Can I Get You Another?

“Can I get you another?”

In a dimly lit bar, where the air seems to sit still, and the wood seems to carry the invisible stains of thousands of years of service, a man of 58 years, wearing a suit and tie, sits with an empty glass in front of him. He lifts the glass, curious, then sets it back down. The noise of a door opening at the front of the bar is heard, but when the man wheels around he sees the large wooden door at the entrance closed tight. A faint laughter drifts overhead. He looks behind him but finds only a line of empty booths. The stools beside him are empty as well. He tilts his head back towards the ceiling and can barely make out the light fixtures, as though they’re hidden behind a layer of fog. A wave of uneasiness flows over the lone man at the bar. But he’s not alone, is he? “Didn’t I just hear someone”, he thinks.

“Can I get you another?”

A scruffy-looking man stands behind the bar. He has a full-beard and thin frame. His hair appears unwashed, but almost purposefully so. His suede jacket has no place behind a bar, where all manners of liquid are swilled and spilled. Everything about him, from his demeanor to his stance, is unserious. “Except for his eyes”, thinks the man at the bar. He has piercing eyes which one might even think change colors, if they didn’t know any better. And he does, of course.

The bartender is calmly cleaning an old glass with a rag. The two men stare at each other across the bar. After a few more turns of the glass, the bartender lifts it horizontally and peers down the bottom towards the man at the bar. He lowers it and gestures towards a single tap.

The man at the bar nods his head. The bartender obliges and fills the glass.

“Could you use a different one – one that wasn’t hand-washed, maybe?”

The bartender smiles.

“This one’s for me.”

He takes a sip of his drink and places it down. He grabs the empty glass from in front of the man at the bar and proceeds to fill this as well, perfectly.

“All set.”

The bartender slides the drink over to the man at the bar, spilling just a bit as he does. The bartender shakes his head and wipes up the small spill.

“Can’t ever seem to get the hang of that.”

The man at the bar looks at the glass, as he curls his lips downward.

“Could you use another? I’m not sure this one was even mine.”

“But it is yours.”

The man at the bar looks around again, confused.

“Right… any chance you could do me a favor and just get me another glass anyway?”

The bartender shrugs his shoulders.

“Would if I could. I only have the two.”

The man at the bar rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. He takes a sip from his drink. As he lowers the glass back down to the bar, the bartender tosses a thick wooden coaster directly underneath, just in time. The bartender pumps his fist in triumph.

“Still got it.”

The man at the bar is starting to get annoyed. He takes another sip, anxiously taps the side of his glass, then takes one more. He glances around the bar and notes there is only one door in the whole place – the main entrance. No windows either. There’s a large clock near the main entrance that reads 10:15, based on the hand placements. “Can’t even tell if that’s AM or PM”, he thinks.

“Can I get the time?”

The bartender nods over to the clock, dismissively.

“You try there?”

The man at the bar laughs to himself. He wavers before speaking, but forces the question out, almost against his own will.

“Is – is it morning or night?”

The bartender squints at the clock himself to get a better view.

“Well, who’s to say, really?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“That’s not how it works.”

The man at the bar fidgets in his stool. He wrings his hands together and looks back towards the entrance. Noticing, the bartender cocks his head to the side, amused. He takes a sip of his drink, then leans against the bar with both of his hands.

“Something wrong?”

The man at the bar shakes his head.

“Yes. Well, no. I’m not sure.”

The bartender finishes his drink, pours another, and comes back to the man at the bar.

“Wanna talk about it? Maybe I can help.”

The man at the takes a large swig, trying to find the bottom of his drink. He gazes deep into the glass, where a few last sips sit at the bottom. He doesn’t lift his head to meet the bartender’s eyes. He doesn’t want to look at him as he asks.

“Where am I?”

The bartender laughs.

“You’re here.”

The man at the bar leans in and speaks so low that it’s barely air.

“But where is ‘here’”?

“Where you’re supposed to be. For now, at least.”

The man at the bar puts his head in his hands. The room feels like it’s spinning.

“What is this place?”

“It’s a bar. Pub if you’re so inclined. Tavern, ehh, not so much. The food’s quite shit.”

“Okay, and does this bar have a name?”

The bartender ponders the question.

“Never really thought to give it one, but that’s a grand idea.”

The man at the bar grips his glass tightly. He finishes his drink before pulling the bartender in with his pleading eyes.

“Can you at least tell me how I got here?”

The bartender points to the entrance.

“Front door – just like everyone else.”

The man at the bar looks around wildly, beginning to lose his composure.

“But there isn’t anyone else!”

The bartender looks puzzled.

“Well, yeah. They’re not supposed to be here. You are.”

The man at the bar rises aggressively from his stool.

“What’s going on here?”

“You’re supposed to tell me.”

The man at the bar throws his arms in the air.

“I’m not supposed to be doing anything.”

The bartender shrugs again.

“Like I said, that’s not how it works.”

The man at the bar scoffs and fumbles for his wallet, unsuccessfully. He patty cakes around his body to continue the search until he reaches into the pocket of his blazer and stops. He slowly pulls out a strange coin and stares at it. It glimmers like moonlight and has something etched onto it. The bartender holds out his hand.

“What is this this?”

Before the man can review the coin in more detail, the bartender reaches out and plucks it from him.

“Payment. It won’t work, but it’ll do for now.”

The man at the bar shakes his head and laughs.

“I don’t have time for this.”

He makes his way towards the entrance but is turned around.

“Wrong way.”

The bartender points to a lone door in the back. “That wasn’t there”, thinks the man at the bar. He turns around and moves swiftly towards the door in the back. The bartender watches him, leaning his elbows on the bar, with his drink in his right hand.

“Alan”.

The man at the bar stops cold at the door but refuses to look back. A few seconds go by before the bartender continues.

“Why do you think you’re here?”

The man at the bar hesitates. He keeps himself from turning around and pushes through the door into the darkness. The bartender sighs and finishes his own drink. He grabs his rag, whistling as he does, and begins to clean his glass.

Suddenly the front door opens. The man at the bar walks in and sits down at the same stool. He glances around. “I’ve been here before”, he thinks to himself, still not spotting the bartender. The bartender smiles at him.

“Can I get you another?”