’s about quarter past midnight when I decide to head off. Jamia notices me leaving, and dashes over to catch my arm. She’s got a tight grip, and even semi-drunk I can feel through her strong fingers that she’s genuinely sympathetic.
“Hey. Good luck. Text me if you need it, okay?”
I turn to face her, leaning a little into her hand. “Yeah, sure.”
“Also, are you gonna shave before you go? And I’m still not sure about those dreadlocks on you. Make you look a decade older.”
“That’s the point,” I shrug, and turn to leave. No one questions me when I go to buy a beer, because I look at least 25 with dreads. Not that Jamia would question me, though. She knows I’m underaged. But I’ve been a regular at this bar since I was 18, and now I’m almost 21. She doesn’t let me go stupid on alcohol. And I’ve got a fake ID as backup if need be, so I’m safe.
“Seriously, Frank. Take care of yourself. I know what you’re like. And don’t kill any of your bandmates either.”
“I’ll try not to,” I reply, and I turn to leave, waving over my shoulder, shoving the front door open to step out onto a gloomy street. I turn left and walk quickly down the pathway, head down, hands in pockets. The evening air’s got a bite, and I make haste when I feel the frost starting to get in my hair. I’ve trodden on a million cigarette butts by the time I reach the door of my apartment block.
I nearly trip on the second flight of stairs up to my place, and I fumble around with my keys before getting the lock undone. Once I’m inside the room I throw myself on the couch. A cloud of dust rises up when I collapse on the cushions. I feel the lethargy creeping up on me as I kick my shoes off and roll onto my side. I just wanna sleep. My cell phone makes a noise telling me I’ve received a text. I’m not in the mood.