Work Text:
And so, I'm offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two.
The promised winter storm was shaping up nicely. The digital juke box had been primed with enough credit and Christmas carols to inspire nostalgia in a stone, and, hopefully, a deep longing for home.
That means you, and you and you, too, buddy.
Outside headlights threw broken beams through the window and waves of slush on the sidewalk. It was 1:45 a.m. Christmas morning and the temperature was dropping.
José, in the kitchen, had just dropped the steam hood on the last load of pans. Harry, in front, was turning chairs on the tables, while Joe stood watch by the cash register. It was the best place to keep an eye on the Usual Suspects—tonight’s band—who were clustered at the other end of the bar—and take care of his own pre-closing chores. It also happened to be where the security system lived under the counter and, currently, where he had stashed his phone. With the sound off, he wanted to be able to catch the glow, if the screen lit up.
It had been a quiet evening, although a late rush looking for hot crab dip and nightcaps had shown up after the churches let out. Those folks had gone but four of the Usual Suspects with a coterie of followers were holding down the fort, with the couple on the floor, swaying with their arms wrapped tight around each other. Last, but not least, a tall slender man bent over a pinball machine, in the back room where the lights—except for the Exit sign—were off. The music mostly covered the soft whoosh/bang of the game in progress. In fifteen minutes, they could all be swept out the door with a broom
Dolly Parton seemed to do it.
Go tell it on the mountain…
Too country.
The lovers walked off the floor and began to put on their coats.
Joe willed that Suspects take the hint, and one of them did get off his stool but just look around vaguely for his coat, or the way to the Men’s?
It could have been either and, just then, the door blew open admitting an energizing blast of cold air and four twenty-somethings of the male persuasion. Ejecta, clearly, from Tibbett’s, the sports bar in the middle of the next block down but one, their cheeks were as shiny as mercury ornaments. They were wearing red and white Seacouver State Wolverine jerseys and faux fur-trimmed Santa hats. Glitter was involved. Silver. And lots of it.
The Usual Suspects, to a man, were Olympic Orcas, and allergic to glitter. They began to ululate like a tribe of bonobos defending their territory.
“Boo-whoooooo.”
“Loooosers!”
“Hosers!”
“Out!” Joe yelled. “All of you out! Go! Get! And shut the damn door behind you!”
“Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“We only want a drink.”
“Jus’ one little drinky.”
“Too late! Last call.”
“Says who?”
“Me!”
“No drinky-poos?”
“No!”
“It’s ten minutes to twelve!” Someone consulted their oracle. “Plenty of time.”
“Yeehah!”
The newcomers swarmed the bar.
“No!”
“We won’t go until we get some. We won’t go until we get some.”
As the glitterati began singing, Joe could hear, under the racket, the chimes of pinball clickers posting a high score.
Harry and José (who had come out of the kitchen with a broom, and an apron balled around his fist) awaited the signal. Joe was about to give it, when the drunkest jersey raised his hands in a bid for attention.
“God rest ye merry…uh…gentlemen…” He paused, recalled, and turned, swaying, to the couple, who had stayed to watch the show. “And…ladies.”
He bowed and, enunciating carefully, said, “The drinks are on us.”
The Suspects, also to man, were bigger fans of free booze than football, began to cheer but then went quiet, remembering their tabs where still outstanding.
Everyone waited for Joe’s reaction.
In that moment, in the dark, under the bar, his phone lit up like a Christmas tree and told him that somewhere the other plungerroo had caught the Lazarus ball.
He glared at it, until someone griped, “You heard the man, Brah. He’s paying.”
Joe looked up. Hopeful faces looked back.
“It’s on the house,” he said.
“It’s a fucking Christmas miracle!” someone said, with reverence.
No one called in the violation. Or else the man at the Liquor Board had better things to do.
Gifted with Santa hats, Joe and Harry spent the next hour-and-a-half popping the caps off bottles of Ghost Fish.
Sinatra crooned, while a chorus of incoming texts vibrated for attention under the counter. Joe ignored them.
By 3:30 a.m. it was done.
The last two drunks left together, heading for who knew where but swearing life-long friendship. Harry and José had gone home with bonus checks in their pockets, and the red Neon sign that said Joe’s was dark.
Joe took two shot glasses from under the bar and called out to the dark.
“It’s over.”
There was the reverb of a spring-loaded plunger letting go, multiple times, and the pinging of silver balls as they bounced off the solenoids.
That was followed by a massive explosion of the volcano on the back glass of the pinball machine spewing blue, purple, red, and orange waves of lava. The visuals came with derisive whistles and, last, a lugubrious voice that intoned, ‘You lose’.
Methos shimmered into perception, sheathed in black cords and a suede driving jacket. He reversed one of the low backed bar stools and straddled it.
Joe had one glass half full of Jack Daniels. When he started to pour the other, Methos reached out and pushed on the neck of the bottle until the glass was brimmed. He drained it in one gulp and shoved the glass toward Joe.
“Shoot you in the other foot?”
“Please,” Methos said.
“Want to hear the details?”
Methos shook his head and drank.
“I’ll read the reports later.”
“Going to be like that, is it?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Patronize me.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Tell me something,” Joe said, refreshing the glasses. “What’s the most boring job you’ve ever had?”
“You’re not drinking.”
Methos pulled the bottle out of Joe’s hand and filled both glasses to his satisfaction.
“My apologies.” Joe took a healthy swallow. Methos took a healthier one. “It’s just that for a man who says boring is all the bees’ right knees, you take some hellacious risks.”
“Okay. Artist’s model.”
“Liar.”
“No, seriously. I was Michelangelo’s bum boy.” He caught Joe’s expression. “You know all those butts in the Last Judgement? Pretty much me.”
“I asked for that.” Joe snorted. “Why did he fire you?”
“Who said I was fired?”
“I’m getting to know you.”
“There was a flea bite on my ass. You can still see it in the fresco. It itched and I scratched. The Master went off his nut. He was screaming ‘il diavolo vola via con te!’. He kicked me off the scaffold and I broke my neck. Don’t. Laugh. You cock a snook and hold it for an hour.”
“What happened then?”
“The Guardie Svizzere threw me in the Tiber.”
“No. What happened to Michelangelo?”
“Nothing. He was Michelangelo. Clearly my fault.” Methos started to take another drink but paused with the glass halfway to his mouth. “That was a good gig.”
“But it doesn’t sound boring.”
Setting the glass down Methos began to laugh.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I was one of Caesar’s scribes?”
“Julius?”
“Yes.”
“Pull the other one.”
“No, listen. There were ten of us. We followed him everywhere, jotting down everything—the weather, the outcome of battles, and his immortal words. Every fucking immortal word! And then we’d sit around all night and clean them up for posterity. If you’re going to do time as a slave, you’ve got to have skills that will keep you out of the galleys.
“Who do you think came up with “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres…’?
“I have no idea.”
Methos hopped off the stool, turned, danced a few steps, and looked back over his shoulder at Joe. Thrusting his hip out, he licked his thumb, touched it to his ass and hissed like a snake.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“I believe you. That’s a very fetching pose, by the way.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”
“I won’t, but I can’t help but feel you’ll hold it against me if I don’t tell you you’re covered with glitter. Especially between the thighs.”
“Oh, shit!” Methos looked down at the front of his jacket, and at his cords. Swiping at his crotch just made it worse. “Cak!” He stopped, straightened, and looked toward the back exit.
Joe picked up the bottle of JD.
“One for the road?”
“Gotta run.” Methos paused mid-lurch. “Will you be all right?
“Yes. Touch base later.”
Methos was gone in a shower of silver.
Since his glass was still healthy, Joe put the bottle down, reached under the counter, and fiddled with the screen that ran the security cameras’ feed until he had an enlarged bird’s eye view of the alley.
He could see the Cherokee parked with its engine running, and Methos had MacLeod slammed up against it in a full body clinch. It wasn’t the clearest image—too much snow falling for that—but he could see a silvery sparkle had been transferred from Methos’ crotch to MacLeod’s thighs.
There was plenty of glitter to go around—and around—from desperate hands to shoulders and hair. The dry cleaners would be having a time.
When his conscience finally gave him a third poke, he reset the view and retrieved the phone. Time for a last walk-around. His guitar was still in the rest on the band stage.
There he sat and pulled out his phone to finally read the long string of texts. Friendly relations weren’t to be expected but they were professional, for the most part. Only the last one suggested that he go fuck himself with a two-by-four. Kincaid’s watcher would be recalled to Paris for retraining and a new assignment. Don’t get attached. And never bet on your own man.
Joe put the phone away, took up his guitar and began to play.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…
Finis
December 24, 2023