Goose single

Goose, single, paid in full, no tab. Glance of interest from the male bartender with his could-be-either vibe. Andro. Does he care? My eyes open to make sure he watches as I slug the room-temp shot down in an unflinching gulp. It doesn’t burn and I want him, them, whoever, to know it doesn’t. It. Doesn’t. 

There are coloured string lights and stale ale in the air. Lots of thrifted gone-to-waste records on the ceiling and a million polaroids of dogs. A thousand dogs, a hundred million dogs on the wall. How or why they’re there is lost on me and the bartender places the glowing point of sale in front of me and leaves. Ten and a two-buck-ish tip. I noticed the options were eighteen, twenty, and twenty five percent instead of the normal ten, fifteen, and twenty. It’s cute, I like it. This economy, I sympathize. But I pick eighteen. We’re seated now and the others are about a third into their drinks. She’s ordered a pina colada and her sister’s got some weird sugarball cocktail the colour of her nails. They match, she says, as she passes it around for everyone to try. Her boyfriend is a little bit less into his IPA but the name is cool, something like Bone-pile or Skull-maze. Either way it’s very citrusy, everyone says, as he finally gets it back from the round. The pina colada was very sweet and thick. The waitress comes around with a stack of thin plastic menus after we’d been attempting to scan the godawful QR code on the table. Kept bringing us to the drink menu, that’s it, and nothing else. Unhelpful, and by the time we figure out how to manually type ‘menu’ after the final forward-slash, she arrives, with the pamphlets and a big toothy grin. Round white teeth and a decent gum to tooth ratio. She’s chunky. It takes a bit but all six of us order. I’m second up and I get fries, a burger, and gravy. She wonders if we want more drinks and everyone is good but I think about it. Internal, never spoken, and she leaves. The pub is filled with people like us waiting for food and it’s loud-ish. Motley Crue comes on and I’m in the middle of the table. Two on each side and three across from me, and a wall of pictures and magazine cutouts in high-definition technicolour is the backdrop. Over her blonde head I see a picture of Jimi Hendricks with googly eyes on it. There’s a baby picture of Anne Hathaway and next to her is a sticker that says “Bob is Dead.”I catch a look at myself in a mirror on the far wall and the music fades. My friends conversation about maybe nothing turns into a garble and I’m very settled on the stool. Another, I think. Then I shake it off. We’re laughing about how her sister honked at a man peeing on the side of the road, how ridiculous, when the waitress comes back with a tray of waters. It’s busy and she’s short so it takes a bit to get them all sorted out. Watch your elbows. Anything else, she asks. Everyone shakes their heads and I trail her thick rear back to the bar, back to the bartender, back to the black door that swings shut behind her. And I linger. The bottle stands frosted above everything else, Goose, and I catch eyes with the bartender again but turn back to the conversation, and I’ve missed the question they asked and have to say, What?What did you order? She asks. The burger with fries and gravy, I repeat.

Which burger? Her sister asks. 

The, uh, I glance over my shoulder, again the bartender is looking, the burger of the month, I say slowly.

Mm, they reply, and the music and their chatter carries on. 

A pile of shiny orange appetizers arrive in a paper-lined plastic basket and we all take some with forks and blow on them until the steam clears but it wasn’t enough to cool them so I chug some water to quell the burn in my mouth. 

I didn’t think these would be this good, she says. Her sister agrees and her boyfriend takes another without blowing and shuffles it around in his mouth for a while, nodding. I take another and it sits on my fork for a while. The door opens and closes with a chime. A man and woman, about forty, come in and are seated instantly next to us. 

Drinks? The waitress asks. 

Their answers are muffled and again I’m watching her tell the bartender something. Above his head from where he stands is the blue-gray bottle and again I wonder about it. Another? Do I, do I not. I gauge how intoxicated I am, I have to drive after, and calculate exactly how much time between now, sitting with some food in front of me, if I could possibly fit another shot in before driving. People are talking but this decision is so important, can I drive home after another? Will my blood-alcohol be over the limit? Yes, but it’s only a five-minute drive to the BnB, and if you act quickly, you can get it, eat, sit, and leave without guilt. We’re down to the last five buffalo bites, one left for everyone, and the door chimes again and the music is louder now, some hit from the seventies or eighties, the one they covered in the Motley Crue movie, when they pick up the blonde guy, is there some theme with the band tonight? The waitress, shrill, yells to the door that she’ll be right there. The people next to us thank her as she places a short clear glass of watery-liquor… maybe… Goose… and a heady beer like the citrusy one at our table. I turn to look at the door. The guy’s cap and nose and a bit of gut stick out from the corner teetering in and out, and I check over my shoulder and catch eyes again, is he obsessed with me? with the bartender. Another, act quick, it’s fine. 

I get up. They look up from the table and continue, not that important, maybe, but it feels…

I’m gonna grab another, I say. 

She nods, asks with her hands, are you good to drive?

I nod. 

Do you want someone else to drive? She mouths. 

No, I say. I’m half way to the bar when the bartender, his tan skin and piercing eyes, looks at me. 

Another, I say, waving my finger around, oh so cool.

What did you have? He asks.

Uh, Goose.

He nods, slaps a shot glass in front of me and pours up to the lip. Has the sale machine ready as I pick it up, slug it down burning and brutal this time, and put it back down. Eighteen percent, approved, back to the table. How did he not remember?

The food arrives and my vision is a little jilted. The door opens but I don’t look. Whatever gravity the bar, the waitress, the chiming, had on me has ceased and instead I’m regretful for the second drink and I eat my burger silently in gigantic bites. My keys go to another guy at the table and I sit in the backseat home.

*