What I Think Will Happen if I Go to a Bar and Order a Whiskey Neat

One whiskey, neat,” I tell the bartender, settling myself onto a wooden stool. I can immediately sense, from the way he’s fiddling with his long but tasteful beard, that he’s attracted to me and intimidated by me in equal measure. When he hands me my glass, our fingers brush. He doesn’t say it’s on the house, but we both know that it is.

“I never do this, but can I take your picture?” the bartender asks, sheepishly. I tell him it’s no problem—people ask me that all the time. He pulls out a 35-mm. camera and I pose with my drink. Later, when the photo is displayed in his first gallery show, he’ll title it “Angel in Black.”

The bar begins to fill with the happy-hour crowd. As each patron enters and notices the beverage I’m holding, they give me a reverent nod. One young woman, so daunted by the ease and maturity I’m radiating—and so humiliated by her own order—whispers “vodka cranberry” to the barman and then starts weeping.

Suddenly, the phone on the wall begins to ring.

“It’s for you,” the bartender says to me, without checking to see who it’s for. He can tell from my general vibe that I don’t have a cell phone.

“Thought I’d find you here,” a gruff voice intones, on the other end of the line. I hang up. I’ve already told Keanu a million times: if he wants me so badly, he’d better come find me. I don’t care what he’s filming. [...]

We’re interrupted by a man in a suit. “You,” he says, making a beeline for me. He tells me that he’s the C.E.O. of Arm & Hammer and asks if I want a job in corporate. I make him wait as I take a slow swig, then I tell him I don’t believe in big business. He completely understands and apologizes for asking. Before he leaves, he slides me five crisp hundred-dollar bills. I ball up the cash and slip it into the baby’s fist. Money means nothing to me.

An hour goes by, and I start growing tired of strangers approaching and asking, point-blank, “Where did I go wrong?” I’ve facilitated an amicable divorce, convinced a billionaire to donate all his wealth, and was just made a city-council member in a Utah mining town called Strawberry. It’s time to go home.

I ask the bartender for the bill. He asks me to marry him.

“I love you, but I can’t,” I purr, placing my empty glass on a cocktail napkin. I leave the bar. I never return.

The bartender will pretend he doesn’t care. But at every shift for the rest of his life, he’ll stare longingly at the front door, pour himself a whiskey, and think of me.

by Maeve Dunigan, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Getty

[ed. Beautiful people. See also: "Funny how the trajectory of life can be altered by a few days... His girlfriend, who is still in her teens, is flipping through Vogue. For her, the sex must be like shagging Sandpaperman. What's in it for her? Apart from first-class air travel, five star accomodation, minglings with the rock aristocracy, movie directors, and charity tsars; exposure in every gossip magazine on Earth, and modeling contracts to match, obviously...."    ~  The Bone Clocks, by David Mitchell