Lj Idol - Week 22 - Achille's Heel
The heavy door bumped shut behind her and she paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness of the bar.
It was mid-afternoon and mid-July. Moments before, she’d stood in a cityscape bleached bright white, glancing over the tops of her sunglasses at the wrought iron sign of a pub down a dingy alleyway.
“Dante’s” it read, the scrollwork similar to something she’d seen before, on the gates of a cemetery in Louisiana. What a fitting name on this hellaciously hot day. A drink might be just the thing she needed.
Outside the sun had been oppressive, but here, just 11 steps below street level, it was dim as dusk and cool as midnight. 'This was a good idea,’ she thought, congratulating herself.
Pupils dilated, she glanced around the room, taking in the black walls and red neon, booths with scarlet leather seats and barstools with the same blood-red upholstery, all perfectly organized and all empty.
She didn’t question the deserted bar. Some other girl might have but that wasn’t her style. She was quick with decisions and slow to change her mind and what she wanted right now was a drink.
Descending the steps to the bar, she noted the wide array of liquor gracing the wall behind it. Jack and Jim and Jose winked at her from inside their long-necked cages, but there were so many others to choose from as well, standing at attention, waiting for someone, waiting just for her.
Sliding onto a stool, she leaned across the dark-varnished wood of the bar ready to call out for some service. Then she noticed the bartender in the corner, polishing glasses with a black bar towel.
Older but handsome, he had nice hands, a nice ass. He rubbed the glasses with a well-practiced rhythm, strong fingers making five quick jabs to the interior of a cup before smoothly wrapping around the outside and rubbing out any spots with a long spin.
He had dark hair, and dark eyes, intent on the task at hand, eyes that quickly met hers when her purse crashed to the floor.
“Hey,” she laughed unsteadily, embarrassed to have been caught staring. “Are you open?”
He banished her discomfort with a smile.
“We’re always open” he intoned. “What can I get you, angel?”
She didn’t know what she wanted, certainly hadn’t planned to spend her afternoon in a bar. Why had she come to this bar? She couldn’t remember, but none of that seemed very important at the moment.
“Surprise me,” she offered and noted with amusement the way he appraised her quickly, looking her up and down, before nodding and turning his back.
‘He thinks I’m cute’ she concluded, and clasped her hands on the bar before her in anticipation of a most interesting afternoon.
She watched him, head cocked to the side, as he grabbed several glasses from the rack and even more bottles from the shelves. His back still to her, he grabbed a silver shaker, scooped it full of ice from the well and started pouring and mixing, shaking and stirring.
Several minutes passed before curiosity got the better of her.
“What are you…”
He held up a hand and shushed her with a strainer.
“Patience is a virtue, my dear” he chided, and she blushed and closed her mouth.
It was just a few moments more before he turned toward her, holding before him a tray with a row of drinks lined up in the center. The bartender placed the drinks before her with a flourish.
“What are these?” she asked, curiosity and a deep thirst overtaking her.
“The Seven Deadly Shots” the bartender grinned, gesturing to the various glasses on the tray. “Sloth, greed, gluttony, wrath, envy, pride and lust.”
Wrinkling her forehead, the girl wondered out loud, “And which one is which?”
“You tell me,” the bartender encouraged her. “Go on. What do you think?”
Unsure of the game they were playing, she reached for the shot glass on the end. Full of green liquid, she thought it could be watermelon liquor, could be apple, but when she lifted it to her nose she understood. The glass held crème de menthe, peppermint-scented and cold. Without even tasting she recognized the drink.
“A metaphor, I see! This one is a Grasshopper. Green and crisp and chilling - like cold hard cash,” she said. “A perfect drink for a greedy bastard.”
The bartender nodded his encouragement. “See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
“Not at all.” She lifted the glass to her lips and laughed “To greed!”
The next shot glass she chose held a red concoction. She held it to the light before smelling it, noting a hint of hazlenut and then took a small sip.
“I thought this smelled like my papa’s porch on a hot summer afternoon,’ she said. “Southern comfort, amaretto and slooooe gin. This is an Alabama Slammer, like my uncles used to drink. They’d lounge around with the dogs on the porch and wouldn’t do a damn thing all day, other than watch their women chase babies and cook them lunch. There’s never been a lazier drink.”
“To sloth!” she cheered, and downed the shot in a gulp as the bartender watched with bemusement.
With enthusiasm, she then grabbed the smallest shot on the tray and peered at the brown drink within. “So little?” she asked and the bartender nodded.
“However, that’s one shot I want to do with you,” he said, crossing to the shelves and walking back with the bottle of Kahlua.
“I do love Kahlua,” she breathed, raising her little glass to toast the bartender.”I thought that’s what this was.” Then she noticed how much larger a portion he’d poured himself. She pointed at it.
“Heyyyy…you’ve got way more than me,” she interrupted, pouting earnestly, annoyed at the mismatched drinks.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “That’s the whole point,” he explained, raising his large glass towards her.
“Touche',” she said, raising her smaller one. “Wouldn't it be nice to always get the bigger portion? To envy!” she added with a wry smile and tipped her head back to drink.
Then she chose the largest drink on the tray. Practically filling a pint glass, it was tan in color and smelled like candy. A tiny sip of Irish cream and butterscotch liquor told her it was a king-sized Buttery Nipple.
She licked her lips. “These are so good, but this is too much! I’ve never had these as more than a shot before!”
“Go on, girl” the bartender encouraged her. “I made it for you - you can drink it! Just suck it down!” He passed her a straw and watched as she gulped away at the creamy drink. When she finished she sat back looking slightly ill.
He asked “So, may I make you another?”
“No!” she answered “Please. I can’t believe I drank that entire thing…Ohhh, I see what you’re doing,” she laughed. Raising the empty pint glass she said “To gluttony.”
Her next sin was in a rocks glass. Blue and tart, with a lemon slice on the side, she took a small sip and asked the bartender “Now what do you call this one?”
“An Electric Lemonade” the bartender told her. “Bacardi limon, blue curacao, a touch of 7-Up.”
“No way!" she exclaimed. "You know, I tended bar for a little while myself and I made up a recipe exactly like this. I even called it the same thing!"
“Really? Well, I had a guy come in here one night - from Georgia actually - who claimed he invented it. Now it’s one of my most popular drinks.”
"I wonder if he came in my bar?" she pondered. "Did he say where he was from?"
"Don't remember really. Some small town north of Macon?"
"Well that's where I lived too. Bastard!" she breathed. "He came in my bar and now he's claiming he invented the Electric Lemonade? I mean, it's flattering that someone thought it was good enough to steal but that was my idea! Too bad you can't copywrite a drink recipe."
The bartender shrugged. "If it's any consolation, people really do love it."
"Yeah. That is pretty cool." She sat smiling for a moment. "But, what sin? Oh! Silly me. Pride!"
Momentarily startled she looked at his face searchingly. "But, how could you have known about Macon?"
"I didn't know. You're the one doing the labeling, sweetheart."
True, but she felt a finger of unease slide up her spine. She shivered. "To pride," she whispered and sipped the drink through the tiny straw.
So what was left? She glanced at the two remaining shots. One was golden, the other, a pearly, swirling mystery. She'd save the unknown for last. She barely had to lift the golden liquid before recognizing the odor.
"Tequila! You really are trying to bring out the worst in me, aren't you?"
"Worst?"
"Oh yes," she said ruefully. "I had a friend tell me once that tequila brings out a person's true colors. When I drink a little, I love everyone, but if I drink a lot, the anger just spills out."
The bartender nodded knowingly. "I thought that might be the case. You do seem a little high strung."
"Are you kidding me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. "We just met like an hour ago. That's awfully presumptuous."
"When you've been in the business as long as I have honey, you learn to read people. I look at you - good looking, fast talking, but your eyes give you away. They question everything. Where's your confidence? You're terrified of getting hurt, letting people take advantage. You're always looking for the fight, even when the time to drop your defenses has long passed. And afterwards, when you're sitting alone in the wreckage, you wonder if you might have been a little too hard on them, but you're too damn proud to say 'I'm sorry.'
He paused. "Am I right?" and cocked his head to the side, waiting for her answer.
She pursed her lips. That was a bit much.
"Fuck you." she growled. "What, did they give you a Psych degree with your bartending license? Who the hell are you to judge me, some two-bit booze hound running an empty bar in a back alley? You don't know me." Eyes flashing, she stared him down.
Expecting insults, he surprised her by laughing; a rich, deep sound that warmed the room and burned the tension from the air. His humor turned her on.
"I know you well enough to realize you need some salt and a lime if you're planning to swallow that," he said, gesturing at the glass, but he was referring to her anger.
Contrite, she took the shaker he offered and slowly licked the skin between her thumb and first finger, then sprinkled salt on her hand. Her mouth watered when she lifted the glass of tequila. "To rage!" she yelled, sucking first the salt from her hand, then slamming back the tequila and hurling the glass against the wall. The bartender chuckled at her audacity.
When she looked down for her lime it was gone, her bar mate holding it out to her. She took it from his fingers with her teeth, watching the desire on his face as she bit into the tart fruit and let the juice dribble down her chin.
"That wasn't so bad after all," she grinned.
Looking down at her tray she realized there was just one drink left. She counted on her fingers. "Six. Greed, then sloth, envy, gluttony, pride, rage...Ahh, you saved the best for last!"
"No, YOU saved the best for last," the bartender replied.
"Lust." She inhaled deeply. "And what exactly goes into a shot of lust?" she asked him, watching his face, his warm eyes.
"A jigger of passion, a sprinkling of steam, I grind up just a hint of innocence lost and top it off with touch of innuendo for spice."
"Poetic, but how does it taste?"
"Try it and see."
Her voice shaky, she lifted the glass. "To lust," she said.
Opening her mouth, she let the warm fluid pour across her tongue and down her throat. It was sweet, a little tangy. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion when she swallowed. "It tastes like...me."
He laughed. "That's what they all say, when they find their weakness," he replied, and their eyes met.
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In the stillness of the room, an ancient Wurlitzer kicked on and the dusky voice of the Man in Black rose across the bar.
I wasn't even surprised.
"Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring..."
"Ring of Fire...how appropriate," I whispered.
The bartender wiped his hands on his black towel and walked to the edge of the bar.
"Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire."
"There's something I'd like to show you downstairs," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, breath catching in my throat.
"Does it matter?" he responded and reached for my hand.
It was then that I noticed my bartender was barefoot, of course he was, because finding a shoe to fit a cloven hoof would be terribly difficult.
I only stared for a moment, then smiled up into his brown eyes.
"I should have known," I murmured, curling my fingers through his.
"I think you always did."
Rising from my chair, I let him lead me into the darkness.
"I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns the ring of fire,
The ring of fire."
(Thank you June Carter Cash and Merle Kilgore for letting me borrow your song lyrics)