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Tonight is like any other shitty weeknight, and yet here you are, working it. It’s late—around 2 A.M., last time you checked your watch—and there’s barely any traffic. Of course there’s no traffic, it’s a fucking weeknight, and the high-class bar you work at isn’t meant for clubbing like the other joints around here. Polar has standards! Sure, your target audience of high rollers in sharp three-piece suits don’t ever show up until Friday and Saturday nights, but it’s better than having the place sullied by idiots who spill your hard-shaken drinks everywhere.
Alas, it’s a Tuesday night, which means everyone is either working, asleep, or out at one of the trashier places nearby for a quick fix. You’ve got the occasional well-dressed poser trying to impress their date with their knowledge of a mixed drink that isn’t a bloody mary or a rum and Coke, but whatever they order pisses you off because of how pretentious it is, so you usually ignore them. Yes, that garners annoyance, but why should you care? They’ll learn to quit being a prick and order normally, you’ll give them the best damn drink they’ve ever had, and now they’re one of your regulars. Problem solved.
…Well, that’s only one problem solved, and it’s usually the smallest on your nightly roster. There are much bigger things for you to worry about, such as whether you’ve got bathroom cleaning duty tonight or if you could just dump it on that new hire Shirogane. The fact that you forgot to replenish your stash of cigarettes and now have nothing to do on your smoke break is another thing, and the biggest worry of all is whether or not that piece of s—
“Rooock! Oh Roooooooock~~! It’s me, your bestest pal ever~~!”
—hit Idate was going to show up tonight. Which he does. Fucking awesome. As he dances in through the door, you look longingly at a near-empty bottle of scotch and wonder whether it’d be easier to knock him or yourself out with it.
Idate, stupid shithole that he is, slides right onto the barstool closest to you. You tisk and scoot away, but he follows. You try to keep going—there’s a group of people in his way, so surely he’ll be stopped, right?
Wrong! Idate simply pushes the patrons off of their seats like it’s a normal thing to do. He’s grinning his famous shark-toothed grin at you while he does it, and for a totally unrelated reason, you’re remembering that one movie about how crimes became legal for 48 hours. You ask him what the hell he wants in the most pissed-off tone you can possibly muster. It was the least he deserved.
“Aw, c’mon, Rocky-boy! Do ya re~ally need to ask your best customer what he wants?” Idate whines in a play-pout voice. You repeat your question, harder this time. Idate sighs heavily and drags himself back to his original seat, you following after him.
Strangely, he’s a little quieter when he settles in—normally, he’d be talking your ear off until you threw something at him. You try not to think about this change in attitude too much, but his drink order throws you off: straight whiskey on the rocks. Now you were thinking a little harder. Normally, he would order something stupidly outrageous, like a Blue Hawaiian or something equally as tropical and eye-blindingly horrible to look at. A whiskey on the rocks is typical of your other customers. What’s up with this guy?
You cautiously grab one of the bottles of whiskey from the rack, keeping an eye on Idate. He’s just sitting there, occasionally swaying. You figure he’s pregamed before coming here, but even still! You’ve seen what he’s like when he’s tipsy, buzzed, drunk, and smashed. You know that he passes out with his head laid on his left arm because, according to him, he’s “gotta make sure the right arm is always ready for a cig.” You know this idiot like the back of your hand, and you can safely say this isn’t his normal. You pause as Idate turns like he’s about to get out of his seat, but then sits frozen in place for a bit before turning back around and flopping back onto the bar top. What the hell?
Clearly, you’ve taken too long staring at him. He looks up at you through his bangs. “You gonna keep starin’ at me, or are you gonna get me my drink?” he huffs. The attitude snaps you back to reality; even though this guy was acting weird, he was still a jackass that liked to piss you off. You tell him you’re going to smash the glass on his head if he doesn’t shut up, then pour him his drink and slide it to him. He mutters a thanks, taking a momentary pause before actually grabbing the glass and sipping from it.
This is how the night proceeds for a while, and you focus more on Idate than you want to admit. It’s too out of place for him to act the way he’s acting tonight, but you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to say to him. Watching him slowly whittle away at his glass instead of slamming it and singsonging for another is a change you don’t like, but how do you even address that?
You decide that the best way to deal with this is to just not. You turn away from Idate and serve the other customers at the bar, but occasionally look over your shoulder at him. Not because you care at all—the silence is welcome, actually. There’s no reason why you should worry about him in any capacity. Not when he sits there doing nothing but staring at his drink, not when he starts heavily sighing every three minutes, not even when he starts muttering about “life’s a hard fight for guys like us” and “cheap liquor’s the only thing I’ve got going for me now”—
Hold the phone. What the fuck is this idiot saying? Now you’re really totally not actually concerned. You’re blatantly staring at Idate’s slumped husk, trying to make sense of everything. He had shown up already neck-deep in alcohol, but you’d thought it was just because he felt like being tipsy while he bugged you. Clearly it was more than that; if he’d been drinking to forget, then what was it that warranted forgetting? Did he blow everything at the slots? Did he get caught cheating on his girl with a side piece? Follow-up question, did he even have a girl to cheat on? Did someone die? Did his house get foreclosed on? What, what, what happened?!
Whatever it is that’s got Idate in this funk, it’s definitely a different side to him than you’ve ever seen, and it makes you realize that you don’t know as much about this guy as you think you do. He’s got a life that you aren’t a part of, and while you’re thankful for that, you also understand that it could entail a hell of a lot more tragedy than you’ve ever known. You’re just a barkeep. You don’t do anything crazy with your life.
But what you are good at is listening and giving barkeep-erly advice. Even to a customer as stupid, annoying, and shootable as this one, you know when you need to extend an olive branch. You shake your head, grumble to yourself, and excuse yourself to the patrons you had previously been serving. Idate doesn’t move to acknowledge you, which doesn’t bother you like it usually does. At this point, every little annoyance turns into background noise—you’ve got a patron and you’ll be damned if you don’t give him service.
You grab a few bottles from around your stores and set to work. Using some of your nicer stuff, you whip up a simple Manhattan, complete with a cherry. Without saying a word, you slide it to Idate—and it’s then that he looks up to face you. He’s confused, and you return with an eyeroll. You simply tell him to take it, which he does.
After taking a sip, Idate is clearly surprised. It’s not often that you use your good alcohol—especially for the likes of him—and it’s evident that he acknowledges the jump in quality (from GREAT to GREATER, you’d like to clarify). He looks like he’s about to say something, but you stop him.
You tell him that you get it, life sucks, but that you’d never let a stupid guy like him get down in the dumps about that kind of crap. What happened to the piece of shit that makes you want to open fire on anything in your bar that moves? What happened to the guy that could take punches to the face, broken glass to the gut, and whatever other miscellaneous bar fight nonsense with the toothiest fucking grin on his face? Everyone’s got their days, but for Idate, you know they’re never this bad, so could he quit looking sorry for himself and drink ‘till he’s stupid?
(You don’t mention that tonight’s drinks are on you—you’re not feeling that nice. But they are on you.)
While you’re huffing and puffing about Idate’s mood, the man in question just sits there. He’s not even drinking the drink you made him. You notice and squint at him. You snarl an inquiry at him—has he got the hots for you? Why the staring? Surprised that you have the capacity to care about your patrons? Well, he shouldn’t be. You’re the best damn barkeeper around—of course you’re going t—
You’re cut off by the sound of Idate letting out one long, exaggerated “pffffffffffft.” You snap your head to look at him and are greeted by the sight of him damn near holding back tears… of laughter. What the fuck? Why the hell is he laughing?
Before you can interrogate him, Idate bursts into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. His arms sweep to his stomach and he bends over, laughing like someone just told the world’s best joke. You have the sneaking suspicion this is about your vulnerability.
Sure as FUCKING shit, Idate starts flapping his big mouth. “You–ha–you think that–hahah–that I was being serious?!” he pipes, now supporting his face with a hand. You wish he’d die without saying anything else. Seriously. You can feel red-hot embarrassment fighting its way up your skin, but you’d rather seat yourself in an electric chair than let him see. “Haha~! That’s rich! Ohh, that’s rich, Rocky!”
You glower at Idate, demanding he explain. He doesn’t take long to divulge. “Oh, I can’t believe this. You haven’t been watching that new show that came out on Iceflix—Love on Thin Ice? The one with that broody freak Samekichi?”
Oh, God. Your embarrassment burns hotter. You have been watching Love on Thin Ice—the one with that broody freak Samekichi. It’s not totally your thing, but your neighbor Yukisada wanted someone to talk about it with, and you like him well enough or whatever, so, well… it’s not like you like the stupid show or anything. Regardless, Samekichi is a card of a main character; knowing the kind of emo shit he says in those episodes, you’re dreading what Idate’s going to say next.
“Holy shit, he’s a riot, ain’t he?” Idate giggles. “He’s all, ‘My life is as deep and black as the sea. Nobody knows the pain I’m in,’ and it’s so funny. I thought about some of his lines and tried acting like him! What kinda shit goes through his mind when he says stuff like that, anyways~?”
No fucking way did Idate just tell you he was LARPing Samekichi from Love on Thin Ice. In your bar. With you actually falling for it. Slamming an entire bottle of whiskey from your stock sounds really good right now.
“Ahh, and the funniest part is that you thought I actually meant what I was saying. Didja seriously think that I’d say stuff like that?” Idate’s targeting you now, and you’re losing goodwill by the gallon with every second this continues. “Really, man, my life’s great. It’s awesome. I just come here to get smashed on weekdays ‘cuz I can and there’s no consequence. Sorry you’ve never gotten the chance to do the same~!”
You crack. You’ve had enough of this idiot; not only did he bait and switch you, but he’s toying with you for showing kindness! You’re tired of him! You reach under the bar and cock your entirely necessary, entirely legal-to-have-on-the-premises shotgun. By this point, Idate’s the only one left in the bar, so you don’t have to worry about repercussions. As you yank the muzzle up to Idate’s stupid head, your bothersome guest gets the picture.
“Ooh, looks like I’ve used up all of your patience for the night,” he chirps, hopping out of his seat. “Too bad—I didn’t get to finish the drink you made for me! Guess I’ll just have to come back next time for it.”
You tell him he’s got five seconds, and then start counting down. Idate’s gone before two, laughing all the way, and you take a seat so you can bury your bright red face in your hands. God damn, you need a fucking smoke.