Story Bartender

It’s eight o’clock on a Friday, the regular crowd meanders in. No, this isn’t a story about the Piano Man, this is a story about the Story Bartender.

He’s run this saloon for as long as anyone in the neighborhood can remember. They all know his face but no one knows his name.

“Call me Story.” He always tells them.

Serving up stories for those in need.

Story wipes the bar, clearing it of a few scraps of paper and a loose binding to an old book about underground monsters. Someone enters the door and approaches the bar. Someone he’s never seen before. A big, burly man, beard dark and matted with sweat.

“How’s the night going?” Story asks.

“Uneventful.” The burly man responds. “A little boring. And hot. Looking for some way to cool down and… have my interest piqued. Gotta head off to work soon, though. Working overnight.”

Story gets his shaker, and a couple ingredients. He begins mixing while he talks.

“I got something for ya. In these scenarios, I find it best to have a little mix, one part fantasy, one part horror. You’re not going to sleep tonight anyway. A quick 5-minute read.”

Story places the concoction on the bar. A story titled “Ghost and Tonic.”

“Of course, there’s many stories like this. But this is the bar’s brand. Hope you like it.”

The burly man dives right in. A tall, thin man with dark circles under his eyes wanders over to the bar, lacking energy. He plops down on a seat.

“What ails you, my friend?” Story asks.

“Just had a rough go of it lately.” The thin man responds. “Life’s been busy. Don’t even have much time at all. And I’m usually someone who’s so positive, so full of life and laughter… I can’t even remember the last time I laughed.”

“You like to laugh at other people's expense?” Story asks.

“Of course.”

Story is already grabbing the ingredients. “You need a pure comedy that doesn’t pull on your heart strings. You need to feel alright laughing at someone else’s pain, and you need it now, and you need it quick!”

Story hands the man “Cinnamon Demon.” A shot-sized, 5-minute story that smells like a muffin met a boozehound.

“Our own proprietary blend.”

The thin man cracks a small smile. The door to the establishment swings open as a dark woman with dark eyes and even darker hair strolls in confidently. She finds an empty seat at the bar and gazes at Story. Story gazes back. The woman wears vibrant colors and sports a vibrant smile.

“How’s the night treatin’ ya?” Story smiles.

“Quite well.” She speaks in a calculated manner. “The city is crackling with energy out there. It’s infectious, I must say. I feel electricity firing away in my brain… with nothing to direct it towards. I’m looking to challenge my mind. I want a thinker. I want entertainment.”

“You got time?” Story asks.

“Half hour or so. On a dinner break.”

“Hungry?”

“Of course.”

Story’s hands work fast and precisely. Page after page. Building the story.

“I’d recommend a fantasy sci-fi blend.” Story continues working methodically. “Something that puts you in a world not too different from our own… but at the same time… vastly different.”

“I like the sound of that.” The woman smiles.

“Our little saloon here makes a 25-minute story, better than the rest.” Story says, sliding the story to the woman. “The secret… our home-grown mint. “Mojitos and Samosas.” Enjoy.”

The woman is all too eager to leap headfirst into the combo.

“Ah, you guys have food here too?” The burly man says, his eyes wandering over.

Footsteps approach the bar. The next customer. Another new face. A man, bald, clean shaven, wearing glasses, and with a friendly demeanor finds a seat at the bar. He has the steady hands of a surgeon and smells a bit like latex and vinyl gloves.

“Looking for something in particular?” Story asks him.

“Not sure.” The bald man answers honestly. “I’m feeling good today. I got 10 minutes to kill. I feel like… like I want something deep… perhaps not too deep… fun and funny… maybe not too comedic…”

“I got ya.” Story cuts him off with a smile.

Paper cubes rattle inside a wooden shaker. The unmistakable scribbling of ink to paper… that all too satisfying sound.

“Got a good relationship with your father?” Story asks.

“Yeah, the guy gave me everything. Worked so hard for our family.”

“Perfect.” Story hands the bald man the concoction. “You want comedy… but with some drama. Perhaps a 60/40 blend, aged a couple years to perfection. You want something to pull on your heartstrings, but not too hard. There’s a lot of those out there. The way we differentiate ours from the rest… our homegrown pears. This is “My Father’s Last Gift” and I think it’s just what the doctor ordered. 10 minutes tops.”

The bald man is excited.

The burly man looks over again. “That one doesn’t have a drink in the title.”

“They don’t all have to.” Story quips.

“Homegrown limes, homegrown pears, you guys sure do a lot of home growing.” The tall, thin man mentions without looking up.

“Well, of course, we want to be unique and authentic.” As Story responds he sees yet another new customer approaching the bar.

She is thin, defined jawline, head tilted ever so slightly that if someone were to take her photo she’d be at the perfect angle. Her shoulder-length brunette hair flutters slightly as she gently sinks into a seat at the bar. An air of confidence surrounds her, as does an air of something light and citrusy.

“You look like someone who knows what you want.” Story says simply.

“At times.” The woman responds. “I’ve always known what I’ve wanted and I’ve gone for it. And I’ve gotten where I’ve wanted to get to and I’ve built a nice life for myself…”

She says this with happiness… but leaves it open-ended… as if it isn’t enough.

“Got a little bit of time?” Story asks.

“About 10 minutes.”

“I think you’re a bit nostalgic for the good ol’ days… but maybe the good ol’ days with a twist.” Story is already hard at work. “Something familiar from the past but with a drastic change that could’ve dramatically impacted the rest of your life. Coming-of-age, I believe they call it.”

Story slides the concoction over to the confident woman.

“We call it “Farmer Road” since that’s the place where every single ingredient comes from. 9-10 minutes for this one. The smokiness may feel like it comes from cigars… but it's just mezcal.”

“Mm, I love the smell of cigars.” The woman sniffs the pages of the story and dives in.

The door opens once again. In walks another face Story hasn’t seen. She glides by all the regulars, her blonde hair illuminated by the soft ceiling lights. Her light floral scent precedes her… and then her body catches up to her calming scent as she locates an open seat, slides herself slowly and smoothly on top of it, and flashes a big smile.

“How are we tonight?” Story asks.

“We are good.” The blonde woman grins. “Looking for some entertainment.”

“Got anything in mind?”

“I don’t know. I want substance. But not too much that it’s stale. I like story. I like background. But I’m a woman of action. I don’t have a usual. I like to try new things. Taste exotic flavors.”

“Got some time on your hands?”

“20-30 minutes.”

And Story is at work again. He talks while he works.

“How about a blend? Everyone likes fantasy and sci-fi. You see, those grapes always go so well together. But if you really want to bring the flavors out, you pair them with some action.”

The blonde woman watches on. Story is almost ready to pour.

“We have a fantasy and sci-fi forward blend, action on the finish. I think you’ll find this 40-40-20 blend to be perfectly balanced.”

“And from whose grapes?” The tall, thin man asks.

Story slides the blend over to the blonde woman and never breaks eye contact.

“Our own grapes. It’s “Synthetic Apparitions” but the grapes are au natural. 22-23-minute read.”

The blonde woman cracks the story open and the scent of grapes fills the air around them all. Story is ready to take a break when another foreign face enters the establishment.

Light-colored and wavy hair atop the head of a man with a friendly face. He’s middle-aged but his eyes contain the wisdom of a man old enough to be his father. He approaches the bar and locates a seat. He plops down with a sigh of exasperation.

“Sounds like it’s been a long night.” Story tells him.

“A long night at the end of a long week.” The man smirks. “But I finally have plenty of time to relax.”

“What do you need?”

“I need it all. The full spectrum. Got anything that runs the gamut?”

Story is already making it. He doesn’t even answer. He just works meticulously. In no time he is done and he places the hefty story in front of the man.

“You got time, right?” Story checks with him.

“I got nowhere to be. Planned on being here an hour or so.”

“Perfect. This is a 48-minute story right here. Like an episode from a TV drama without the commercials. It’s “Into A Healing Place” and it’s got drama, it’s got comedy, it’s got the feels, it’s got the fantasy, and really it’s got a little bit of a lot. All our house made spirits for this slow-sipper.

The man picks it up and feels the weight of it in his hands.

“Heavy.” He grins. “Just what I need.”

The door doesn’t open again for a while. Story refreshes pitchers of horrors and jugs of comedies for the regulars filling the tables. He returns behind the bar, sits down on a stool, puts his feet up, and scribbles away at another homemade mead.

**************

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