Of Whiskey and Bottle Imps
A collaborative story by @traveling-bookworm and @caffedalmarewrites
In which two characters from different worlds meet.
Tate and Imp’s Bottle belongs to @traveling-bookworm
Raul De LaGuardia belongs to @caffedalmarewrites
A little writing experiment. We hope you enjoy this story as much as we enjoyed writing it!
The bar was spotless. If not for the possible health code violation, food could be served off the floor. Every table and surface was gleaming and smelled of fresh linen. As Tate wiped down the bar top for the twenty-third time, he felt a strange desire to start banging his head against it. A trip to the hospital for a concussion would cure the boredom of the night, but as the bar was empty of all forms of life, save himself, there would be no one to drive him there anyway. His favorite patrons - an old couple who always came in together to order Paps Blue Ribbon and quietly whisper and teeter together like a couple of love-sick teenagers - had been in, but they'd left well over an hour ago. On the table, the husband left his signature ten dollar bill - a tip Tate never felt he'd earned. At some point the couple must have come to the (misguided) understanding that Tate was in the market for a new car, for every night that the couple came in, the husband would plop a ten dollar bill onto the table, and accompany it with the words, "Now, you put that towards a Buick!" Tate would readily agree, with a salute and a "Yes, sir!" Between what past conversations had revealed and the hat the husband always wore, it was clear he was a proud veteran. Tate sighed, glancing at his watch. Only three more minutes had passed. Overhead, "Wheel in the Sky" by Journey was playing. Most nights Tate loved the quiet. Tonight, he found he was willing someone, /anyone/ to come in.
It had been a long and eventful night for the rider echoing the streets with the roaring engine of his motorcycle. Business as usual back at the restaurant, but that night he had a proposal he couldn't pass up. It doesn't happen every day, but it was something he would at times crave for ever since he decided to add some spice to his life while giving relief or closure to others; it was, of course, in a very unconventional manner. When the justice system fails, he may be called upon to satiate the need of a victim for it, but in a crude way. “Eye for an eye” as it’s told. That night, however, the offer came from a devastated grandmother who only wanted her granddaughter back. It was a case that was not in priority for the Social Services, even though it was a known fact that the 11 year old girl was constantly prostituted by her own parents for drugs. The job was to run smoothly, but he caught the girl in the midst of an unfortunate encounter. Needless to say, the man did not get what he paid for. All limbs dislocated in sections, ribs smashed, and a broken jaw was all the fucker got for his money with a message for the so called parents growled at him from a deep and raspy voice behind a dark wolf mask, "If they come near the girl again they'll face a worst fate than the puddle of shit ya are. Tell them that it ain't prison or death. Ya better make sure ya tell them cause I'll know... I'll know, mother fucker, and if ya don't... kill yourself or ya and I will have a fun night with ya beggin' for death."
All in all it was a successful night; the grandmother more than grateful to have her back, but the girl... her face was blank. Who or what could return her innocence? Nothing and no one. That's the downside of these types of jobs. That's what the whiskey washed away after the mayhem. He had rarely been to that part of town, so he slowly rode in search for a bar. That was when his eyes fell on an outdated looking sign called: Imp's Bottle. The name sounded interesting enough and lucky for him there was enough parking space right near the bar. He took his reflective goggles and mouth mask off and hid them inside his leather jacket. After he tousled his dark hair some, he dismounted his bike and entered the place. Royal blue eyes scanned about as he made his way towards the bar; his combat boots booming on the floor, practically the only sound in the empty space. He took a place on a stool and sighed, resting his forearms on the counter, "Jack on the rocks," he muttered to the bartender.
Tate's silent plea was answered in a way he hadn't expected. But then, the old saying "be careful what you wish for" rang true more often than it didn't. The man had a darkness about him. A brooding expression hung about his face, and while he looked straight ahead while he walked across the bar, it was either the past or the future he was seeing, not the present. He looked like a man fixing to do a bad thing. Or perhaps, the bad thing was over and done with, and now it haunted him. Or perhaps...it was a dry cocktail of both. Tate knew that man hadn't noticed and didn't care that he was the only patron in the bar. He knew the man had barely registered Tate's presence, beyond being the only bridge between his leather-clad self and the booze he needed for reasons he probably wasn't going to talk about. Whipping the cleaning rag onto his shoulder, Tate washed his hands and readied the drink. He wasn't surprised. This patron looked like a "Jack on the rocks" kind of guy. Hard, honest, straight up, and tough to swallow. Before setting the glass down, Tate said: "Just need to see some ID." Expecting an argument - or a more physical protest - from the man who reminded him of a wolf, Tate pointed to a sign above the bar. It read: "If you look like you were born after Elvis died, you WILL be carded." "Sorry, man," Tate said. "Policy."
Very unamused eyes glared at the pointed sign which earned the bartender a "You're fucking with me" look; he knew he looked old enough to own the damn bar. He sighed as he took his wallet out and dropped his ID on the counter. The last thing he wanted was to identify himself, but he knew it be a lot more suspicious if he hadn't. The card read: Raul De LaGuardia, and a clean cut version of himself as the image. While the bartender examined his ID, he reached out and took the glass from his hands and drank it straight like a shot, the one that erases the hollow feeling, "Another," his raspy voice said sliding the empty glass towards the other male; the ice barely melted. Raul drifted his gaze about again and rubbed his knuckles as he waited to be served, "This place such a dead joint all the time?" He asked just to take attention off himself.
Tate never looked at names or addresses. He studied the ID long enough to be certain of the date of birth, and nothing more. In the roughly two and a half years he'd worked at Imp's Bottle, never once had a single cop come in, and he didn't expect that to change. But the owner was a real decent guy who always dealt straight with Tate, so Tate always upheld the owner's policies when he was busy at his other two establishments. Which was most of the time. The Jack Daniels already drained from the glass, Tate handed back the leather-clad man's ID, and went about pouring the second round. "Not quite this dead," he said, in answer to the man's question. The man whom he'd now nicknamed "Jack" in his mind. "But it's late, chilly, and a Thursday, so this is what we get." Tate gave Jack's face a quick side-long glance. He looked distracted. Brooding. Detached. There was something...haunted in his eyes. And no one with a good, easy life came into a hole-in-the-wall bar this late on a Thursday. Tate made the drink a double, and set the glass down on the bar top. "On the house," he said. "I'm not asking questions, and I'm not trying to get in your business, but you look like you need it. Cheers."
Bartenders: the street's psychiatrists. The raven haired man was aware that the dirty blond could read some of his demeanor. As the glass is placed fully loaded on the counter top, a corner of Raul's lips stretched into a smirk. He picked his freshly served drink and made a small nod at the bartender before taking a smaller sip of the woody liquid. He felt more at ease; the adrenaline of the night slowly fading from his body. It is a rush he is addicted to though. The way his knuckles slice through skin, his kicks make a man fall on their knees, his voice influence fear on others. He liked it all and needed to indulge every so often. Being a pro boxer or UFC fighter wouldn't cut it; there are rules to follow and he hated restrictions. Like this he was his own law and had more purpose. Raul glanced at the man while taking another swig of his drink and sighed as his throat burned from the strong beverage, "Ya see this nose?" He said pointing at his own, "Broke it for the first time when I was 12. Brawlin' with a 16 year old. He was torturin' a street dog. So I did to him exactly what he did to the dog," he takes another sip and smirks, "Ever broken a bone, boy?"
Tate watched as the tension melted off Jack's face as he indulged in a long, luxurious swig. That reaction was common here, at Imp's Bottle. If people wanted a nice drink with a nice atmosphere in a nice place, they went downtown. To a real bar. People came here to escape, forget, fall off the wagon, and do it in private. Tate listened in silence to the brief history of Jack's nose. He had to admit, he wasn't surprised. This man seemed like a poetic-justice, eye-for-an-eye type. A modern day, quick-fisted Robin Hood. Common sense would suggest that being scared of him would be wise, but Tate found he kind of liked this stranger. To the unexpected question, Tate blinked a few times, amazed that Jack would even bother talking to him beyond ordering another drink. "Well, 'boy' isn't the most accurate title," Tate said with a small smile, placing a dish of cocktail peanuts next to his guest. "I'm twenty-nine. That's basically a grown up. And when you ask if I've broken any bones, do you mean mine, or someone else's? The answer varies depending on your meaning."
Raul's hand dipped into the peanut bowl and popped a few into his mouth and shrugged, "Ya can be eighty four and if boy's the name I decide to lay on ya, then get used to it. I rarely change my titles." He then took a good look at the bartender; he didn't seem the type to get into trouble, but did trouble look for him? That's what got him curious. The night rider drank a slow sip of whiskey then searched into his jacket and took a pack and a Zippo lighter out. He placed a cig over his lips and ignited it, "This joint better be a smokin' area," he said as smoke puffed from his nostrils, "Ya want one?" He offered placing the package and lighter on top of the counter, "Aight, boy, tell me both sides of the story."
Tate watched his lone patron light up with a defeated expression. He knew the (rather large) "No Smoking" sign was on the wall right behind him. He also knew the front door sported the words "This is a smoke-free establishment" right below the hours of operation. Tate coughed, and turned on the fan that sat on the back counter. "No, I don't want one," he said. "Never smoked a day in my life. And you shouldn't either. But as long as no other patrons come in, I'll allow it." He topped off Jack's glass, anticipating another refill request in the near future, and got out a beer for himself, rummaging around in the cooler until he found just the right one. He smiled at the label, a feeling of nostalgia settling over him. The last time he'd drank one of these had been the unexpected best night of his life. He now associated the flavor with /her/... "As far as my bones: nose once, couple of fingers, couple of toes, all accidents. Just me being clumsy," Tate said. "As far as someone else's bones...I didn't /break/ anything, but I caused a guy to fracture his hand. Right over there." Tate pointed to a table against the wall. "Our waitress has an idiot thug for a boyfriend. D-bag named Jimmy. He started a fight with some other guy because the other guy complimented the waitress. They were both drunk as hell, I was sober. Jimmy took a swing at the other guy, I shoved him out of the way, and...well, you see that spot on the wall where the paint's a little lighter? It had to be patched up because Jimmy's right hook went through it. Idiot." Tate took a sip of his beer. "His hand had to be patched up too. At the hospital."
Raul looked over his shoulder at the pointed spot on the wall and smirked turning back to look at his now drinking companion and exhaled smoke; he was at least careful to lean away from the bartender to do so. "Sounds like a jackass, aight. This waitress gal, she around?," he asked and sipped his refilled drink. The boy indeed was earning his tip, "I'd like to see the cause of a brawl in this... place. This sure ain't like the bars I'm used to. I know of a bartender that got shanked while breakin' a fight and still swung his bat like he was killin' off zombies! Crazy fuck," he chuckled, "Now /he/ don't look nothin' like ya. Save for the hair, I seem to attract dirty blonds," he said and at the lack of ashtrays he flicked his cig towards the floor, sprinkling ashes. "Ya look like the kind that don't like trouble but trouble seems to have a likin' to ya," he said with a grin, though not exactly mocking the fellow, "Tell me a story 'bout ya, boy. Make my decision to come in here worthwhile. Or I'll brin' trouble... it ain't hard for me to do," and winked at the empty threat. In truth, he liked the man. At least he felt comfortable and welcomed, "If I like it, I'll share a story of my own."
Tate set a second dish down, next to the peanuts. This one was empty. "I've already swept the floors," he said. "I kind of like to not have to do it again. And no, the waitress only works Friday and Saturday nights - much to her dismay. Count yourself lucky. She's young, spoiled, cranky, always running off to text Jimmy when she should be serving people, and she's lazy as an overweight house cat. But she's the owner's daughter, and having her work here a couple nights a week is his attempt at disciplining the brat, so I keep my mouth shut." Tate leaned back against the liquor shelves, sipping his beer. What story should he tell? Pretty much all his regulars were crazy as a summer day is long, but if he had to pick one... "Alright," he said, stepping forward and crossing his arms on the bar top. He leaned toward his patron, a conspiring gleam in his eye. "There's this guy: mid-to-late 60s, medium height, average build, mess of gray curls for hair. He comes in here once a week or so, right? Always has some mystical advice for me. How to have a better life, that sort of thing. Sometimes what he says is scary-relevant to what's going on with me. /But/ he's vague. He'll never give me specifics about what to do, or not to do. He says he 'doesn't want to affect my freewill.' Know who he is? Or who he claims to be?" Tate paused, giving Jack enough time to shake his head, "He's /me/. From the future."
Raul listened to the story with mild amusement and used the empty bowl as the appointed ashtray. When the bartender was done, his brow lifted and shook his head, "I ain't nearly tipsy to believe in those types of things. But if ya do and ya don't like how ya look in ya sixties, change whatever the fuck ya doin'," then drank from his glass and made a slight grunt as he swallowed, "I know I would if my old self had the need to be comin' at me with vague shit," he inhaled one last hit from his cig and dabbed it into the bowl. He didn't light another, wanting to return the good service he'd been receiving and nodded at the other male, "Aight, I guess the story had an interestin' angle but ya really said nothin' 'bout ya. I can respect that, I'm a private man myself," he said and gently swirled the glass within his grasp looking at the fading ice, "But I don't think ya won a story from me," he said with a cocky smirk as he sipped his whiskey.
"I'm not convinced he's me from the future," Tate said. "In fact, I think he's bat-shit crazy. But that doesn't stop him from being right often enough to make my hair stand on end." Tate leaned back, thinking. He took a slow sip of his beer, realizing Jack was right: he hadn't actually shared anything about himself. It wasn't that he was private, per se, it's just that he was, well, boring. Was there anything about his life worth sharing with a stranger? Looking down and scratching the back of his neck, he saw the purple keychain sitting in the unused tip jar. He grabbed it. "See this?" he asked Jack, showing his lone patron the purple embroidered "K" keychain with a single silver key hanging from it. "The night I got this was potentially the best night of my life, and it happened right here, in this rundown bar. The girl who gave it to me sat two stools from where you're sitting now. She looked like sunshine and Christmas morning, and I never thought she'd even speak to me beyond ordering a drink, but we just had this.../connection/. Like something out of a movie. I didn't think stuff like that happened to real people, let alone an average introvert like me. She ordered /this/ beer," he indicated the bottle he was drinking, "and she was the only patron ever to do so. I only order this brand because I drink it. She came here on her way to the airport - she's in Scotland now. But she left this keychain with me, saying someday she'd be back for it. It's...the most valuable thing I own. Sounds stupid, huh? But somehow I just know she'll be back. And I'm going to keep working here until she does." Tate took in a deep breath. What the hell was that? He never spoke so much or so uncensored about himself. Especially to a stranger who had no reason to care. "Sorry you asked for a story now, aren't you?" he asked, feeling suddenly bashful.
As the bartender spoke, Raul noticed the change in the man's demeanor. The expression on his face softened and brightened. A clear difference from when he first came in when the bartender seemed bored out of his wits. But now he looked... like a man in love. Or at least utterly smitten. Raul wondered if he would ever look that way in his life ever again. But that was an impossible love and a story he did not care to share with anyone. But he knew he owed one and took a swig of his drink, "Why wait? Go to Scotland and search for that chick. Maybe that's what she wanted ya to do all along. Get ya outta of this," he looked around, "Don't wanna throw mud on this place, but I feel stuck in time in here," and placed a few peanuts into his mouth. He stayed quiet as he chewed, pondering what he should share back to this stranger whom just opened up to him. He was ready to tell him of that one time he shacked up with this sniper babe he stumbled upon during one of his "missions" but that didn't seem fair. He sighed lifting a brow, "Well, I ain't got a fairy tale love story to tell ya. But I guess it's kinda in those lines," he drank some more liquor and side glanced the bartender, "Now this is perhaps the only woman that has captured my heart, but I don't let her know that or else she'll really bust my ass more than she already does," he smirked softly shaking his head, "She gifted me this when I was born," he said revealing from underneath his shirt a necklace that held an amulet in the shape of a horn, "This is called a "cornicello"... little horn in Italian. Supposed to protect ya from the evil eye. This one is made outta bone," he explained before tucking it back and shrugged, "She's my Nonna. The one that raised me. Ma was around but...not really. Anyway, I would do anythin' for that tiny Italian fireball," he chuckled, "That woman saved my life. She's my world," he said looking at the disappearing beverage, "The one that really looks out for me. Wish she stopped settin' me up on blind dates though."
"I can't actually go look for her, as much as I'd like to," Tate said, pushing the hair off his forehead only to have it flop back down. "I don't know where in Scotland she is, or who to ask for, and honestly," he looked at the floor, sheepish, "I never caught her name. Her cab showed up to take her to the airport, and I didn't get to ask. So lame... But I wasn't prepared to meet someone like her. We talked, and... My thought process just went out the window." The stranger kept his end of the bargin and shared a piece of his own life. Tate was taken aback by his patron's story. As much as he was aware of the fact that he didn't know "Jack" at all, he was a pretty good judge of which patrons would be sentimental about personal relationships and which ones wouldn't. Jack fell into the latter category. Yet, here he was, letting a huge wall crumble, telling Tate about someone who meant a great deal to him - and had his whole life, by the sounds of things. "She sounds incredible," he said. "Your 'Nonna.' You're Italian, I take it? I kinda figured. You look it. And sound it." He meant it as a compliment, and hoped Jack could sense that. Tate grabbed the bottle from the shelf and refilled Jack's glass without prompting. "So...what's a 'Nonna,' exactly? Are you two related?"
Raul smirked and nodded as he sipped his freshly refilled whiskey, "Last round, bud," he told him shaking his glass lightly, "And that's right, I am," he confirmed, very proud of his heritage, "Born and raised in Little Italy, New York. My Nonna, that's my grandmother, she made sure the culture is deep within me. I like to think it is... my cousins feel the same," then he turned his gaze away to look at the fading ice floating above the liquid. He was opening up too much with this stranger and it was time to stop. "So, 'bout that chick," he said turning the subject back to the bartender, "The odds are pretty against ya to find her but it still ain't a lost cause." His blue eyes looked over to the other man as he took a swig of his drink and nodded towards the bottle within his grasp, "That's ya clue," he said, "Search in every pub and store that sell them, ask around.... draw a picture of her. And if no shit turns up," he shrugged, "At least ya went on a trip."
Tate nodded in understanding at the words "last round." He was impressed with his patron. Jack could obviously hold his liquor, but wanted to stop before he got too wrecked. An admirable decision. And not one Tate saw often. He found Jack's story, short as it was, comforting. Here was a guy, tough as nails, charisma to spare, suave looking yet dangerous, probably used Jack Daniels to brush his teeth, all around /bad-ass/ (that Tate could never hope to be), with nothing but love and respect for his grandmother. It was...pretty damn cool. "Sounds like an awesome lady," Tate said, finishing his beer. "Both my grandmothers passed away when I was young. I don't remember them too well. Wish I did. As for K... I've actually been doing just what you suggested. So far, I can't find a bar in Scotland that carries this brand - but I have about 10,000 more to call. They're big on drinking in the UK, I guess. Pubs, bars, and watering holes everywhere. I like your idea of a trip, I just...can't really afford it right now." He wrote up Jack's bill on his receipt pad, only charging him for two glasses. It was worth it to have such interesting company. "How you feeling?" Tate asked, setting the bill next to Jack, on the bar top. "I can call you a cab, if you want. No problem."
Raul glanced at the bill then up to the fellow; it's more than obvious both have led very different lifestyles and yet somehow they have gotten along so well. That was something that didn't happen often. With a soft scoff, Raul shook his head and continued to enjoy his last drink of the night, "Takes more than a few rounds to get me tipsy. I don't drink to numb myself, always thought people to be pathetic and weak when they do," he looked at his glass as he thought on someone, "A temporary and useless escape. So don't worry, boy," he said smirking at Tate, "I'm well in control." Then he fell quiet for a moment, returning his thoughts to the present, "Hn, ya seem to be a man that knows what ya want and know what ya need to do. But ya play too safe...," he mused, "Get outta ya bubble, boy. Ya already got the plan half done. Ya searchin' for this girl, yeah? Then earn the fuckin' money to get to her. Sell some of ya stuff! Do what ya gotta do, but go further than just searchin' from afar," he gulped the last of his whiskey and placed the glass on the counter, "If ya've seen ya face while ya spoke of her," he said while searching his wallet, "Ya were alive, boy. So much that ya made me talk like a romantic fuck head," and slammed some cash on the counter, clearly much more than the number on the bill, "Keep the change. My contribution for ya trip." He stood up from the stool and ruffled his dark hair, "Thanks for the booze and..," he shrugged with a small cocky grin as he turned his heels to walk out of the whimsical bar, "Ey," he called looking over his shoulder, "If ya ever feel like enjoyin' a good and unforgettable Italian meal, I suggest a restaurant called Casa Italia, ya'd be more than welcome there. Ciao, ragazzo. Good luck with ya hunt," with a softer smirk, he turned and left the bar with the bartender searching to break out of his shell and that gave him the much needed solace. The boy, as he will forever remember him, had a pure soul and brought him peace. As he mounted his motorcycle, he took his riding mask and dark goggles out from his jacket and glanced up to the sky where he saw the Moon. With his grin now hidden behind his wolf mask, he turned the engine and roared away to the road, ready to reach his home and put an end to his eventful night.
Tate watched as Jack made his way out the door. Used to feelings of indifference or even relief when a patron left, Tate was surprised by how Jack left such a gaping hole in his wake. The door banging shut behind his leather-clad figure echoed too loudly in the empty, silent bar, and Tate winced, his ears ringing. A moment later, he realized the silence was far louder. He took the bill he'd written out for Jack and wrote the words "Casa Italia." "Italian House?" he guessed aloud. He shrugged, folding the paper and slipping it into his pants' pocket. He counted the cash on the counter. As he had suspected, there was about three times more than he'd charged Jack for. He shook his head in amusement, promising himself that he wouldn't waste it. He cleared away Jack's empty glass and left over peanuts, and wiped the bar top down again, thinking about what kind of restaurant it must be for someone like Jack to recommend it. Maybe his grandmother - or, Nonna - ran it. That would be cool. Tate slung his cleaning rag over his shoulder and looked down at the purple embroidered K. "You'd go, wouldn't you?" he asked aloud, as if the girl, and not just her keychain, was beside him. "Yeah, of course you would. I have Monday off. I'm sure I'll get hungry. Italian it is."
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